In the city of blood and whores, he found love and a gun

- You can call me Goldie.

She smells like angels ought to smell. The perfect woman. The Goddess.

Goldie.

She says her name is Goldie.

My head starts to clear. Things start to make sense. I owe you, Goldie. I owe you one and I'm gonna pay up. So, if going after Roark means dying, win or lose, hell, I'll die laughing if I know I've done this one thing right.

Just like that, a whopper of a puzzle piece falls smack on my lap. I'm too dumb to put the whole picture together yet, but she fires up two cigarretes and hands me one, and I taste her lipstick on it. And suddenly, my heart's pounding so loud I can't hear anything else. I want to reach over and touch her, and taste Goldie's sweat one more time. But - she isn't Goldie.

"She shivers in the wind like the last leaf on a dying tree."

Let me melt in diluted smiles

Eva Noir

O meu Eu morreu.

Morreu quando as bruxas das poções mágicas emigraram para poderem comprar os ingredientes. Morreu quando quem me ajudava a cuidar dos doentes emigrou para cuidar de seres longínquos. Morreu quando eu emigrei e deixei de ver as fadas e as cores dos bosques da fantasia, em que as copas das árvores revelavam um mundo sem fim. Morreu quando morreu a melodia do assobio na floresta.

Sou eu num quarto cinzento, com um Bukowski (leia-se "whisky") à frente, com um Waits (leia-se "cigarro") nos lábios, mas sem uma Lolita, uma Curie, uma Joplin, uma Flauta Mágica. Como me poderia dizer eu um ser completo - o meu sonho - se tenho apenas metade de mim? Até o mundo que ficou - sejamos honestos, quase todos ficaram - é pequeno e pouco ambicioso, com todos os voluntariados, e todos os desejos quanto a fazer parte de um mundo pequeno e ajudar os mais pequenos.

Ensine eu os vocábulos do Inglês e as cifras da Matemática, e nada me parecerá valer a pena. Serei, no maior dos sonhos possíveis hoje, um instrumento do mundo, e não um conhecedor dele.

Todas as minhas inspirações deixaram para trás um papel incompleto na minha alma, papéis que devo seguir e completar. Mas, na minha eterna infância, que será de mim sem ninguém do meu próprio público a apreciar?

O mundo morreu, e com ele, morri eu.

E cada um dos mundos que morreu comigo gera um novo mundo, sem mim, com o tom mais inócuo da minha voz. Não gerei mundo nenhum, e aparento ter deixado os mundos que tinha para gerar.

Eddie Barzoon, Eddie Barzoon. Hah! Oh, I nursed him through two divorces, a cocaine rehab, and a pregnant receptionist. Heh. God's creature, right? God's special creature? Hah! And I've warned him Kevin, I've warned him every step of the way. Watching him bounce around like a fucking game, like a windup toy! Like 250 pounds of self serving greed on wheels. The next thousand years is right around the corner, Kevin, and Eddie Barzoon-take a good look, because he's the poster child for the next millennium!

These people, it's no mystery where they come from. You sharpen the human appetite to the point where it can split atoms with its desire, you build egos the size of cathedrals, fiber-optically connect the world to every eager impulse, grease even the dullest dreams with these dollar-green, gold plated fantasies until every human becomes an aspiring emperor, becomes his own god, and where can you go from there?

And as we're scrambling from one deal to the next, who's got his eye on the planet? As the air thickens, the water sours, and even the bees honey takes on the metallic taste of radioactivity. And it just keeps coming, faster and faster. There's no chance to think, to prepare. It's buy futures, sell futures, when there is no future! We got a runaway train boy, we got a billion Eddie Barzoons all jogging into the future. Every one of 'em getting ready to fist-fuck god's ex-planet, lick their fingers clean as they reach out toward their pristine, cybernetic keyboards to total up their billable hours. 

And then it hits home! You gotta pay your own way, Eddie. It's a little late in the game to buy out now! Your belly's too full, your dick is sore, your eyes are bloodshot, and you're screaming for someone to help! But guess what? There's no one there! You're all alone, Eddie. You're god's special little creature.

Maybe it's true, maybe god threw the dice once too often. Maybe he let us all down.

Anyway's the only way.

She's a moving violation from her conk down to her shoes

- You do hate me, don't you, Johnny?

- I don't think you have any idea of how much.

- Hate is a very exciting emotion. Haven't you noticed? Very exciting. I hate you too, Johnny. I hate you so much I think I'm going to die from it. Darling... I think I'm going to die from it.

"Each day I would dispose of as much loose skin, fingernails and hair as possible, to limit how much of my invalid self I would leave in the valid world."

- So now I'm very, very curious about what you're gonna say next.

- Maybe I'll just sit here and bleed at you.

"and I wondered how the same moon outside
over this Chinatown fair
could look down on Illinois
and find you there"

Flute Sonata, op. 94. II. Scherzo: Presto

Obrigado, Misha, por trazeres a alma dela no arco com a ajuda de Prokofiev.

Artemis

E quem uiva já não é o lobo, mas o rafeiro, às quatro garrafas, aos quatro sentidos da rosa dos ventos, aos ventos dos sentidos dos quatro batimentos cardíacos.

P-pum, o que é feito de mim?

P-pum, o que tu próprio fizeste.

P-pum, em quem te tornaste?

P-pum, n'aquilo que deixaste.

P-pum, o que é feito de mim?

Mas rafeiro o cão uiva, à Lua, e a Júpiter, tão brilhantes, tão serenos, na valsa do Universo que dança independentemente dos uivos. E por maior que seja a diferença dos seus diâmetros e massas, Júpiter não se torna lunar, nem a Lua se torna joviana. E a Aura da Lua apaga tudo nesta noite; tudo, menos Júpiter, Orion, Ursa Major. E enquanto uns vêm nas estrelas os seus traços, observo nelas os traços do Universo, e quão insignificante é o uivo de um qualquer rafeiro na noite. Destes uivos há-os incontáveis; e contá-los não o farei.

Resignar-me-ei a outro infame e incontável desabafo no ruído da multidão das estrelas, na solidão do segredo joviano lunar.

(Mas olha para cima nas horas em que a Noite usa o frio para tatuar o teu nome nos pulmões de cada suspiro; hás-de ver as sombras da Lua no chão, mas Júpiter singelo e dominante, Orion à caça, e a Ursa Maior a observar estes filhos da galáxia.)

--

"Orion was Artemis' hunting companion. In some versions, he is killed by Artemis, while in others he is killed by a scorpion sent by Gaia. In some versions, Orion tries to seduce Opis, one of her followers, and she killed him. In a version by Aratus, Orion took hold of Artemis' robe and she killed him in self-defense.
In yet another version, Apollo sends the scorpion. According to Hyginus Artemis once loved Orion (in spite of the late source, this version appears to be a rare remnant of her as the pre-Olympian goddess, who took consorts, as Eos did), but was tricked into killing him by her brother Apollo, who was "protective" of his sister's maidenhood."

"From Porphyry's writings, scholars have also learned that Melissa was the name of the moon goddess Artemis and the goddess who took suffering away from mothers giving birth. Souls were symbolized by bees and it was Melissa who drew souls down to be born. She was connected with the idea of a periodic regeneration."

--

Como vive uma idéia, uma mitologia pessoal - tão real como o gelo que preenche as ranhuras dos meus ossos -, no pantanal da realidade. Mas és apenas uma língua morta, uma arte que ninguém sabe vocabolizar, um traço que ninguém sabe desenhar, e muito menos o saberia eu. Uma dança sem corpo, uma cântico de mudos para o deleite de surdos; alguém te conhece realmente? Ou apenas tentam descrever o teu rosto olhando para a silhueta que deixas no chão? Qual Van Gogh sem orelha te conseguiria pintar se para ti todos os sentidos não chegam? Mas uiva também tu em silêncio, Artemis, se não aos cinco sentidos das pessoas, então aos quatro sentidos da rosa dos ventos, longe de mim, pela tragédia do mundo seres tu tão tu, e apenas tu, e tanto tu, com uma tragédia que é comédia e alegria, com uma alegria que é tragédia, e, como tudo, comédia. Pois se os teus uivos chegam a mim, é porque a Lua os reflecte como um dia os ouviu, enquanto vê o que nunca verei.

Good games have good soundtracks

You come, and with every footstep you bring that crazy drugged German chaos with you. You bring violence, you bring joy, you bring the extreme, and you always bring some half-witted dumb fuck who fucks my night.

Jah's hot ethiopian blood runs in your south african's norse winter veins.
Your soul makes the autumn leaves spring from every tree.

No, I wouldn't mention summertime. You're too hot for that.

My sin, my soul.

The tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth.

Tristemente hilariante, a forma como me devolveste o dom da escrita, e não o sou capaz de segurar. Os meus dedos sabem as ranhuras de cor, de tecla em tecla, sentem o relevo do caractére; poisam o suor no fatídico premir de palavras de ordem e cálculo, e cálculos, e ordens. Mas o sangue, esse, perco-o em mim, fraco e passivo, que mal percorre as artérias e veias o suficiente para que consiga escrever sequer esta reflexão. Um espelho baço, embaciado pela recorrente decadência do ser.

Tu devolveste-me o palpitar das palavras, e não o fui capaz de segurar. Que vergonha. Ele sim, segura-me, quando se propõe a ser materializado na mais pura das abstracções realizadas: a palavra, para além do vento, para além da sensação, da idéia. Depreendo que seja este o mesmo palpitar a gritar por socorro, abusando das minhas mãos para se fazer ouvir, abusando dos meus olhos para se fazer ler. Não grita para que o salvem e o cuidem. Não grita sequer para que o acudam de todo. Mas para que não caia no vazio da memória. Porque se não o sou capaz de segurar, quem há-de ser capaz de o lembrar.

Keelah Se'lai

Invictus by William Earnest Henley (1875)

Se não o posso dizer por um antigo eu, que se forme outra vida do éter, que tome conta do presente e do futuro, mas não do passado.
--

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

Start anew

"Mais vale não ser que ser assim."

"I am a ruined vessel of sorrow and regret; but I am free."

"Stand in the ashes of a trillion dead souls and ask the ghosts if honor matters. The silence is your answer."

Below the red Sun

The blue lingers on

"O assalto não se deu. E ainda assim encarceraste-me."

...

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.

...

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

"You silver-tongued devil."

Actually, I love silence. But i've come to know how firmly the emerald eyes were my Messiah to gide me away from the abyss silence brings me to. They made me bear that abyss, they made me look into it, and see why I shouldn't fall.

Now, from times to times, I look up and I remember the shores of that cosmic hole in the ground. How far do they seem from this place I'm at now. There is no flying away from the abyss of mediocrity. I can only listen to the noise from the coming waterfalls. I'm going to fall again and again, drowned in the sense I'm not drowning. Until some day, hopefully, I get to another shore. And, also hopefully, I'll have been listening to my silence overcoming that outside noise. Why? Because when you are in silence, you can really listen to the words, one syllable at a time. And sometimes they sound magic. And I need magic to survive until the last waterfall, where I'll get to those other shores, and I'll be out of the abyss. Just being given the opportunity to walk again to the sides of that (or other) abyss.

I need an abyss. I need waterfalls. And I need not to be in either of those. But to survive the lack of lacking something vital, I need the same alcohol, to purify my thoughts, and often, eliminate them too.



Worst of all, when I look into that pictographic log, there's no brandy that can make me look away. You'll always be my silent curse.

Yours truly, the fallen mediocre guy.

Arethusa arose
From her couch of snows
In the Acroceraunian mountains,—
From cloud and from crag,
With many a jag,
Shepherding her bright fountains.
She leapt down the rocks,
With her rainbow locks
Streaming among the streams;—
Her steps paved with green
The downward ravine
Which slopes to the western gleams;
And gliding and springing
She went, ever singing,
In murmurs as soft as sleep;
The Earth seemed to love her,
And Heaven smiled above her,
As she lingered towards the deep.

(from Arethusa, by P. B. Shelley)

The Voyage of Eärendel the Evening Star

Eärendel arose where the shadow flows
At Ocean's silent brim;
Through the mouth of night as a ray of light
Where the shores are sheer and dim
He launched his bark like a silver spark
From the last and lonely sand;
Then on sunlit breath of day's fiery death
He sailed from Westerland.

He threaded his path o'er the aftermath
Of the splendor of the Sun,
And wandered far past many a star
In his gleaming galleon.

On the gathering tide of darkness ride
The argosies of the sky,
And spangle the night with their sails of light
As the streaming star goes by
Unheeding he dips past these twinkling ships,
By his wayward spirit whirled
On an endless quest through the darkling West
O'er the margin of the world;
And he fares in haste o'er the jewelled waste
And the dusk from whence he came
With his heart afire with bright desire
And his face in silver flame.

The Ship of the Moon from the East comes soon
From the Haven of the Sun,
Whose white gates gleam in the coming beam
Of the mighty silver one.
Lo! with bellying clouds as his vessel's shrouds
He weighs anchor down the dark,
And on shimmering oars leaves the blazing shores
In his argent-timbered bark

Then Eärendel fled from that Shipman dread
Beyond the dark earth's pale,
Back under the rim of the Ocean dim,
And behind the world set sail;
And he heard the mirth of the folk of earth
And the falling of their tears,
As the world dropped back in a cloudy wrack
On its journey down the years.

Then he glimmering passed to the starless vast
As an isled lamp at sea,
And beyond the ken of mortal men
Set his lonely errantry,
Tracking the Sun in his galleon
Through the pathless firmament,
Till his light grew old in abysses cold
And his eager flame was spent


J. R. R. Tolkien

Japanese Maple

Your death, near now, is of an easy sort.
So slow a fading out brings no real pain.
Breath growing short
Is just uncomfortable. You feel the drain
Of energy, but thought and sight remain:

Enhanced, in fact. When did you ever see
So much sweet beauty as when fine rain falls
On that small tree
And saturates your brick back garden walls,
So many Amber Rooms and mirror halls?

Ever more lavish as the dusk descends
This glistening illuminates the air.
It never ends.
Whenever the rain comes it will be there,
Beyond my time, but now I take my share.

My daughter’s choice, the maple tree is new.
Come autumn and its leaves will turn to flame.
What I must do
Is live to see that. That will end the game
For me, though life continues all the same:

Filling the double doors to bathe my eyes,
A final flood of colors will live on
As my mind dies,
Burned by my vision of a world that shone
So brightly at the last, and then was gone.



(A farewell poem by Clive James, a dying man.)

You know, that was the hat I imagined under the rain, hiding your eyes.

Porque não existe um acenar mudo, parece que o silêncio é ausência. A ausência está presente, mas também a falta de fôlego.

This is an ex-parrot!

I've become comfortably numb

"Your lips move,
but I can't hear what you're sayin'..."

Terão os seres das mantas brancas cortado e servido a minha língua, terão eles castrado a minha mente do transbordo de outrora? Pois só me saem suspiros pulmonares. Respirarei já a chuva negra no verão?

Deprivado de um mundo exterior, olhava, e não havia fundo. O silêncio transformava-se no ruído de um rádio sintonizado no nada, pela pele sentia o palpitar das artérias, o vibrar incontestável de um diapazão que afinava o mesmo silêncio.

E como num gira-discos relaxadamente à procura do ritmo das rotações, o mundo vem ao de cima. Nada mais do que o despejar da companhia num copo, o momento entre duas gargalhadas, para sempre perdido entre o "ha" e o "ha". Esvaziam-se os pulmões, desprovidos de energia; até que de novo inspiram, num ciclo monótono escondido pela vibração que provocam nas cordas vocais. E mais um gole, para manipular a condição da própria condição de cada um.

The Golden Age of Grotesque

We're the low Art Gloominati, and we aim to depress!

The Scabaret Sacrilegends,
This is the Golden Age of Grotesque!

Evey? E-V... Of course you are.

And yet your smile unveils, burnt into my skin...

There are many here among us
Who feel that life is but a joke

Such a boring life. Out of friends who love the same vibrating sound.

Angie

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Loa

Grande Brigitte touched her, without warning; she stumbled, almost fell to her knees in the surf, as the sound of the sea was sucked away into the twilit landscape that opened in front of her. The whitewashed cemetery walls, the gravestones, the willows. The candles.
Beneath the oldest willow, a multitude of candles, the twisted roots pale with wax.

Child, know me.

And Angie felt her there, all at once, and knew her for what she was, Mamman Brigitte, Mademoiselle Brigitte, eldest of the dead.

I have no cult, child, no special altar.

She found herself walking forward, into candleglow, a buzzing in her ears, as though the willow hid a vast hive of bees.

My blood is vengeance.

Angie remembered Bermuda, night, a hurricante; she and Bobby had ventured out into the eye. Grande Brigitte was like that. The silence, the sense of pressure, of unthinkable forces held momentarily in check. There was nothing to be seen, beneath the willow. Only the candles.

"The loa... I can't call them. I felt something... I came looking..."

You are summoned to my reposoir. Hear me. Your father drew vévés in your head: he drew them in a flesh that was not flesh. You were consecrated to Ezili Freda. Legba led you into the world to serve his own ends. But you were sent poison, child, a coup-poudre...

There was a terrible pain in her head, blood pounding in her temples... "Please..."

Hear me. You have enemies. They plot against you. Much is at stake, in this. Fear poison, child!

She looked down at her hands. The the blood was bright and real. The buzzing sound grew louder. Perharps it was in her head. "Please! Help me! Explain..."

You cannot remain here. It is death.

And Angie fell to her knees in the sand, the sound of the surf crashing around her, dazzled by the sun.

Inspired, expired.

Ah, just fuck them.

'Are you... Are you sad?'

- No.

'But your... Your songs are sad...'

- My songs are of time and distance. The sadness is in you. Watch my arms. There is only the dance. These things you treasure are shells.

'I... I knew that. Once.'

But now the sounds were sounds only, no forest of voices behind them to speak as one voice, and she watched the perfect globes of her tears spin out to join forgotten human memories in the dome of the Boxmaker.

'I understand,' she said, some time later, knowing that she spoke now for the comfort of hearing her own voice. She spoke quietly, unwilling to wake that bounce and ripple of sound. 'You are someone's else collage. Your maker is the true artist. Was it the mad daughter? It doesn't matter. Someone brought the machine here, welded it to the dome, and wired it to the traces of memory. And spilled, somehow, all the worn sad evidence of a family's humanity, and left it all to be stirred, to be sorted by a poet. To be sealed away in boxes. I know of no more extraordinary work than this. No more complex gesture...'

Dreams of Green in Dark

All those sins.

Hedgehog's Dilemma

No asilo dos trespassados as ideias tropeçam aos pés. Tropeçam e caem, desfazem-se, liquefazem-se em cacos e escorrem em correntes pelas grandes grades do graduado mentor da morte - o chão, onde tudo tem terrível término. E morrem ali sem mais evoluirem, à luz do esquecimento.

The bowels of the mind

A tragédia no álcool é gaguejar melodramaticamente aquilo que é indescritível. Dissecar com bisturis em mãos débeis e inaptas linhas tremidas na mente, cortando inadvertidamente ora um neurónio aqui, ora uma artéria acolá. É sujo. É deveras humano, mas no pior da sua verdade. A nudez do que se vestia roto, atirada a roupa para o lago juntamente com o discernimento. E aí vemos o que são os humanos. E quem somos como humanos.

Na manhã seguinte - ou na tarde, para os nadadores tardios - acordamos a flutuar no mesmo lago. Tomamos banho, secamo-nos, vestimo-nos, e pensamos "o lago parece ter ficado ainda mais sujo", o que nos faz desculparmo-nos desta forma ridícula. Quão pesadas são as penas das palavras.

Count Zero

"My daddy he's a handsome devil
Got a chain 'bout nine miles long.
And from every link
A heart does dangle
Of another maid
He's loved and wronged."

So long my dear friends, hello strangers

And back to work

Mo chuisle!
Mo chuisle!
Mo chuisle!

Bukowsky

“I could understand the moon leaning across a bar on skid row
and asking for a drink, but I couldn't understand anything about
myself,
I was murdered, I was shit, I was a tentful of dogs,
I was poppies mowed down by machine-gun fire
I was a hotshot wasp in a web
I was less and less and still reaching for
something, and I thought of her corny remark
a night or so ago:
You have wounded eyes.”

Nestes dias chovem-me os demónios em mim. E olho-lhes mudo, sem língua, sem dentes, sem boca. Mas rio-me com os olhos, como são divertidos e viciantes. Não chegam, mas são adoravelmente maus.

And so I will be a part of you, as you are a part of me. The storm bringer, the one part that makes me change over and over again. The one part that makes me better. So I'll carry you in me too; you belong in my own core. Without that, there would be no elves, no fairies, no joy beneath the trees, no deep mud to bury my fears - no dreams, no written words. Only gasps for air just before I'd choke.

So I will wait for another whisper from you. Even if it is never to come, I have no choice but to endure the silence. And I will not be upset about it. Just wanted you to smile with a clear mind.

"I will miss you like a life."

Dreams of green in dark...

The Ballade of Puppets

The moon fails to shine down on either day or night
And the night bird calls out in sadness

When I turn to look, the flowers had all fallen away
It was as if all comfort had vanished from the world

As the gods leave to gather in the new world
Day breaks, and the night bird calls out

The blossoms beseech the gods
"Even though in this world we may know grief and suffering
Our dreams shall never die"

"Even though in this world we may know grief and suffering
Our dreams shall never die"
And they fall from the branch in anger

Soften my blades, sharpen my feather, dropped from her back, ripped from her back.

Because we are young only once.
Because we'll be old only once.

And it will be too late only once, for every new late coming shows us how naive we were, thinking every time it was the last.


No, I promise. I will be here when, if ever, you shan't see me as a cursed ghost, but as a kinderly warmth close to you. So, feel free to feel me.

O som dos seus passos firmes apresentou a sua vinda. Encostado à parede, tabaco inutilizado pela chuva, e mangas da camisa acima do cotovelo pelo calor - o incómodo de um Verão cinzento. Ainda tinha o cigarro molhado no canto da boca, partido pelas pesadas gotas, quando parou à minha frente. Com a cabeça cortada pela aba do meu chapéu, vi-lhe a tez branca nos braços e os cabelos resignados em cascatas que caiam pelos ombros.

Levantei o olhar, apenas para descobrir que o seu continuava cortado pela aba do seu próprio chapéu.

"Pareces mais perdido que eu."

"Anda comigo, e encontramos algum bar onde vibrem os metais e as cordas, e as gargantas não se cansem a engolir em seco."

"Ainda é dia, e não te conheço."

Claro que me conhecia. Este jogo caía sempre sobre nós, até os peões nos rebolarem aos pés, gastos pelo chão áspero e as duras quedas. Mas não acontecia havia 15 anos. A ressaca da imaginação. Dores de crescimento da meia idade.

"... Mas já há muito que os dias não oferecem nada, e problemas são os meus conhecidos", completou, após a pausa em que lhe fitei os lábios na sua própria expressão. Elevou também os olhos, e tinha sarilhos escritos neles, como uma Bonnie acabada de sair da prisão e sem um mundo para onde voltar.

"Amanhã de madrugada usa a roupa que escolhi como adorno, não um fardo."

Do teu ombro vejo o mundo

Solta os cães atrás de mim!

"All those moments will be lost in time... Like tears in the rain. Time to die..."

You know, the heart that bends cannot be broken.
It is, instead, beaten, cut, ripped apart, suffocated, crushed.

I hate you so much.
I hate you so fuckin' much.

Inútil Paisagem

Phototropic

Under light that I have never seen.
Go to the light, reach up to the beam.
Under light, under light...
Reach up to the Sun, or you can run.
Found the roof, the smallness of it all.
Found the roof.
You will never fall.

Oh yeah, you're a fucked up man with a fucked up plan.

Why the finger?... It's alright.
Me and you could... It's alright.
Straighten me out... It's alright.
Guiding light... It's alright.
There you go... It's alright.
Wait up and turn me in... It's alright.
Help you out, man... It's alright.

Help me in...

I just might.

The peaceful hollow sadness. Just let it go, what's dead may never die.

The End of All Things

Everything will end.

Not with a bang.

But with a whimper.

O lado negro do céu preenche-me a alma na quietude da sua revolvente existência. Quantas estrelas, quantos gigantes em chamas o povoam?

Nenhum. Nenhum colosso de fogo que sobreviva ao prateado da feiticeira que ilumina a noite, trai presas e caçadores, projecta sombra e morte nas florestas, brilho límbico nos olhos ausentes dos nómadas que hipnotiza.

“A non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity."

― Franz Kafka, Letter to Max Brod, July 5, 1922

The Story of Bonnie and Clyde

by Bonnie Parker


You've read the story of Jesse James
Of how he lived and died;
      If you're still in need
      Of something to read,
Here's the story of Bonnie and Clyde.

Now Bonnie and Clyde are the Barrow gang,
I'm sure you all have read
      How they rob and steal
      And those who squeal
Are usually found dying or dead.

There's lots of untruths to these write-ups;
They're not so ruthless as that;
      Their nature is raw;
      They hate all the law
The stool pigeons, spotters, and rats.

They call them cold-blooded killers;
They say they are heartless and mean;
      But I say this with pride,
      That I once knew Clyde
When he was honest and upright and clean.

But the laws fooled around,
Kept taking him down
And locking him up in a cell,
      Till he said to me,
      "I'll never be free,
So I'll meet a few of them in hell."

The road was so dimly lighted;
There were no highway signs to guide;
      But they made up their minds
      If all roads were blind,
They wouldn't give up till they died.

The road gets dimmer and dimmer;
Sometimes you can hardly see;
      But it's fight, man to man,
      And do all you can,
For they know they can never be free.

From heart-break some people have suffered;
From weariness some people have died;
      But take it all in all,
      Our troubles are small
Till we get like Bonnie and Clyde.

If a policeman is killed in Dallas,
And they have no clue or guide;
      If they can't find a fiend,
      They just wipe their slate clean
And hand it on Bonnie and Clyde.

There's two crimes committed in America
Not accredited to the Barrow mob;
      They had no hand
      In the kidnap demand,
Nor the Kansas City depot job.

A newsboy once said to his buddy;
"I wish old Clyde would get jumped;
      In these awful hard times
      We'd make a few dimes
If five or six cops would get bumped."

The police haven't got the report yet,
But Clyde called me up today;
      He said, "Don't start any fights
      We aren't working nights
We're joining the NRA."

From Irving to West Dallas viaduct
Is known as the Great Divide,
      Where the women are kin,
      And the men are men,
And they won't "stool" on Bonnie and Clyde.

If they try to act like citizens
And rent them a nice little flat,
      About the third night
      They're invited to fight
By a sub-gun's rat-tat-tat.

They don't think they're too tough or desperate,
They know that the law always wins;
      They've been shot at before,
      But they do not ignore
That death is the wages of sin.

Some day they'll go down together;
And they'll bury them side by side;
      To few it'll be grief
      To the law a relief
But it's death for Bonnie and Clyde.

Adrenaline Love Violence

I have no heart and still you make it bleed.

"Eu espero.
Como se o tempo nos pretencesse."

Speak with me my only mind
Walk with me until the end
And turn the forest into sand

Primavera

Corre a lama no leito abraçado pelas raízes sobressaídas desses colossos, corre a lama. Revolve e revigora o solo, mas leva também as sementes dessas flores assexuadas que se clonam e clonam - sempre vulneráveis à mesma doença, sempre florescendo pela mesma razão. Onde foram os pássaros que nas palavras polonizavam a rasteireza da floresta? E com eles, que é das fadas de negras botas e elfos de pupilas dilatadas?

Foram embora. Exasperaram o seu caminho de volta ao betão, e do betão a outra floresta. Porque as árvores falaram, mas as palavras de nada servem. Caem secas como os ramos, enterrando-se na lama que corre. Não existe lama renovadora que valha um Inverno sem fim.

Mas aí está: a lama vem na Primavera, aquando do degelo, arrastando as pétalas precoces, transportando as mesmas sementes que rouba, depositando-as - na mesma floresta. E alimenta-as enquanto seca, nas suas dores de crescimento, para que possam um dia olhar para o céu e ver - o céu já foi ocupado pelas copas nascidas das raízes que moldam o leito da lama.

Valha-nos o musgo, que observa, ora verde, ora cinzento...

Estavas no pátio, à chuva. Na sombra das nuvens, na cara lavada pelas pesadas gotas, não vi os teus olhos vermelhos. No reflexo das poças não te vi de punhos cerrados. No ruído das dispersas cascatas não te ouvi ofegante. E disse-te olá. Mas tinhas morto a alma e fazias-lhe luto.

Curse the day.

"What he didn't like about heroes was that they were usually suicidally gloomy when sober and homicidally insane when drunk."

"Oh, how their claws come ripping..."

Earthless - Equus October

Acorda o terceiro olho, o terceiro ouvido, a primeira alma. Mergulha nos fumos do teu íntimo, nas águas do teu mistério, no mundo dentro do mundo, no som dentro do som. De que outra forma verias os elfos e as fadas que te rodeiam? De que outra forma te libertarias do que criaste para te prender? Há muito que olhas e ainda não vês.

Tudo são cornicópias de cores líquidas envolvidas na sua própria vã fatalidade. Olha para as lâminas que te acariciam o corpo; se não vês o teu sangue, como sabes quem és? Se não o provas, como sabes a que sabes? E depois de provares a tua alma, verás o universo pela sua imensidão, e quão pequenos são os assuntos quotidianos. E nunca mais as tuas artérias pulsarão de frustração, e nunca mais precisarás de forças. E os dias serão anos, e viverás um de cada vez, sem pressa, com garra.

E verás que as criaturas místicas te acompanham, inebriadas pelo teu desejo messiânico de conquista. Verás os teus grandes passos como os minúsculos rastejos que são, enquanto que vês as árvores a crescer das sepulturas abertas pelo teu caminhar.

Acorda.

Olhos de jade dançam no escuro, mergulhados em lágrimas de safira. E no meio desse mar o fogo arde quente no jade, e brilha mais que mil Sóis, reflectido na solidão de uma Lua de prata.
Ergue-te, ninfa dos dragões, e caminha na tua ira libertadora.

"The brighter the flame, the darker the shadow."

"Saviors and saints,
Devils and heathens alike...
She'll eat you alive."

Zero Hero

Gather all your hate on me.
"Yes... I destroy worlds...
Create worlds..."

In my black room
Revolution and doom

Horns and claws, rotten nose
Hell is sucking on my toes

Will you come and meet the Flower Travellin' Man? I see elves and fairies, demons and nymphs, colours and powders, pow-wow flowers.

"Lelouch, do you know why the snow is white? It forgot what color it was."

Os cantos desses olhos pertencem apenas ao passado.

Mas o passado olha por cima do meu ombro, e vejo-o, pelo canto do olho, os cantos dos olhos.

Overhead the albatross

Hangs motionless upon the air,

And deep beneath the rolling waves

In labyrinths of coral caves

The echo of a distant time

Comes willowing across the sand,

And everything is green and submarine.

And no one called us to the land,

And no one knows the wheres or whys.

Something stirs and something tries,

Starts to climb toward the light.

Strangers passing in the street,

By chance two separate glances meet.

And I am you and what I see is me...

And do I take you by the hand

And lead you through the land,

And help me understand

The best I can.

And no one called us to the land,

And no one crosses there alive.

No one speaks and no one tries,

No one flies around the sun.

Almost everyday you fall

Upon my waking eyes.

Inviting and inciting me

To rise.

And through the window in the wall

Come streaming in on sunlight wings

A million bright ambassadors of morning.

And no one sings me lullabyes,

And no one makes me close my eyes,

So I throw the windows wide

And call to you across the sky.

Part One

If you didn't care what happened to me,

And I didn't care for you,

We would zig zag our way through the boredom and pain

Occasionally glancing up through the rain.

Wondering which of the buggars to blame

And watching for pigs on the wing.

Wish

Did you exchange a walk-on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?

Incrível como as pessoas se separam do que são. E ainda bem que o fazem. Deixam fotografias de sensação, sem imagem, fotografias conceptuais do seu espírito e alma. E, em certos casos, em que as pessoas se vão, puxados pela (ou atirados contra a) mudança, de direitos, de deveres, de preocupações - de personalidade - ficam as fotografias, intocadas, belas. E nos momentos de sorte esquecemo-nos que fazem parte apenas do passado - e por entre esses momentos, os melhores, acabam despercebidos.

E deixamo-nos de nos chatear, e deixamo-nos de nos zangar, porque as fotografias estão sempre lá e ninguém as pode alterar mais do que já o fizemos. Tornam-se mais reais do que as próprias personagens que figuram olhares e sorrisos. E, um dia, quando o mundo for ruínas, a água estiver morta, a terra estéril, ainda vão voar essas fotografias, coloridas, sem ninguém para as apreciar.

"Baby, these streets ain't nothin', it's just a wide spot in the road. Sometimes my heart beats like thunder, don't know why it don' explode. If you ask me, everyone in this stinking town has got one foot in the grave. I'd rather take my chances with you, take me all the way to Burma Shave.

Honey, nothin' to it."



Two months have passed since I grabbed your shades, your unlit, lipstick stained Camel.

- I guess you're through, huh?

- Finished.

- It's too bad that she won't live. But then again, who does?

There ain't nothing back in Jersey
But a broken-down jalopy of a man I left behind
And the dream that I was chasing
And a battle with the booze
And an open invitation to the blues

Nighthawks at the diner

It's a cold caffeine in a nicotine cloud
As the touch of your fingers
Lingers burning in my memory

So dry, the lungs are so dry.

Madness came to get you.

I said baby, I'm so far away from home.

“Really, my artiste, you amaze me. The lengths you will go to in order to accomplish your own destruction. The redundancy of it! In Night City, you had it, in the palm of your hand! The speed to eat your sense away, drink to keep it all so fluid, Linda for a sweeter sorrow, and the street to hold the axe. How far you’ve come, to do it now, and what grotesque props... Playgrounds hung in space, castles hermetically sealed, the rarest rots of old Europa, dead men sealed in little boxes magic out of China...” Ratz laughed, trudging along beside him, his pink manipulator swinging jauntily at his side. In spite of the dark, Case could see the baroque steel that laced the bartender’s blackened teeth. “But I suppose that is the way of an artiste, no? You needed this world built for you, this beach, this place. To die.”

I dream of everybody's death.

"I can never wash the guilt
Or get these bloodstains off my hands.
And it takes a lot of whiskey
To make this nightmares go away."

"Como a noite é longa!
Toda a noite é assim...
Senta-te, ama, perto
Do leito onde esperto.
Vem p’r’ao pé de mim...

Amei tanta coisa...
Hoje nada existe.
Aqui ao pé da cama
Canta-me, minha ama,
Uma canção triste.

Era uma princesa
Que amou... Já não sei...
Como estou esquecido!
Canta-me ao ouvido
E adormecerei...

Que é feito de tudo?
Que fiz eu de mim?
Deixa-me dormir,

Dormir a sorrir
E seja isto o fim."

Fernando Pessoa, in "Cancioneiro"

Orquídea

Vagueias por onde não me podes ver; mas eu vejo-te. Vejo os teus passos, observo-os de longe, sabendo que não são meus - mas quando mais os tento não ouvir mais eles pisam as teclas de um piano, quanto mais os tento não ver mais eles dançam, inocentes e cativantes. Os mesmos passos te conservam na sombra, da qual apenas vejo as pernas e as mãos delicadas, chamando-me. Desconhecida, assombração das noites mais descansadas, conforto dos dias mais escuros. És-me uma folha de papel onde as letras querem aparecer mas se escondem para eu não as ver, como nova, mas que carrega consigo a beleza da idade e da cultura - és-me um livro que gostaria de ler, um vinil com que me deliciaria, um cálice de vinho que me faria esquecer o mundo.

E és-me o terror de uma promessa por cumprir, uma orquídea que aflige à negligência, um segredo quebradiço. Uma história que temo ser perdida por um vulto intermitente, um poema que foi escrito na paixão de um café e cai tragicamente do bolso a meio de um caminho - o poema que passamos a vida a procurar, sem saber que se afogou na neve do passeio.

Mas será que existes? E eu mesmo, existo?

Riviera sat motionless on his foam pad, his right arm extended straight out, level with his shoulder. A jewel-scaled snake, its eyes like ruby neon, was coiled tightly a few milimeters behind his elbow. Case watched the snake, which was finger-thick and banded black and scarlet, slowly contract, tightening around Riviera's arm.

"Come then," the man said carresingly to the pale waxy scorpion poised in the center of his upturned palm. "Come." The scorpion swayed its brownish claws and scurried up his arm, its feet tracking the faint dark telltales of veins. When it reached the inner elbow, it halted and seemed to vibrate. Riviera made a soft hissing sound. The sting came up, quivered, and sank into the skin above a bulging vein. The coral snake relaxed, and Riviera sighed slowly as the injection hit him. Then the snake and the scorpion were gone, and he held a milky plastic syringe in his left hand. "If God made anything better, he kept it for himself. 'You know the expression, Case?"

As paredes interiores escorrem com inveja, desilusão, enquanto as mãos do crescimento as tentam escalar. Quão difícil é escolher por que se esquece; entre odiar, e deixar de querer. Que não se queira nada. Que o futuro já tenha passado. Que cada dia seja o último. E que o último seja apenas outro. Paz, ou abafamento?

You know she still had her shades.

And she said.

"Honey, nothing to it. 'Cause you see? Presley is what I go by. And why don't you change the stations? Let's count the green elevators as they go by the rearview mirror. 'Cause anyway you pointed this thing it's got to beat the hell out of the sting, 'cause every night I go to bed and I lie down next to all my dreams. But they die here every morning.
So come on, Presley! Drill me a hole, with a barber pole, 'cause I'm jumping my parole just like a fugitive tonight. And let's have another swig at that black velvet. Let's pass that car, man, you brave enough? 'Cause we're getting there just before the sun comes up out in Burma Shave.

Just you and me, baby. 'Cause this town is driving me crazy, it's driving me crazy! I'm going crazy, baby."

And the sun hit the derrick and cast a bat wing shadow up against the car door on the shot gun side. And baby, when they pulled you from the wreck you still had on your shades.

Your shades, baby, and a red-stained Camel in your lips.

La Vie en Noir, Pluie Noire

Film Noir (literally "black film" in French) is a genre of stylish crime dramas, difficult to define, but the 1940s and 1950s were the classic period. Whether works since then can be accurately classed as Noir is a subject of much debate among film critics. Film Noir, and the literature from which it is drawn, is clearly the progenitor of later genres, particularly cyberpunk.

A tua alma tem as janelas fechadas, as persianas em baixo, as cortinas corridas. Ainda assim espreitas pelos frinchos das dobradiças, pelas fechaduras das portas, sem deixares que te vejam de volta.

Podias ser um detective abrindo com dois dedos uma ranhura nos estores, observar o mundo a preto do alcatrão e branco da neve, com jazz no ouvido e whisky na língua, e nicotina a sair das narinas da femme fatale que te contrata. Mas já não é esse o tipo de melancolia.

Nunca me tinham dito que se podia ter algum tipo de saudades da melancolia.

Voices.

Then black fire found the branching tributaries of the nerves, pain beyond anything to which the name of pain is given...

Hold still. Don't move.

And Ratz was there, and Linda Lee, Wage and Lonny Zone, a hundred faces from the neon forest, sailors and hustlers and whores, where the sky is poisoned silver, beyond chain link and the prison of the skull.

Goddamn don't you move.

Chiba City Blues

"A part of him knew that the arc of his self-destruction was glaring obvious to his customers, who grew steadily fewer, but that same part of him basked in the knowledge that it was only a matter of time. And that was the part of him, smug in its expectation of death, that most hated the thought of Linda Lee.

He'd found her, one rainy night, in an arcade. Under bright ghosts burning through a blue haze of cigarrette smoke."

Name your god and bleed the Freak.

Hohenheim.

"I'm just interested in watching what kind of world will be born from someone held prisioner by hatred."

Rain

Quando o sopro passava na prata da tua flauta.

You have the talent.

Bill Evans Trio - Seascape

Take me back to the sea.

Would they be angry if I thought of joining you?...

The singing sea,
The talking trees
Are silent in a noisy way.
The stars are bright
But give no light.
The world spins backwards everyday.

They have all faded away.

Desfazia-te o corpo, afogava-te a alma, para te ver prostrada aos meus pés e agarrada aos meus joelhos. Fazia-te beber da tua fonte até vomitares as memórias, ao lado de campas com que te compararia. Escavava até encontrar o desprezo que deveria manter. E, enquanto isso, rasgava pescoços e membros, até ver os animais vadios soterrados num mar de braços e pernas, cabeças gorgolejantes, cabelos encarnados de sangue. Queimava todas as árvores, silenciava todas as aves, cortava todas as cordas, rachava todos os cascos, matava todos os carrascos. Arrancava-te as lágrimas, e silenciava o mundo para te ouvir chorar, num desejo tão macabro, culpado, e abjecto que se torna numa fantasia quase sexual.

Se não vens para a minha beira,

foge.

Shitty world, ain't it?

Tu cá e eu lá.

You have to be flexible to survive. Bestow a sound sleep unto the inflexible, righteous man...

15 de Dezembro de 2013.

Nunca antes fui a um funeral.
Nunca pensei que me voltasses a ser a primeira.

Na melodia que levaste
deixaste o mundo mais brilhante
que quando o encontraste.

Não te esqueças das mortalhas com que limpas as tilhas da flauta.

Para quem te ouviu, a melodia da tua flauta vai tocar em todos os momentos. Esta noite todos os Dálmatas uivarão por ti.

Yesterdays

Aoi

"I thought what I'd do was, I'd pretend I was one of those deaf-mutes. Or should I?

(...)

I will create a world of beauty.
I will see through a new mind."

- Ghost In The Shell: Stand Alone Complex

The Laughing Man

"I thought what I'd do was, I'd pretend I was one of those deaf-mutes. That way I wouldn't have to have any goddam stupid useless conversations with anybody. If anybody wanted to tell me something, they'd have to write it on a piece of paper and shove it over to me. They'd get bored as hell doing that after a while, and then I'd be through with having conversations for the rest of my life. Everybody'd think I was just a poor deaf-mute bastard and they'd leave me alone.”

- J. D. Salinger, Catcher in the Rye

Há sensações que teimam em persistir. Traumas, pesos, contra os quais combatemos, e com sorte conseguimos guardar para nós, abafá-los, sufocá-los até que morram. Mas quando os achamos mortos, basta um toque nas suas costelas para os ver contorcerem-se inevitavelmente nas desastrosas cócegas do ego. E enquanto tentamos matar os traumas, morrem as virtudes - tentamos criar outras que nos faltaram. Perdemo-nos. Perdemos o eu, quem somos, e o ele, quem quisemos ser. E não sabemos nada.

Como sempre, nada.

Esses, como eu, se existirem, desejam compreender o passado mesmo quando o tentam ignorar. E quando o seu entendimento se força nos seus rostos, estes já estão tão perdidos que pensam ser alucinações. E apercebem-se até disso. E nunca, nunca sabemos. Como sempre, nada. Se o que vimos foram fantasmas ou folhas a cair das árvores nas nossas mãos. Ou flores brancas nascerem nos mesmos ramos, sobre os tapetes de folhas languidamente caídas.

E abafamos e sufocamos um futuro que pertence ao passado.

Se este não se contorcer noutras cócegas.

E entre a violência e a resignação tentamos encontrar um local tangencialmente budista - não devemos querer. A morte do ego.





Ou, há crianças que demoram a deixar de o ser.

"But when I became a man, I put away childish things."

Seems like it's broken.

Mas, enquanto as nuvens se riem de mim, mal dou um passo para a janela o tempo antecipa-se e deixa transbordar os seus olhos de tragicomédia.

Mas há cigarros que nem a chuva apaga.

Cowboy Bebop has been strongly influenced by American music, especially the jazz movements of the 1940s, 1950s and 1960s and the early rock era of the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s. Many of its action sequences, from space battles to hand-to-hand martial arts combat, are set and timed to music. Following the musical theme, episodes are called Sessions, and titles are often borrowed from album or song names (such as Sympathy for the Devil or My Funny Valentine), or make use of a genre name ("Mushroom Samba") indicating a given episode's musical theme.

Não me deixas sequer espreitar no teu ser de vez em quando...

Suponho que seja justo.

Não sei.

Nada.

No road long enough.

Sorry old man but that's just the way that it is,
Don't bother none.

Just Fuck It

Eat my heart.

Almost Blue

Baker was found dead on the Prins Hendrikkade, near the Zeedijk, the street below his second-story room (Room 210) of Hotel Prins Hendrik in Amsterdam, the Netherlands, with serious wounds to his head. Heroin and cocaine were found in his hotel room, and an autopsy also found these drugs in his body.

The world spins backwards everyday...

Shoot my harp, kill my song. Hear my moan.

Mother used to say "if you want you'll find a way". But mother never danced through fire showers.

- You coming back to life is worse on me than this glass.

- What a terrible treatment.
- The words of the dead are meaningless.

"A peculiar and heart-rending gasp of final sorrow came from the Laughing Man. He reached out wanly for the vial of eagles' blood and crushed it in his hand. What little blood he had left trickled thinly down his wrist. He ordered Omba to look away, and, sobbing, Omba obeyed him. The Laughing Man's last act, before turning his face to the bloodstained ground, was to pull off his mask."

"For now we see through a glass, darkly."

(...)

Batou, do you remember the voice we heard on the boat that night? Before those words we heard come these ones. "When I was a child I spoke as a child. I understood as a child, I thought as a child. But when I became a man, I put away childish things."

"Evidence? I just have a whisper... A whisper from my ghost."

Hemoasfixia, de pulmões murchos após expirar um último fôlego do que já foi inspiração. Hoje, gárgulas quiméricas cobertas de lama que te chamam de volta. Cobertas de lama, e ainda assim gárgulas cuja forma grotesca permitiu cobrir de folhas amarelas e vermelhas um Outono que cantaste na Primavera e eu ouvi. As aranhas que me enrolaram e silenciaram no fim do mesmo Outono soltam-me agora para que possa desesperar enquanto vejo de novo fugir a sanidade silenciosa que me ia salvar num barco longe de ti, mas ornamentado pelas conversas casuais, palavras despidas de sentido e recheadas dele.

Se não mais serei capaz de deixar palavras brutamente construídas e adolescentemente engarrafadas para ti; se não mais te comunicarei a desfaçatez da minha pele ao deixar-me; se, como esperas e eu tento derradeiramente aceder, o silêncio de mim para ti se fizer abater sobre o ruído das minhas cordas vocais; lembra-te - tempestades não erodem as palavras que escrevi em pedra.

Não esperarei, mas se olhares estarei concerteza a teu lado, e terás na mão o teu próprio convite à conversa.

And when they've given you their all
Some stagger and fall, after all it's not easy
Banging your heart against some mad bugger's wall.

And when they've given you their all
Some stagger and fall, after all it's not easy
Banging your heart against some mad bugger's wall.

And when they've given you their all
Some stagger and fall, after all it's not easy
Banging your heart against some mad bugger's wall.

And when they've given you their all
Some stagger and fall, after all it's not easy
Banging your heart against some mad bugger's wall.

And when they've given you their all
Some stagger and fall, after all it's not easy
Banging your heart against some mad bugger's wall.

And when they've given you their all
Some stagger and fall, after all it's not easy
Banging your heart against some mad bugger's wall.

And when they've given you their all
Some stagger and fall, after all it's not easy
Banging your heart against some mad bugger's wall.

And when they've given you their all
Some stagger and fall, after all it's not easy
Banging your heart against some mad bugger's wall.

And if your head explodes in dark forbodings too,
I'll see you on the Dark Side of the Moon.

Soul of the unbeliever

"Hanging on in quiet desperation is the english way"

Outrora conhecemos, tornadas memória.
Outrora acordadas, para sempre dormentes.

The Sinner's Rest

Dreamless sleeps
Sleepless nights
Nightless dreams