So many things give "too much movement to the eyes"
So many things give too much movement to the eyes:
Screams, hate, recipes, diets, vain jobs,
Losses, loss, encyclopedias of tiredness.
♪ We're nothing and nothing but beauty ♪ —
Some beauty join us
On this path back to the dust of the stars.
14 June 2026
"too much eye movement" is an allusion to the poem "Come sit with me, Lydia, by the river" by Ricardo Reis, heteronym of Fernando Pessoa
You
You, my ultimate embarrassment,
You, all that is not love,
You, the last illusion of a given hand
Which doesn't.
You, the last guest in my garden,
Where thou hast underlined thorns,
Stepping roses.
You, everything I didn't expect,
You, like everyone else,
No better, no worse
That the most ignorant fool
Who accompanied me in any banal
Company theater.
You, nothing.
You, the antiprince.
You, who wanted me for Cinderella,
That's why we agreed.
With your self-portrait.
You who need to give
To feel good;
You who dress as a culture
To hide the void
Which is beyond your icy mask.
You who give nothing
Without demanding the soul in return —
A soul that mirrors
Everything you're not.
You, like anyone else,
Just one more
Among all that was never anything.
I played the junkie cards.
In a losing game,
With my weakness
Untalented artist for grand,
Not even for the money maker.
That you've perfected
As a way to love you.
But that's not me.
I'm not Cinderella.
I was always me —
What I can't be
With you.
Because with you
There's only you.
And you, alone,
You're the perfect mirror
You're welcome.
2, June 2026
I wish...
Since childhood’s hour, I wish I was
Like other were, to see as other saw,
To wake myself according to general law.
Easier it would be for me to prevail.
Yet being as I am, I can’t but fail.
I wish my heart could play the general tone.
I wish I were the norm, and not allone.
Fighting with windmills
Fighting with windmills
human ingenuity to gut the earth
And here I am, looking at fields, loving fields,
being nothing
a brief breath
a beauty that falls
I here fighting with windmills
giant devices that collect the air
and me here
looking at the certainty that life is no longer
than a skirmish
Then why so much suffering?
Why gut the land and plow seeds?
Why fight windmills?
Fighting Windmills
Human ingenuity to change the motherland...
I'm here, looking at the fields, loving the fields,
And being nothing
but a brief breath,
a beauty that falls...
I’m standing here,
struggling with windmills,
giant gadgets that harvest the air.
And I stay here,
looking at the certain that life is no more
Than a grunt.
So why so much suffering?
Why dig up the land and sow the seeds?
Why fight with nothing but dreams?
May 2020
Fighting with windmills I
There's no point fighting windmills anymore. We have to admit it. The mills are still windmills and the wind is wind.
As much as we creak our teeth and lie down running from sword to fist, as much as we want to cut in half the heart of giants and make them fall, we will never know the taste of victory, we will never conquer for ourselves what is alien.
At first defeat is certain – either we see mills, or we will continue to beat ourselves fiercely by an illusion.
August 2021
I wish I wasn't human.
I wish I wasn't human, being anything but human.
I wish I was the dry grass where ice forms crystals
I wish I'd never seen the sun or the shadow
With these eyes...
before having wolf eyes
And teeth to bury in the jugular of time.
I wish I were not human.
Anything could be, but human.
I wish I were the tall grass where ice forms its crystals.
I wish I had never seen light or shadow
with these eyes—
I’d rather have wolf eyes
and jaws to clamp around time’s throat.
2 January 2020 (Latest versions of an old theme)
Self-portraits
.Freckle, thin last year,
Big eyes, buggy eyes,
Fado human play,
They orbit a battered nose.
Unable to rest,
Not even in the peace of closure,
As at any age,
Torment companion.
Devote from my loves,
Ferocious only inside,
Without faith in your favours,
Here I am right now,
All the friars forgiven,
Buried all the talent.
2020
Pale, almost thin, growing nose,
Small feet, same height,
Serena with a spark but not a figure,
Eyes in orbit that don't lie.
Unable to insist on voids,
More prone to revolt than to peace,
Not always judging me capable
From submission to needs...
Without devotion to worldly deities
There's no way to raise your talent
I don't give a shit about friars,
Here's me right now.
Liquidated All Truths
Feeded torment credits.
2017
Pale, almost fat, brown eyes,
Little feet, little height,
Serena with a spark but not a figure,
Nose from among the small,
Unable to insist on the ground,
Of the vanity of cocktails
I keep hoarding emails
From a fountain where I don't drink poison again.
Without any devotion to societies
There's no way to raise your talent
Nor at the altar loving the friars,
Here's me right now.
Asking you the truths,
To have them carved into cement.
2014
Paraphrasing Maria Barbosa du Bocage Manual, but without metric. It's boring.
Self-portrait per measure
Fat grows in short-sighted eyes,
It's cool, it's cool.
It stings at the nose but the height shrinks,
Still pale, wrinkles on fumes.
Having insisted on all the land
Because life came to me out of hand,
I drank from all sources without forgiveness,
I could never avoid the poison.
He's been a atheist to me since he was a young man,
Late became a believer in a moment.
I've long forgotten those friars.
Behold, Black, in whom a talent shines;
These truths came out of her,
On a day you told me to screw up the torment.
2025
Autopsychography
Almost printable writer,
A walking newcomer,
Missing talent,
And an irreducible temper.
I don't know whether to go or stay,
If you stretch me in half
Of what will be the truth
Or just a scammer.
Tired of banality
From the wisdom of throwing
And poets at a good price...
I start again because here I am,
But this step I take
Be a step of freedom...
January 2021
Almost quoting, in order: Self-portrait, Manuel Maria Barbosa du Bocage (1765 – 1805); Autopsychography, Fernando Pessoa (1888 – 1935); Diary XIII, Miguel Torga (1907 – 1995)
Glosses to Alexander O’Neill’s "Unoriginal Fear Poem"
Fear has abandoned ambulances
Our land is habit
Fear continues to have
Good jobs
But not ours.
Fear has heroes – immense
Sewage
pawnshops – many
Thick lips
Silicone – more than the measure
Botox – until spark does not move
Full waxing
Full scalpel
Breakup rooms
Vacuum cleaners
Various luxury
Many friends on the Face
Billions of "likes" in Insta
Ears
Spies
Followers
Hearts and kisses
Smiles and Ghostings
And also tiredness
This tiredness of fear
Who sends fear to nettles
And the rats at the feeder
London 2019
Fear II
Fear masked itself as a doctor,
He went out and the street was deserted.
After fear, you can only see eyes
And no one's afraid anymore,
Except with mouths and noses off the terraces.
However,
Fear lost its job.
He joined several political parties again.
Fear has never been smooth!
Fear missed politics a lot.
What fear wants is to send it back.
Fear was full of companies and receipts!
Service here and there...
Fear also needs stability!
The companies hired a foreign fear.
Our fear goes to vows.
Our fear can even win.
Will that make us rats?
Surely some will come to rats.
Portugal, January 2022
Fear III
Fear walks alone
Nobody's afraid anymore.
And that's what this fear wants.
– Preaching barbarities
Tick enemies (all "other" than "we")
Enlarging sounding gibberish
Release nails in the square
Raise flags with "traditional" colors
True
Better
Conspicuous
Imperfection-proof shields.
Everything was tired
A banal life
Fear appeared in disguise
Spiritual agent.
But make no mistake.
He'll have it all again.
The apartments
The little houses
The low cylinder cars
Nationals and foreigners
We and the others all
All poor and remedied (will be few last)
The national health system (what remains)
Universal access to education (no longer exists)
Equality
The Brotherhood
Freedom
Democracy (this harlot mor in the dirty language of fear)
Peace?
– Well, there's a lot of fear in peace.
What about the rest?
You'll definitely crown a rat.
Bragança 2025
Roses lost all petals
And then all the roses lost all the petals
and from the ground rose moss and fungi and roots and dead leaves
And in the pink sky of Piedmont
The full moon, a pearl far away, gathered all my gaze;
a sad look of pagan without flowers in the lap,
empty-handed, cross-handed on thorns.
Is life only suffering?
Is beauty only in the sky from the sunset of a dream?
Then why dream?
Why plant roses and expect something other than the death of the dream,
From the tender petals in vain colored of impossible?
And then on the cold ground of the strange street and friend of that land
I stood up in me what was always mine
– The height of the revolt – and I left
With sadness lodged in the chest and desire to return,
Not by the dream,
by the landscape,
by the moon
and roses,
floridas or just dressed in thorns.
The landscapes, the moon, the roses, the thorns talk to me.
Everything else isn't for me.
20 February 2022
Gloss to Freedom III
Oh, what a pleasure
Not having to eat,
In good fortune to believe.
Eating is boring!
Better not chew anything.
♪ The sun's golden ♪
As a pain.
The river runs, good or bad,
No teeth on the punk.
The breeze, so light,
Never had a tooth.
Eating is animal stuff,
In everything unequal
To be free from the bush.
The better it is, between the mist,
Waiting to be a foam god,
A sea of salt,
A tear from Portugal!
Big are the pastries the cream and the ham,
But the best thing is to have no matter.
The dollars, the pounds and the euros in pennies
And buy the bread with the... strings?
Better than this.
It's Jesus Christ,
Who ascended to heaven in the flesh
Not to mention he ate a lupin there.
2020
Anti Ricardo Reis
Nice to meet you, but today,
Lydia, who is lucky for the bold, say,
Which from the earth is torn.
Spampantes let's take it out of the garden world
The sweet pomes
To Erínis,
That every joy hangs, has light sleep and runaway.
There's no use running meek and dumb
No sneaking around.
Let's make fun of it and now,
That tomorrow maybe we'll go away
And the envy of fools doesn't take away our condition
Enjoyers of merely passing pleasures.
Waiting and sneaking around is the fate of the gods, Lydia,
not humans.
April 2024
Inspired by the original Ricardo Reis, heteronym of Fernando Pessoa:
Pleasure, but slowly,
Lydia, that luck to those is not grateful
They'll take it out of his hands.
♪ Stealing from the garden of the world ♪
The depredandos pomos.
Let us not awake, where she sleeps, Erhinis
That every joy hangs.
Like a race, dumb passengers,
We came in hiding.
Lucky envy, Lydia. Let's move.
I wish I was a poet.
I wish I was a poet,
Colorist artist, painter of deep and felt paints, as are always the paints of those who only feel.
He feels, intimately, without paying a fine, without payment, without interest, without payment limits, without tightness to the chest.
He feels the human condition, without marks on his hands and eyes, the eyes of wolves and slow ones, without the seal marked with irons, the seal of necessity, or slavery.
I wish I could be a poet and write in the notebook of time the intimate bullets of fate or choice, which I do not know what was, because today I just want to be a poet. I did not choose and to be able to choose, I would choose not to feel, be lucid and perfect, capable and automatic, certain and rational, tenacious and inexorable; I would choose to draw a railway, if I were to draw and manufacture the iron, never a path of flowers totally inaccessible to those who are not born only poet.
I wish I had been a poet, and I would have proclaimed in the saraus of the municipalities, in the fairs of the book, in the corners of the walls, everywhere, the deep sense of everything, or lack of meaning, the surface of a deep lake, on an unlikely planet, beautiful until beauty hurts; a fleeting planet, a small temporary paradise, where beings who write books and poems, create music, and beautiful monuments, also dirty and distaste, scratch the face of mother earth, like wild cats, ferocious tigers, aliens of a hostile world that is also this. And I'd be a poet without feathers.
July 2024
