Live

You´d better
feel amused just to be alive and lie
under a sunny day,
not slipping through the shadows of a rainy night

Because everyone in here´s used to go by
those empty days of patient
awakenings and whispers
and unhealing promisses of a good night

But no one´s sleeping
For it´s such a long way down if you´re tired
You´ve got to shake hands, and swim in the quicksand
Until they notice you´ve done all but lied

And smiled in the face of those who can´t believe
you´re still believing.

A Seat

There you are,
swinging and running your fingers between trees,
you´re breathing slowly, the path is tightly
tied to the ghosts of your burned wings

Through hours of silence,
i heard your voice outstand the screams
you´re bringing down every concept
every part of you i had in me

Escaping, sliding through my hands
Your skin cracking,
demanding hours of uncanny dreams
This is your own river
You´re lost in there,
and don´t you know, it´s a long way to go
Until we meet something worth the price

Of these endless boundaries!

You took that car,
and went running through wastelands
you´re crying silently, just so defenseless
i could even wonder why you breath

But here you surprise us
you´re back in there with no good news
and they´ll wait for you
just until this dying soul is healed
inside the shadows of your decadent blues

Escaping, sliding down to your knees
Your smile cracking,
demanding hours of uncanny weeps
This is your only fear
You´re lost in there,
and don´t you know, it´s a long way to go
Until you fall asleep and dare

To feel hatred´s silent ecstasy.

Liga

Isto, sim, é o grito reincidente dos loucos
Isto, sim, é a tal poesia para poucos;

Pois há versos que se tornam verdades,
curvas, esquinas, arroubos de insanidade
que, pouco a pouco, fazem questionar
as próprias verdades de quem as cria,
as recria, as procria, as esfria,

E faz, das rimas, pequenas beldades
manipuladas, tocadas, violadas, vendidas
e, pouco a pouco, unem-se e fazem feridas
nos versos pudicos de quem as inventa
as emenda, as encomenda, fingidas,

Essa, sim, é a cólera berrante dos roucos
Essa, sim, é a tal da poesia para loucos;

Poesia que, certamente, não deixa este plano
de metáforas, meias-palavras e doces eufemismos
e assim, de hipótese, é mais um ato de altruísmo
ser falsa, medíocre, safada, fugidia,

Se há coragem em seu peito, fuja de qualquer poesia
pois ela nos pega, nos amassa, nos contorce
toda a objetividade nos foge,
e, pouco a pouco, nos faz, de novo jovens,
nos arranca o que há de homens e faz, da carne, hipótese
do mundo, martírio
da vida, pecado:

E, assim, pouco a pouco, regredimos nós à fantasia!