A Cabana do Pai Thomás

Duas semanas controlando o amor desabam ao inalar esse cheiro.
O Amor não pode ser domesticado. É selvagem. E é inglório.
Existe no espaço infinito das almas amantes, mas é na limitação da mente e da carne que ele é afirmado.

O Abraço de segundos eternos inaugura o choro confortável do coração paciente, mas cansado. Ferido; que descansa na calmaria momentânea dos ombros do único corpo onde o seu se encaixa perfeitamente nesse momento.

Os olhos sorriem, as bocas não se tocam. Sobraram beijos e faltavam abraços. Fartei-me de formalidades, falta intimidade.

Espero seu momento, mais duas semanas, dois anos...

A dormência do coração rejeitado não é capaz de racionalizar senão a morte pela falta de amor.

Messiísmo

Não me preparei pra fazer milagres. Ainda não.
Tampouco pra abaixar as armas nessa guerra silenciosa que insistem em travar comigo.

A defensiva é para que não me pisoteiem. Ferir já o fazem todo santo dia.
Da piedade, compaixão ao esvair-se. Sou letra e melodia. Fui palavras e morte.

SimetriA

Tenho oito. Auge da consciência de quem sou até agora.
Odiava este mundo, obrigaram-me a atura-lo.

Os ruídos, o frio, o oxigênio.
Nada substituirá o calor do útero. Mas sou a vontade de um mundo passado, de pessoas que jamais conheci. De poesia que não foi escrita. Assim como novos indivíduos serão também nossas vontades, ainda que optemos por não gerar ninguém.

As trocas, ações, palavras. Esse é o mundo de amanhã.

Lembro-me quando eu não era sequer uma vontade. Era o Todo. Mas a graça da vida é, em pelo menos um momento, sentir-se singular e único.

Àquele momento em que somos expelidos do conforto do útero pra queimar nossos pulmões com gases que não queríamos respirar. Pra chorar com barulhos que não gostaríamos de escutar.

Deixamos de ser "únicos" pra fazer parte de um mundo que talvez, e somente talvez, tenhamos escolhido ao instinto, extinto, de um dever maior.

Adubo

Queria afeto. Quero morrer.
Pra que um novo nascimento cure o incurável.
Recriando novos Eus na eterna busca pelo conforto.

Van vontade de apagar o que passou
vida que busca personagens que acreditam em si mesmos
traços do que se foi e permanecem reais.

Torcem pé e nariz por mentiras verdadeiras
da ausência de uma realidade presente;
andamos como caranguejos.

Potencializando memórias marcadas à angústias.
Aspirante magro pobre pouco humilde
Atenção momentânea pelo fogo e cinzas de fumaça tóxica.

Há algo além do querer. Há o querer aconrrentado
Mutilado. Ao sangue em chuva de um inverno qualquer
Sobre o colo desconhecido do perfume que não lhe agrada.

O corpo devorado por fungos é adubo
do ser indefeso sem a escolha do nascer
Amarras que não lhe permitem ir adiante
Porque há lágrimas não choradas pelo que foi.

lembranças da pimpinha.. (ou monotoneidade suicida dos dias atuais)

As vezes algum devaneio, ou sonho.
lembranças de alguém que não mais existe.
que me aprisiona por meu desejo de altruísmo.

tentando viver da mesma forma o tempo para.
e tudo continua, exceto eu.
repetidos atos, choros, remédios e músicas.

filmes não lineares, moscas no fogão.
louças por lavar, barba pra cortar.
e deita sem querer levantar

há esperança, agora a pena e a sopa que me servem.
enfermeira bonita num hospital qualquer.
banha-me e nega o q não quer se meter

necrose cerebral e bondes iguais.
trilhos tortos, vida morta.
chego em casa: briga.

converso com o mendigo; levo o lixo, compro pão.
aprecio minha birita no bar mais sujo das laranjeiras
e durmo no sofá.
acordo em indiferença.

amo com reticências.
taxi, to atrasado.
volto cansado.
chama-me de viado, arrombado, safado, traidor.

dá-me banho.
cheiro, vômito e shampoo.
e corta o cabelo. pinta as unhas, vai à rua
ofensas públicas, polícia, amor.

sexo no corredor.
pudor, vida nova.
desenhos na madrugada
dormir de mãos dadas.

acorda atrasada e sai.
não houve tempo para o carinho e o entendimento que precisávamos
para beijos na boca verdadeiros

comida de passarinho
doenças, ofenças, carinho?
precisávamos um do outro
não houve tempo para criar a vontade do entendimento.

almoço de domingo
sei lá se volto ou fico
males do convívio

chegam as fraquezas, a pobreza, a união.
desperta com atraso a televisão

todo dia é bom dia, as vezes pão
as vezes sexo ou compaixão.
álibis, vícios. comunhão

mortes e pecado. puta e solidão.
todo dia é ressaca, vez ou outra macarrão
desespero, insegurança, suicídio.

todos os dias me lembro de algo novo
e me esqueço do que fiz ontem.
alguns dias eu choro
noutros sorrio sem vontade.

os delitos são diferentes
a policia talvez não
as bocas eu não beijo, mas insisto em tal fuga
na esperança de que o beijo que nunca foi dado aconteça.

morro antes de terminar algo, ou o filme que nunca assistimos
antes de pintar a parede de azul ou comprar a nova cama.
morro antes do anoitecer. todos os dias.
e vivo às noites em sonhos diazepínicos

até que a morte verdadeira apareça
ou até que a vida realmente aconteça



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rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrerdsx3

rejeição (ou ótica vicio-pessimista pela ausência de boas novas)

rejeição é o espelho.
é a condenação sem defesa.

rejeição é pé pequeno, olho vesgo, dormir sujo.
até ressaca também é rejeição.

dia bonito, triste canção.
são as mulheres do calçadão.

rejeição é também aceitação.
e a mentira. é inveja e solidão.

rejeição são todas as coisas e tudo é rejeição.
é o medo, o trânsito, e o avião.
a fuga, a volta, o caminhão.

o corpo, a dor e o sangue
talvez cor ou falta de amor.
e enfim, a morte, por que não?

e se a morte é a rejeição da vida
a vida é pra aceitar ou rejeitar a rejeição.

+ carnaval

o carnaval pode melhorar o mundo. longe é a sua maturidade.
estive pensando em tudo que li do Roberto da Matta sobre o carnaval, ou das músicas do Chico, neutra ou com otimismo, de um carnaval saudoso, da reciprocidade.

duas bandas de bunda protegem valiosos bens durante o sono da viagem de volta ao cotidiano.
observo por sombra a retirada da fantasia, o retorno do pacato cinco dias ou mais por dois dias de fuga. das lotações não humanas que nos carregam.

reciprocidade num bar de final de semana não tem o mesmo riso de quando somos as crianças brincando, fantasiadas. hoje posso extravasar um, amanhã outro e até nas cinzas o mais pierrot de meus personagens.

a abertura do corpo é permitida, o porre, o  mendigo.
durmo nas ruas e nos copos de sei lá quem.

mijam no trem, nos muros.
drogamos-nos de euforia e de beijos.

fingimos orgamos. paixões terminam e fingem começar.

e morro sozinho. de baixo de um lindo pé de acerola.
às 4 ela me abraça na reciprocidade do perfeito cultivo.
penso numa foto e tento sem êxito.
pelo menos sua doçura amarga é a mais verdadeira das que experimentei por esses dias.