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