sugestões decadentes para um bom banquete imperial ao estilo Caligula

Entrada

Arganaz assado:

Abrir o animal ao meio e retirar as miudezas. Encher com carne de porco picada previamente temperada com sal e pimenta preta q.b.(se não tiverem pimenta preta q.b. podem usar uma pimenta à vossa escolha) e frutos secos. Coser o animal ou se preferirem podem também espetar com um ou dois palitos de um lado ao outro do buraco. Levar ao forno num recipiente de preferência de barro. Não esquecer, regar o bicho com um bom vinho tinto e um fio de azeite virgem. Não o afoguem. O tempo no forno é da vossa inteira responsabilidade.

(Podem sempre optar por hamster se tiverem alguma dificuldade na captura do bicho. Penso que qualquer tipo de roedor serve. Nunca usem ratos ou ratazanas vulgares de rua. é uma granda porcaria.)

Prato Principal

Pequenos testículos assados:

Cortar os testículos ao meio e temperar com sal e pimenta q.b., coentros picados e ervas doces. Envolver em caul, regar com um pouco de vinho branco, azeite e levar ao forno. Pode ser acompanhado com batata assada ou migas de espargos. Ou com o que bem entenderem. Não esquecer que a receita diz mesmo pequenos testículos. Por isso dos 15 anos para cima não é aceitável.

(No livro diz que caul é uma membrana que envolve o estômago mas as internetes já me dizem que é uma membrana que envolve a cabeça de alguns recém nascidos. Não sei qual deles é o mentiroso. Isto é tudo o que sei. Nem tradução consegui encontrar.)

Sobremesa

Caracóis alimentados a leite:
(convém ser preparado com alguns dias de antecedência como vão perceber pela descrição da receita)

Retirar os caracóis com muito cuidado das suas casas e limpá-los muito bem. Deitar as casas fora. colocar os caracóis dentro de uma tigela de leite com uma pitada de sal durante um dia. Mudar o leite aos caracóis no dia seguinte, desta vez sem sal e deixar estar durante alguns dias. 3 ou 4 devem chegar. Não esquecer de ir retirando os dejectos deixados pelos nosso amigos. Caso estes permaneçam irá alterar por completo o sabor, e está tudo fodido. No dia do festejo retirar os caracóis do leite, fritar em azeite e servir.

Arranja alguns escravos para servirem à mesa.

Para entretenimento: Arranja amigos com uma libido muito, muito activa. Procura um bom poeta que esteja disposto a ler a sua poesia em troca de uns quantos copos de vinho, ou de uma outra bebida alcoólica qualquer. Contrata alguns músicos.

Não te esqueças de oferecer sofás, finger bowls, baldes para vomitar e grandes guardanapos de linho aos teus convidados.

A festa está feita.

Medlar Lucan & Durian Gray, The Decadent Cookbook

stay little valentine stay

Prometeu que tocaria My

Funny Valentine como nunca
o fizera. E foi, também na voz,
verdade (a verdade é sempre
uma coisa muito triste;
faltavam-lhe duas semanas para morrer).

Comprei o disco quase vinte anos
depois, e só por difícil acaso
o fiz naquela cidade, com a
mesma ou nenhuma vontade de morrer,
agora que volta a dizer "Stay
little valentine" e a chuva torna
as bicicletas uma metáfora evitável,
contrária à ferrugem do que sinto.

Sim, é isso: ninguém nos espera
- e nem todos sabemos voar, sofrer,
cantar assim o desconforto.
Nada deveria ser tão triste,
até porque nada deveria ser.

Mas não me roubem, por favor, esta canção.


Manuel de Freitas, Jukebox 1 & 2

i don’t remember

lighting this cigarette
and i don’t remember
if i’m here alone
or waiting for someone.


Leonard Cohen, Book of Longing

a casa

Disse-te: uma casa.

Não falávamos há meses e isto
foi tudo o que te soube dizer:
uma casa, tenho uma casa.

Arrumei primeiro os discos, depois os filmes,
só então os livros, as loiças.
Como quem se abrigasse da chuva,
pendurei os primeiros quadros.
Quatro: estrada, mar, mulher, coração.

Começou a chover quando me perguntaste
se te convidava para jantar.
Era desnecessariamente Julho
e dentro de casa chovia tanto.

Disse-to, confesso, sem esperança
- apenas porque uma casa
é muito grande para guardar na boca.


Filipa Leal

(gosto muito de poemas com casas)

how to speak poetry

Take the word butterfly. To use this word it is not necessary to make the voice weigh less than anounce or equip it with small dusty wings. It is not necessary to invent a sunny day or a field of daffodils. It is not necessary to be in love, or to be in love with butterflies. The word butterfly is not a real butterfly. There is the word and there is the butterfly. If you confuse these two items people have the right to laugh at you. Do not make so much of the word. Are you trying to suggest that you love butterflies more perfectly than anyone else, or really understand their nature? The word butterfly is merely data. It is not an opportunity for you to hover, soar, befriend flowers, symbolize beauty and frailty, or in any way impersonate a butterfly. Do not act out words. Never act out words. Never try to leave the floor when you talk about flying. Never close your eyes and jerk your head to one side when you talk about death. Do not fix your burning eyes on me when you speak about love. If you want to impress me when you speak about love put your hand in your pocket or under your dress and play with yourself. If ambition and the hunger for applause have driven you to speak about love you should learn how to do it without disgracing yourself or the material.

What is the expression which the age demands? The age demands no expression whatever. We have seen photographs of bereaved Asian mothers. We are not interested in the agony of your fumbled organs. There is nothing you can show on your face that can match the horror of this time. Do not even try. You will only hold yourself up to the scorn of those who have felt things deeply. We have seen newsreels of humans in the extremities of pain and dislocation. Everyone knows you are eating well and are even being paid to stand up there. You are playing to people who have experienced a catastrophe. This should make you very quiet. Speak the words, convey the data, step aside. Everyone knows you are in pain. You cannot tell the audience everything you know about love in every line of love you speak. Step aside and they will know what you know because you know it already. You have nothing to teach them. You are not more beautiful than they are. You are not wiser. Do not shout at them. Do not force a dry entry. That is bad sex. If you show the lines of your genitals, then deliver what you promise. And remember that people do not really want an acrobat in bed. What is our need? To be close to the natural man, to be close to the natural woman. Do not pretend that you are a beloved singer with a vast loyal audience which has followed the ups and downs of your life to this very moment. The bombs, flame-throwers, and all the shit have destroyed more than just the trees and villages. They have also destroyed the stage. Did you think that your profession would escape the general destruction? There is no more stage. There are no more footlights. You are among the people. Then be modest. Speak the words, convey the data, step aside. Be by yourself. Be in your own room. Do not put yourself on.

This is an interior landscape. It is inside. It is private. Respect the privacy of the material. These pieces were written in silence. The courage of the play is to speak them. The discipline of the play is not to violate them. Let the audience feel your love of privacy even though there is no privacy. Be good whores. The poem is not a slogan. It cannot advertise you. It cannot promote your reputation for sensitivity. You are not a stud. You are not a killer lady. All this junk about the gangsters of love. You are students of discipline. Do not act out the words. The words die when you act them out, they wither, and we are left with nothing but your ambition.

Speak the words with the exact precision with which you would check out a laundry list. Do not become emotional about the lace blouse. Do not get a hard-on when you say panties. Do not get all shivery just because of the towel. The sheets should not provoke a dreamy expression about the eyes. There is no need to weep into the handkerchief. The socks are not there to remind you of strange and distant voyages. It is just your laundry. It is just your clothes. Don't peep through them. Just wear them.

The poem is nothing but information. It is the Constitution of the inner country. If you declaim it and blow it up with noble intentions then you are no better than the politicians whom you despise. You are just someone waving a flag and making the cheapest kind of appeal to a kind of emotional patriotism. Think of the words as science, not as art. They are a report. You are speaking before a meeting of the Explorers' Club of the National Geographic Society. These people know all the risks of mountain climbing. They honour you by taking this for granted. If you rub their faces in it that is an insult to their hospitality. Tell them about the height of the mountain, the equipment you used, be specific about the surfaces and the time it took to scale it. Do not work the audience for gasps and sighs. If you are worthy of gasps and sighs it will not be from your appreciation of the event but from theirs. It will be in the statistics and not the trembling of the voice or the cutting of the air with your hands. It will be in the data and the quiet organization of your presence.

Avoid the flourish. Do not be afraid to be weak. Do not be ashamed to be tired. You look good when you're tired. You look like you could go on forever. Now come into my arms. You are the image of my beauty.


Leonard Cohen, Death of a Lady's Man

obra prima

La Chinoise, Jean-Luc Godard, 1967

enigma

No primeiro dia que saí contigo

disseste que o teu trabalho era estranho.
Mais nada. Todavia, eu sentia
a pele a rasgar-se como trapos
de cada vez que me tocavas com a mão.
E os teus olhos pareciam-me punhais
a fazer-me doer os meus.
Daí para a frente foi sempre a mesma coisa:
tu orgulhavas-te da tua arte,
mais subtil e directo em cada dia
e eu nunca percebia nada.
Mas agora sei. Já conheço o teu ofício:
Atirador de facas. A mais certeira
atiraste-ma ao coração.

Amalia Bautista

negra bílis

Há meses que vivo rodeada
por uma substância negra e pegajosa
que invadiu a minha casa. As paredes,
o chão, as janelas e os móveis,
a comida, os livros e a roupa,
o teclado do computador, as plantas,
o telefone… Está tudo impregnado
com este pez escuro, o mesmo que respiro
e que me mata pouco a pouco.
Dizem que os venturosos e os néscios
chamam melancolia a esta porcaria
que apodrece o coração e asfixia a alma.

Amalia Bautista

drinking a lot of wine alone is not lonely, it is romantic

monte velho não é mau. nem é bom. mas é perfeito

on n'est pas sérieux

Na mesa ao lado, raparigas parcamente vestidas (são Parcas)

exageram a masculinidade de um rapaz de 17 anos (on n'est
[pas sérieux)
e, sem terem pensado na morte, salvo como hipérbole em briga
doméstica, acendem cigarros, tocam, polimorfas,
umas nas outras, sofrem com a matemática e os heterónimos.


Pedro Mexia, Eliot e Outras Observações

ler isto no café ao lado da secundária e ficar tipo

agora já sei

o que quero ser quando for grande

e a elis regina canta assim

Vou comprar um coração

Para trocar por este meu

Porque sem ilusão não sei viver

E este meu coração cansou de amar

Com um novo coração

Vou repetir os erros meus

Fazer o que já fiz

Amar em vão, ser infeliz

Mais uma vez

Com um novo coração

Vou repetir os erros meus

Fazer o que já fiz

Amar em vão, ser infeliz

Mais uma vez

love is colder than death

Muller,

Café Muller.

A morte sabe onde fica.


Manuel de Freitas, Jukebox 1 & 2

a noite

O que buscamos
uns nos outros
é sempre a noite.


José Tolentino Mendonça

ao homem dos meus sonhos

vem, pergunta-me se gosto de laranjas e canta-me isto ao ouvido

I’m not a / photographer-writer-painter, / I’m a taxidermist / of things / that life / offers me / on the way *

I actually attack the concept of happiness. I don’t mind people being happy - but the idea that everything we do is part of the pursuit of happiness seems to me a really dangerous idea and has led to a contemporary disease in Western society, which is fear of sadness. It’s a really odd thing that we’re now seeing people saying “write down 3 things that made you happy today before you go to sleep”, and “cheer up” and “happiness is our birthright” and so on. We’re kind of teaching our kids that happiness is the default position - it’s rubbish. Wholeness is what we ought to be striving for and part of that is sadness, disappointment, frustration, failure; all of those things which make us who we are. Happiness and victory and fulfillment are nice little things that also happen to us, but they don’t teach us much. Everyone says we grow through pain and then as soon as they experience pain they say “Quick! Move on! Cheer up!” I’d like just for a year to have a moratorium on the word “happiness” and to replace it with the word “wholeness”. Ask yourself “is this contributing to my wholeness?” and if you’re having a bad day, it is.

Hugh Mackay


* Jacques Henri Lartigue

a queda

Je suis tombée

amoreuse, foi o seu
primeiro encontro
com o chão.

Dessa vez partiu
em cacos o coração.
Os ossos só mais tarde,
um por um,
contra a terra.

C'est fou la vie,
essa derrocada
a que apenas resistem
memória e pássaro,
em voo picado.


Renata Correia Botelho, Grisu nº1


o que vale é que acabamos sempre todos no mesmo sítio. no chão

os ais

estamos cheios deles.

(poetry is colder than death)

Alguns gostam de poesia

Alguns —
quer dizer nem todos.
Nem a maioria de todos, mas a minoria.
Excluindo escolas, onde se deve
e os próprios poetas,
serão talvez dois em mil.

Gostam —
mas também se gosta de canja de massa,
gosta-se da lisonja e da cor azul,
gosta-se de um velho cachecol,
gosta-se de levar a sua avante,
gosta-se de fazer festas a um cão.

De poesia —
mas o que é a poesia?
Algumas respostas vagas
já foram dadas,
mas eu não sei e não sei, e a isto me agarro
como a um corrimão providencial.


Wislawa Szymborska, trad. Elzbieta Milewska e Sérgio das Neves

deus

Os médicos perguntaram-me que música ele gostaria mais de ouvir antes da anestesia. Indiquei-lhes Nick Cave e Tom Waits. Ele sorriu, disseram-me. Quando já não queria ver mais pessoas, deu-me excepcionalmente dois minutos. Primeiro ainda houve sorrisos. Mas ao dizer-lhe até amanhã, desatou num choro compulsivo e ficámos de mãos agarradas. Ele já tinha visto o seu "corpo afastando-se da cidade". Poucos dias depois morreu e da cidade acorreram a despedir-se dezenas de poetas. Amigos. Muitos jovens. Muitas flores. "E a vida, afinal, é como as orquídeas - reproduz-se com dificuldade".

Manuel Hermínio Monteiro, Al Berto: Uma pérola no coração, na Revista de artes e Ideias n.º 8, — O Medo, Coimbra: Alma Azul

(e contou-me um passarinho que o nosso deus [mais meu do que teu] uma noite, chamando pelo bowie, se atirou para o chão no meio de copos e beatas, luzes e alucinações de uma discoteca qualquer. verdade, juro-vos)

happiness is a warm gun

Pipilotti Rist, I'm Not The Girl Who Misses Much, 1986

comprei violetas e chamei-lhes josephine(as)

Violets contain ionone, which short-circuits our sense of smell. The flower continues to exude its fragrance, but we lose the ability to smell it. Wait a minute or two, and its smell will blare again. Then it will fade again, and so on. How like Josephine, a woman of full-bodied if occasionally recondite sensuality, to choose as her trademark a scent that assaults the nose with a dam-burst of odor one second, and the next leaves the nose virginal, only to rampage yet again. No scent is more flirtatious.

Diane Ackerman, A Natural History of the Senses

o hunter s. thompson não lamenta informar

que

«We are all born alone, die alone and, in spite of true romance magazines, we shall all someday look back on our lives and see that, in spite of our company, we were alone the whole way. I do not say lonely, at least, not all the time, but essentially, and finally, alone. This is what makes your self-respect so important and I don’t see how you can respect yourself if you must look in the hearts and minds of others for your happiness.»

em The Proud Highway: Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman

isto está tudo relacionado

© Aitor Saraiba

«Permit me to warn reckless young women: seeing the trap doesn't prevent you from getting caught in it - and that doubles the pleasure.»

Claude Cahun

volta outono volta

«Uma vez um homem encontrou duas folhas e entrou em casa segurando-as com os braços esticados, dizendo aos pais que era uma árvore. Ao que eles disseram então vai para o pátio e não cresças na sala pois as tuas raízes podem estragar a carpete.

Ele disse eu estava a brincar não sou uma árvore e deixou cair as folhas. Mas os pais disseram olha é outono.»

Russell Edson

acasos aos vinte e dois anos

A vida tem destes acasos literários:
um comboio, dois livros e a pior
das razões para nos apaixonarmos.
Tenho vinte e dois anos e o equivalente
em retratos teus -periféricos ou não-
catalogados de acordo com as horas psicologicamente
intermináveis do teu sorriso.

O nosso amor é como o lado vazio de uma ampulheta,
ou seja, inverso ao próprio tempo que não marca
o surgir inesperado daquelas noites em que tudo acontece
numa peça de teatro à qual nunca comparecemos.

As tuas mãos são um jardim demasiado inconstante
para fazer fila e esperar a morte. Tens seis letras no nome
e antes que amanheça saberei em que lugar do meu corpo
cada uma delas cabe.


David Teles Pereira

segredos

I am afraid of people.

I stepped on and broke George’s glasses.

I am in love with myself.

I wet the bed until I was 10

There’s coke in a match box in my room.

I have a very sensual back

I cannot masturbate with my right hand

I once took a piss on the 7th floor of MOMA

I do not like John

This museum is too hot and my feet are hurting

I never cheated on my wife. It’s true

My shame in not having a secret which has not been shared with someone

I’m afraid to have intercourse

I’ve been sleeping with my boyfriend and we’ve never kissed

I am a coward and nobody knows it

I believe in God

I’m in love with my Gym teacher and I’m 8 years old

I have no money at all!

My father’s mother is crazier than her husband

I do not have any secret.

I am going to destroy a building within five months

I don’t swallow all the food I eat!

I am afraid to meet new people

I killed a bug for no good reason

I have a padded bra.

I would like to see my old boy friend although I am happily married 10 years

I once had intercourse with a dog

The only secret I have are secrets told to me by other people

I dislike mostly everyone, (sometimes even me).

I am afraid of going crazy

Secret: I wish I had a secret

Carl, I love You

I don’t brush my teeth

I would like to thank you.

I weight about 120 lbs

Sometimes I would like to kill my mother

The key to my chest is in my top bureau drawer on the left.

I am pregnant

I think I’m better than everyone I know I know I am

I love my mother my father and my sister and my boyfriend Love Maria

I no someone who you don’t know

I wish I were a rose.

Sex bores me.

My boyfriend died I’m for the war

I plan to get a record player for my son for Christmas

I always thought I was a genius

The reason I don’t like cocaine is that it makes me want to commit murder

I’m born to die

I’m not really enjoying life but I suppose I must go on.

He really wasn’t a very nice person.

I wish I was Frank Zappa

A man was sleeping in my bed in a room in Portugal

I have porcelin caps on my front teeth!

Je ne suis pas franqaise

I like myself and no one else

I try to hide the fact that I am ashamed of my car’s poor condition.

Brian fell out of the high chair & cut his mouth because I didn’t strap him in.

I curce

I don’t like being me. Don’t tell anybody.

I would like to kill one of my uncles-one of my aunts- and my mother

I let people be emotional

I once attempted to murder a girl I loved

I have a latent desire to be a dictator

I don’t I ike to eat candy

I secretly hate my children

I would like to get a good job and get lots of monny

I once gave my mother some piss to drink

My secret is that my hair is failing out and in two years I’ll be completely bald

My father is not fun

I toke a doller from my mom

I am in love with two boys Peter and Preston.They both love me and I love them

I have a desire to expose my body

I am full of repressions

Hate Hate Hate.

I’m pregnant and don’t know what to do with the baby

I am a failure

My real age is 27 going on 20- I wish this were true

I pay for my husbands mistakes at all times.

In school I pretend I’m a computor

I hate going to bed I do my homework in class

I am very unhappy

My cat knew how to speak a couple of words

I stayed home myself last night unhappy.

I think that there shouldn’t be such a thing as cure

I have cosins that their mother and father are divorsed

This is my two time here!

I wish I could sit in the back of the bus on the way home. I’m lonely.

I failed three years in school

That I like little things like little dogs

Sodomy is always on my mind

I always don’t know the answer and peek

I think of nothing else but Nick

I’m afraid to have intercourse

I hate this god damn fucking world! I am going home to do something called self suicide.

My turtle’s a lesbian

I am a truly fucked up person

I hide all my thought inside I never let anybody know the real me

Most people make me sick

I would not care very much

My secret that I never revealed to anyone is I wish I were a boy

I’m losing my mind

I am a homosexual.Are you shocked

I shoot dope in the arm & ankle

I’m lonely- help me.

I hate long fingernails

Boo I’m beautiful

I married the wrong man

My mother was a whor

I really don’t like one of my brothers or my sister. I’v been brought up to love them, but I can’t.

I want to be pitied

At the age of 29 I suddenly find I have been to bed with more men than I can remember.

My I.Q. is only 118. I’ve never revealed this.

My mom walked out of a store wearing something she didn’t buy.

I still love Sue

Estoy arrepentido venir New York

I have three or four boy friends

I get awful lonely- This is stupid

There are times when I am so depressed that I feel so depressed I could cry for hours

I saw my mother giving a man a blow job

I am always afraid that my friends will surpass me and I will be “left behind”.

I am a shoplifter with latent tendencies for grand larceny, Help me.

I always wanted to have red hair

I peeked :in my cousin when he was getting undressed

Anyone who reads these has to be sick

I wish I had a more beautiful face

Trees scare me.Trees are me. I scare myself

I am afraid of being stupid

I smell my pillow

I’m worried what will happen after I’m dead

I have ugly feet

I long for the end of the world

I fall in and out of love with every good looking girl I meet- (PS. I’m a male)

I wish I were dead

I have a secret desire to be 6’6” tall

I wish people would say thank you to me

The little TV stopped working when I was in the wheel chair- then it started working again.

I love my grandmother but my grandmother is not hear to love me, but some- day I will see my grandmother again

There is no one in the world except myself

I can’t stand you

I am nobody, nothing and very lazy.

Tomorrow terrifies me.Will I be real.

I’m growing old before my time

I hate Negroes

My mother bothers me

I dig armpits.

I once dreamed a girl friend of mine had a huge penis.

I intend to rob Tiffany’s

I once did something terrible to my brother

Sidney S is sexy.

I would like to “act” I am always the camera man

I didn’t enjoy the T.V. show

I would like to feel what it is like to murder.

I ate bacon on my Bar Mitzvah

I’m afraid

I wish I wore a bra

You are a nut to read these dumb things

I am not the person I pretend to be.

I have always felt that kissing is a vile custom

I had my face lifted three times

I like eyes

I almost set a forest on fire

I had terrible mental problems in my younger years

I have I breast smaller than the other

I think that my sister is stupid

I wished my grandmother would die when she was sick

I am over thirty

I almost killed Christine

Even tho I diet- when no one is looking- at night- I always eat cookies- cook- ies- cookies!

Hitler lives!

I love sex.

I’ve got to pee

I am afraid of an appointment I have this afternoon with a social worker

If my life does not improve soon I will kill myself.

He killed himself

No more guns

I’m going to be a great artist

I fell in love with my mother

I hate doing what I’m doing.

I participated in the murder of my mother

I always wanted to fuck my brother

I used to spit in my husbands eggsalad sandwich

Me piaconole gondole ……

I am often gaseous. I pop a lot sometimes

The logic of all this is passing me by

I dreamt of you last night

I lied to my mother

Why fool the public?

I dislike his body

I wish everyone but me hated the synthesizer so I could play it!

I once I once put a cat in a washing machine when I was bout 6 yrs old. It sur- vived.

I never mailed that letter to my mother in 1962

I am totally lazy;but pretend to be busy & hard working

Today is my birthday

I feel very self conscious & I usually put on a front for those I don’t know.

My cat turns me on half way when it’s affectionate

I am a hypocrite

Without Lee, I would die.

I bite my toe nails

I rape old ladies

I love my wife.

I say prayers at night.

I want to cheat on my wife

I used to hate my mother Now I think she’s nice, nice, very nice.

My father was an alcoholic

I do not wish to remain anonymous my name is

My mother was in a mental hospital

J’y comprends rien Non de Dieu de Putain de Bordel de Merde!!!!!!!

My parents are separated

I’m not going to work on Monday. I will play sick.

I knew one of my friends would look so I couldn’t write a real secret.Sorry.

I don’t know what to do with my “girl friend”.

I really don’t know if I’m sane or not but I don’t care.

want to meet you.

I wish my stomach were clay and I could slice it off with a knife.

My father stays on the toilet for hours.

I harbor terrible thoughts,sometimes.

I love more than one man

I am 31, not 28.

That sometimes I feel like bashing my mother in the face when she hits me.

I once came to New York and lost $100 to a thief who I thought was taking me to a prostitute

I love Raquel Welch.

I sometimes feel that I would like to kill myself

Most people make me sick

My father wears a wig

The whole world is screwed up, but no one cares

I was a virgin when I got married

I have never told this.

I was not kissed by a boy until I was 18 yrs

I hate a lot of people

I live at a boring house

I really hate some of the kids I have to teach

I really am not to glad I have a dog

I have always loved the same person even though I won’t admit it

I was raped by my father

I don’t know what I want in my life

I have a whole bunch of ugly pimples on my forehead- my hair is disgusting and I feel ugly as hell

I never said goodbye to my mother or father before they died.

I would like to kill myself

I fear the dark

I would like a good sex life

I turned the wheel of the car when someone else was driving and there was an accident

I am poor

I lie school

I feel inferior

I feel, very firmly, that in general women are inferior to men

I think maybe I have been in love for the first time.

I’m a lesbian My father took sexual liberties with me

I really feel stupid at this exhibit

My husband masturbates

I follow people whose looks I like

I have false teeth

All are lonely.

Sometimes I hear myself and really wonder if it’s me

I’m afraid my mother is crazy

I don’t like the human race

My therapist reminds me of my mother

Any fucking bastard who reads this is nosy!

I want to be a whore!

I would like to kill myself I don’t know the best way

I can’t get myself together

I wish my friend won’t stop loving me

I am not as calm as I appear to be

I have a pale green round birthmark on my ass

Have cancer

I would like to suck on the man I killed

Every time I make it with my wife it’s a duty

I plagerized a poem in the third grade


Douglas Huebler, Variable Piece 4, New York City Secrets (1973), da exposição SOFTWARE (Jewish Museum, NYC, 1970)

such a funny thing for me to try to explain

o antony no meu funeral

os mortos

Não há mortos que morram tanto como os nossos.
Se um daqueles que nos pertence morre sete
ou setenta vezes no coração,
de quem apenas ouvimos falar morre uma vez, na sua data,
e os que sempre viveram longe
morrem-nos metade ou um oitavo. E metade
de uma morte é quase nada, são casas
decimais no sofrimento. (Que digo? Milésimas, milésimas!)


Gonçalo M. Tavares

sim eu sei que tudo são recordações

Here is the skin that you said you loved
draped over the back of the chair in the kitchen.
Here are the teeth. Here is the sternum, the
clavicle, the fibula. Here are the angel bones
laid out on top of the dresser like antique
jewelry. Here are the earlobes, the knobbly
elbows, the beauty mark near my temple
that always got a moan out of you. Here are
my thighs, my femur. All ten toes, all ten
fingers. My pubic bone, preserved and
wrapped in a velvet bag. Your name on the
tag. Your name on everything. Here is
the body that loved you. Here is the
heart, bloodied and wanting. Here are
those drunk voice mails, the sober texts.
Here is your promise of staying. Here
is the lonely hum in my brain where your
name used to be. Here is my spine. Here
is all the hollow. Here is all the longing. Here
is the heavy tongue, the scratchy vocal
chords. Here are all of the I love you’s.
Here is the shocking wreck of it all. Here is
how you were closer to me than my bones,
my skin. Here is the quiet city, your empty
side of the bed. Here is the empty. Here is not
knowing whether you loved me or not. Here is
the poem that can’t save us. Here.

Kristina H., On Missing You

bang bang

© Blake Walmsley


(ou o big bang do amor)

do «bem bonito»

Alguma coisa onde tu parada

fosses depois das lágrimas uma ilha
e eu chegasse para dizer-te adeus
de repente na curva duma estrada

Alguma coisa onde a tua mão
escrevesse cartas para chover
e eu partisse a fumar
e o fumo fosse para se ler

Alguma coisa onde tu ao Norte
beijasses nos olhos os navios
e eu rasgasse o teu retrato
para vê-lo passar na direcção dos rios

Alguma coisa onde tu corresses
numa rua com portas para o mar
e eu morresse
para ouvir-te sonhar.


António José Forte, Uma Faca nos Dentes

cinco da manhã, ei

cinco e meia da manhã a casa está velha range por todo o lado a gata dorme aninhada aos joelhos a televisão passa mais uma história sangrenta, verídica sabes? é que estas coisas acontecem mesmo filha tu não andes sozinha na rua à noite o aquecedor liga e desliga poupa energia e obriga-me a vestir e despir a incómoda blusa de dez em dez minutos certos certinhos e olha que lá fora faz uma ventania daquelas que batem no velho estore azul que está quase a ceder e as velas tremem escapou-me uma fresta e eu que bem a procurei o cigarro apagou-se não sei se do vento se da demora e eu não encontro o isqueiro nunca encontro o maldito isqueiro e tu não estás aqui nem estiveste ontem nem no dia anterior nem no dia antes e não sei quando voltas a estar

4 a.m

© Robert Frank

4 A.M. Make Love To Me, Brattleboro VT, December 24, 1979

dos reencontros

e o abismo está mesmo ali do lado direito na segunda pilha quarto livro página vinte e três segundo verso. está mesmo ali

dos regressos

Home is so sad. It stays as it was left,

Shaped to the comfort of the last to go
As if to win them back. Instead, bereft
Of anyone to please, it withers so,
Having no heart to put aside the theft

And turn again to what it started as,
A joyous shot at how things ought to be,
Long fallen wide. You can see how it was:
Look at the pictures and the cutlery
The music in the piano stool. That vase.


Philip Larkin, Home is so sad

heart of glass

© D.W. Kellog, between 1833-1842

domingos, para que vos quero

Não gosta de missas mas sabe rezar

Repete para dentro os poemas de domingo
no livro dilecto


Louis Buisseret

To NORA / Dublin, 13 December 1909

I would be delighted to feel my flesh tingling under your hand . Do you know what I mean, Nora dear? I wish you would smack me or flog me even. Not in play, dear, in earnest and on my naked flesh. I wish you were strong, strong, dear, and had a big full proud bosom and big fat thighs.  I would love to be whipped by you, Nora love! I would love to have done something to displease you, something trivial even, perhaps one of my rather dirty habits that make you laugh: and then to hear you call me into your room and then to find you sitting in an armchair with your fat thighs far apart and your face deep red with anger and a cane in your hand. To see you point to what I had done and then with a movement of rage pull me towards you and throw me face downwards across your lap. Then to feel your hands tearing down my trousers and inside clothes and turning up my shirt, to be struggling in your strong arms and in your lap, to feel you bending down (like an angry nurse whipping a child's bottom) until your big full bubbies almost touched me and to feel you flog, flog, flog me viciously on my naked quivering flesh!!


James Joyce, Letters to Nora

To NORA / Dublin, 16 December 1909

My sweet darling girl At last you write to me! You must have given that naughty little cunt of yours a most ferocious frigging to write me such a disjointed letter. As for me, darling, I am so played out that you would have to lick me for a good hour before I could get a horn stiff enough even to put into you, to say nothing of blocking you. I have done so much and so often that I am afraid to look to see how that thing I had is after all I have done to myself. Darling, please don't fuck me too much when I go back. Fuck all you can out of me for the first night or so but make me get myself cured. The fucking must all be done by you, darling as I am so small and soft now that no girl in Europe except yourself would waste her time trying the job. Fuck me, darling, in as many new ways as your lust will suggest. Fuck me dressed in your full outdoor costume with your hat and veil on, your face flushed with the cold and wind and rain and your boots muddy, either straddling across my legs  when I am sitting in a chair and riding me up and down with the frills of your drawers showing and my cock sticking up stiff in your cunt or riding me over the back of the sofa. Fuck me naked with your hat and stockings on only flat on the floor with a crimson flower in your hole behind, riding me like a man with your thighs between mine and your rump very fat. Fuck me in your dressing gown (I hope you have that nice one) with nothing on under it, opening it suddenly and showing me your belly and thighs and back an pulling me on top of you on the kitchen table. Fuck me into you arseways, lying on your face on the bed, with your hair flying loose naked but with a lovely scented pair of pink drawers opened shamelessly behind and half sleeping down over your peeping bum. Fuck me on the stairs in the dark, like a nursery-maid fucking her soldier, unbuttoning his trousers gently and slipping her hand in his fly and fiddling with his shirt and feeling it getting wet and then pulling it gently up and fiddling with his two bursting balls and at last pulling out boldly the mickey  she loves to handle and frigging it for him softly, murmuring into his ear dirty words and dirty stories that other girls told her and dirty things she said, and all the time pissing her drawers with pleasure and letting off soft warm quiet little farts behind until her own girlish cockey is as stiff as his and suddenly sticking him up in her and riding him.

Basta! Basta per Dio!

I have come now and the foolery is over.  Now for your questions!


James Joyce, Letters to Nora

não acham ternurento? não?

se eu fosse um vídeo

se eu fosse um vídeo

my eyes are coral, absorbing your dreams / my skin is a surface to push to extremes / my heart is a record of dangerous scenes

ausência

Quero dizer-te uma coisa simples:
a tua ausência dói-me.
Refiro-me a essa dor que não magoa, que se limita à alma;
mas que não deixa, por isso,
de deixar alguns sinais -
um peso nos olhos, no lugar da tua imagem, e um vazio nas mãos.
Como se as tuas mãos lhes tivessem roubado o tacto.

Porém, é o sonho que me traz a tua memória;
e a realidade aproxima-me de ti,
agora que os dias correm mais depressa,
e as palavras ficam presas numa refracção de instantes,
quando a tua voz me chama de dentro de mim -
e me faz responder-te uma coisa simples,
como dizer que a tua ausência me dói.


Nuno Júdice

losing places

Não olhes.

O mundo está prestes a rebentar.

Não olhes.
O mundo está prestes a despejar a sua luz
E a lançar-nos no abismo das suas trevas,
Aquele lugar negro, gordo e sem ar
Onde nós iremos matar ou morrer ou dançar ou chorar
Ou gritar ou gemer ou chiar que nem ratos
A ver se conseguimos de novo um posto de partida.


Harold Pinter