Once the unique sparkly eyes Jimmie Durham asked me are those real poems or did you wrote them yourself? Then we laughed. These are other “poems”, more like poopoozas. That’s the intro, now copy paste duty calls {sight}

 Photo by K^istina


Un Brute Jour {diary} 2018

Sem deixar rasto // 70 Biulis 4 • Out • 2018


Sem deixar rasto
compaixão —
sem deixar rasto
generosidade de aceitar
o (meu) quarto-mar
a realidade em frente
de plástico
e largar tudo o resto (que)
sem deixar rasto
polui as nossas mentes
e que de sabor
ou d’índio
só tem o âmago

O pouco é na verdade muito
quanto a inquietação
de o poder perder
poder perder
o poder de perder
mas não de nos perdermos
e porquê se é tão bom?


Ando e ando
caminho por tanto
ao longo da praia
num sonho profundo
em quanto que a sombra se lava
numa língua de lendas
o mar
me lambe o encalço
se adensa
se torna memoria
o som sem rasto
e só
do seu ritmado estender-se
fica o eco cá dentro
. . . ando . . . e ando. . .
. . .
Sem deixar rasto
coletando coisinhas
lixo cuspido do oceano
de volta a terra,
faço um cabaz de tesouros
calço uma perna
de borracha preta,
tá quente;
vou desfazendo um grande nó
em corda verde
encontro uns óculos
dizem Järgermeister.

Uma cadela sorridente
vem-me buscar
rita *
sorridente , impetuosa,
brincalhona, alegre

|       Deus me perdoe      |
|  não ligar o telemóvel   |

D e  i   x   a    m     o   –     n      o       s
levar pela corrente
até o mar.

Éramos 3 Anas, 1 Cristina
e uma Maria peluda,
o mar azul esmeralda
o sol vestindo meias de rede
e o céu provocador, roxo
ay ay que nem quero-olhar.

Ao juntar
jantaram-se o Jorge e a São;
tava tudo bem disposto,
que bom
os egos de rédea curta
uma noite serena
morna, húmida,
vento não.

A Biuli tava contente,
fez setenta anos
sem deixar rasto
(mas) os nossos corações




25 • Jul • 2018

Al regresar de la playa Tara y yo fuimos a arrancar las papitas de la tierra. Catorce fueron y las nena se las enseñó a todo el mundo. La continuidad desenfadada. Tara ha “aprendido” y puesto en práctica en unas horas algo que a mi me ha llevado toda la vida; ahora me da lecciones.

[NT8 02] Patatas fritas // semillas de melón

La inteligencia no es acumular pero estar; luego está el saber estar que es otro bicho con mucho que se le diga y tantas cabezas.

La tarde en Alfarin con Lucía y Vero, Graça y Biuli, Tarita y Leo muy enfadado con el universo. Fué un buén dia, un día intenso, variado, alegre, humildecedor.

Un brute Jour

Un jour en Brute

Se me olvidaba la comida… una opereta de coche que la-mano-Agustín salvó.


23 • Sept • 2018

Repican las campanas,
el sol ya se fué
pisamos donde ya pisamos
— aún así
la luna allá en lo alto
se siente nueva.

Me pulsa la espalda
hice pan
llevo vino
gelatina de frutas
higos secos con azucar
se rompe la cesta.

Veinte años de Neca
fast forwardeemos
estoy borracho
pero bién
pero borracho
y se entremezclan
las sombras con patrones
que parecen hechas por ordenador
pero no, es sólo luz.
Huele a mierda de conejo
me encanta
es tan real
que no molesta.

Así se acaba el verano
aquí y ahora
rodeado de gente
necesito a la gente,
lo admito.






to the beggining(s)  October 2018

My hand refuses to write
the water crust is too green
and drinking light
they’d never believe us,
and some orangeish magentas
olive greens and
tired blues,
a hug
till loose sight
such a homogenous palette
but where a seagull’s at,
white painters
pollock’s fans

Sky blending with the ocean
this is extraordinary
with no pause
for tears
want to blend too

I’ve been here a thousand times
and yet
this place feels new
each time
I leave anew too
What is this magic?

I’m jumping into the waters
see you on the other side
maybe, je je je

The water is cold
Sea was flexing hard
to close the eyes
to swim ——
an ever soft changing
blanket of energy —-

On the rocks
amidst the dark sky
an almond-eye of light,
the sun
the doubts
lay on
the dancing surface
of the see,
even the seagulls
could not remain indifferent

Ate my three dried figs
and a twig of marine fennel
(umbellate) wrote this
as the sun is setting
I really must go back
to the beginning(s)…




On my way to you  September 2018



I am I am I am
a firefighter without a plan
without a fire
without a hosse
without a shiny truck

I am constant
on my way
to you

I am always
on my way
to you
to your definitive embrace
to your belly of emptyness
… cruissing the dark
words of your cold lips
even the sun sometimes
masks the invisible edges
of its
bright burning dream
— oh silly solitude
into a mouth
made not to speak
but to hold those
ready for depart
— close your eyes
sweet child

there’s no improovement
they say to be made
the say
from the inside
tearing soul



Hi annhilation right now
you’re my teacher
but how much?

• /

The todo as you go
the curve in the path
and the flowers
yellow to redemption
so funny that all
that we’ve got
to redeem ourselves for
is the stray to the fact
from the path itself
^ ahó
expensive words
moments apart



Is the task of the bumblebee
to break the news
to give the fading star
one last wish
to slow dance
through rags of decay
summoning the universe
upon its extinction

Bring it on!!
the craks of reality,
one thousand times is enough
a million times is not enough
| – |
to grow a thicker skin
to leave the measuring hand
in the measuring hands’ crate

to learn anything


. . .

l e t s
into the fog
before the fog
clogs our hearts
and we are called
to the great equalizer



Energy’s high
the hear ringing
a constipated sky
see-coming all over
some call them waves
sum cow them bud
/ / /
here here
\ \ \
for the most part
I’m all wet
against forward delete
masks on the invisible edges
or sad entries;
a scrapper of things
a souls’ scrapper
with no yard
with now yawn
without a real fire
everything expands
everything burns
everything waits
into everything else

From forgiveness to forgiveness

I’m constant
on my way
to you




Vítor Simões farewel  September (13th) 2018

to be strong
there’s a wave
with a slow \
                                                                    \ strawberry on top

Light’s golden
darker sea
everything’s connected
a myriad invisible strings

The end of summer
to spell vanity
true fan
the end of bullshit
here goes nuthin’
Rosendo plays the violin
. . .
an old lady enters the bus
looks in my direction
and with a smile
“I was looking for you”
The old guy
who has been sitting
in front of me stands up;
now they’re next to each other,
shes bloody-red finger-nails
both heads are covered in snow
smiling and giggling
like children that share a funny secret
and laugh non-stop trying to contain it
Again the word
they’re old but new
they’re old and anew
their laughter warms my heart
this is home.

On my way to Lx,
to the cremation os Snupi’s father:

The sun
the heart
the sum
the heart
in the sun

This morning I sat
it had been ages,
noise if there ever was
noisy as hell ja ja ja
Now flying over Tejo river
—– always beauty;
entering the city
we shall make the most of it
lets start by walking
to the cemetery
while we can.

Last visit was Pedro’s wake.

I’d never would have thought
that stopping on a traffic light
would make me laugh.
So many years
I’ve lived in this city
it all feels like a dream.
The city is cleaner
people look more civil…
conformed, domesticated.

This is a funny cemetery
with the panoptic view
with its many fountains
with the plastic flowers
with the little houses
and its curtains
for the dead

Then the
e   v   e   n   i   n   g
Pani poori
initialize the dish.
We were Karma and Carla
Anette and Lagoon and Carlos
and Daniela was there and Nuno
was there, and of course dear Snupi
and Shivani were there as were Peter, Bruno
and myself

Lots of more things happened
but this notebook’s out of pages

gashô    gashô     gashô


Om Asato Maa Sad-Gamaya
Tamaso Maa Jyotir-Gamaya
Mrtyor-Maa Amrtam Gamaya
Om Shaantih Shaantih Shaantih

Lead us from the unreal to the real
Lead us from darkness to light
Lead us from death to immortality
Om peace, peace, peace!

Brihadaranyaka Upanisad




Untitled (un lugar para rendirnos)  September 2018

Hoy me trae el viento
algo no anda bién
veo las cosas más claras
pero no a la gente

del alma a los piés
se me sale todo,
queda sólo
esta cáscara triste
hediendo a soledad;
y es quizás por eso
que la busco
a la muerte la busco

. . .

se perfuman las piedras
y la busco
mientras enmudecen las heridas
y se afloja el sol en su quemar
yo la busco
pero no la llamo
koala muerte no hay que darle nombre
yo la busco
y la busco
la sigo en su rastro
por tierra y por mar
y cuanto más cerquita
mirá vos que curioso
cuando ya casi la respiro
me siento yo
y entonces

qué bién me sienta a mi la muerte
y respirar




Me irrito
me encojo
me incordio
me escondo
me hago chiquito
me entierro
me agratanto
me ahogo
me ato


(lo intento)

entornarlo todo adentro
que conozca la palabra
el motor de lo salvaje
y desvestida de sus anhelos
a ser piél en el ahora
luto de todo silencio
compañerita de fatigas
sol estruendo risa
que se retuerce
untura viva
que palpita
en flor
que atraviesa
que se lanza
que palpita
y perfora
y palpita
y aflora
en el corazón
que palpita
en la vida el corazón
de la vida y
si ha de ser que sea pues
cada palabra preñada del eso
continuo del momento
pero que no sepia ardan
ni la brillura de los ojos
ni la energia que la genera
ni la hermandad que las acoje
ni el amainar de tus labios hermosos
ni el relinche de la carne que no se rinde
ni el rozarnos como chinches
mientras nos perdemos
mientras nos encontramos
mientras nos desenroscamos
de la luz que nos ciega
mientras buscamos
a la sombra
un lugar para

un lugar para rendirnos
un poco




Untitled (for Lucy)  September 2018

With the tools that we have —-
the water around the rock
kissing the rock
hugging the rock
destroying the rock

with the tools that we have —
a million tiny creatures
living in the conflict zone
living but stayin’
nurturing from its burn;
with their cold blooded tiny beating hearts
but beating hearts

with the tools that we have —
the ship comes through the mountain
neither rock
nor tiny creature
I throw myself into the waters




Simon says he beated a man who had beaten his father first, it happened at a police station and the story was told with the perfect enthropy of a couple hours’ sleep during a couple days period and what sounds close to a-truth  August 2018


Civilization subset
the whole truth
enlightened leafs
the branch
the sun beam
let the sunset do
whatever he wants

The inprint of days
with no master-make
an orange door
through the concrete boxes
chewing on bad choices
we turn our heads
we burn way ahead
paving the floor
knackered bodies

The inner child’s murder
broken toe
calming water
a sea
a dog
a dog looking for fish
floatless – trust
salty thrust
the threshold
between butter and the son
of laughter
wiggles the uppload
to the server made of stone


all is surface



yet texture



red waves

rivers of failing

and the distinct smell

of wet algae

The skin is a fossil
new each day
old of everyday
the skin is a passing
a poem
to a permeable
on sale

the warmth of the earth
and the urge
to start all over
isocells and their
faithless genes
and from all of the body’s
deathbeds of shells
make architecture
unfit to the frame
’cause it’ll be only us ’cause it’ll be only us ’cause it’ll be only us
and a writteture
of perfumed blood
of the childrens’
impossible theories
atomic bombs
basted on a
sing sang song
the note behind the note
and then
if we are really really lucky
the engine of words
maybe birth given
to somethong
honky tonk
like a
profane daemon
but much much brighter





Re: … si quisiera bailar desnudo (feat ?lex)  August 2018


Queridolex me voy arrastrando en el responderte y me arrastro porque sememea y adormece y el fuego más fatuo que una vela tu ya sabes corren las sardinas y el olvido sordo invade y se queda ya pues que entonces no sé como vestir las cosas proletarias del amor pero tu tu tu me enseñas y me recuerdas y me obligas a quererme fiel a las cosas esas que son de naide de nojotros y como biuli dice yo + yo = yoyo y eso que tente ras trucidadoras rayos caricias de gomaespuma repinpante vergas y un ponpón de gallifante en puzzle de sueños y una pera con sabor a leche de colibrí y todo y que se se adentra derepentimiento destrozándonos la sala de estar del ego-flan barbistérico … mijo riégate un beso

Y max te digo que

con dolor pero sin dolores
me como al dia con la noche
no sex tinguimos –
concava diente
y a cada palabra tiento
dime tu, sabes cuándo se acaba esto?

Leo a Alex
léote y me remisturo
hasta extremecermos;

            si quisiera bailar desnudo  
            me tropezaría con cada piedra  
            escupiría todos los momentos  
            me desnudaria al pie de la letra  
            me quedaría a tu lado  
            lado a lado  
            vertebra a vertebra  
            sin contar ni descontar  
            sin amar ni ser amado  
            sin retocar ni una silaba  
            sin tronco ni arterias    
            sin sangre ni huesos  
            tan vivo como muerto

            si quisiera desnudarme en silencio  
            no te contaria nada  

            tus raices de oro  
            la tierra acoje infinita
            ya camino lejos  
            lejos de la distancia  
            ya camino lejos  
            inventé tus labios  
            mi saliva tragué  
            con lagrimas de olivas  
            ensoñando al tiempo  
            destapando las fronteras paso a paso  
            una rima estupefacta  
            Si quisiera soñar a tu lado  
            me esculpiria un intento  
            y espectaciones con patatas  
            esas que crecen de tus párpados  
            y enarbolecen mis retoños.  

)- …





The strange body that forgives  July 2018


Panishy version 👆🏽

Anglishky version 👇🏽



The strange body that forgives
that gives

for emptiness to embrace

Us together
you and I
as one,
not separate images
nor rivaling ideas
or tearing concepts of the entity
but pure togetherness
a you and I whole Lock Ness of flow
a you and I
with everything else
through the strange body
in an armpit of the universe
si happy and careless
yet connected, all emphatic, re-emerging
at every moment
with every breath
reborn again
Ohhh Lord!!!
Baby Jesus spaghetti
Ahlah on a naked beach
Oh Great Spirit’s fart
Buddha on crack
Mother Earth
de mis dolores
gives us the strength
to be still
and receive every drop
of this bliss …
to be able to take it in
to grow with it
to be joyful
to be grateful
to be able to love



unmeasurable love
into the open chest
flooding our guts
with the flickering honey
of existence
beyond any doubt
and this ant
all of what I am
marhabizes you,
oh strange body that forgives
take possession of this carcass
of your humble servant






en cada-nado-momento     •     à    Pedro Morais           (1944 – 8 de Julho de 2018)    •    gashô    gashô   gashô  July 2018


Cuando todo sea sed y dunas

cuando se amotinen las piernas

del querer llegar


y luego de sostenernos

aunque probablemente para entonces

ya el sol se nos amontone

a la espalda

en la frente

por dentro,

cuando todo sea un naufragio

de deseo en tierra firme

un grito absolutamente callado

y a cuchilladas el eco

nos recrudezca de soledad,

cuando mirar duela

y nos achicharre el aire los pulmones

los oídos, las cejas

cuando ya todo sea piel resquebrajándose

y mis labios naranjas secas


de gruta desmoronada

donde las palabras

nazcan desnudas de sentío

y se desplomen al suelo como piedras

en cinta de purita gravedad,

cuando todo sea transición de jirones a polvo

y lo sintamos en la puntita de los dedos

del alma

y no importa lo que digan

también ella tendrá la barriga suelta

y miedo

un miedo antiguo

hecho del llanto de las galaxias

de antes del bigbang

de antes de que tuviera nombre

y fuera por tanto


cuando todo sea luz ciega

y no podamos ya

despertar el olor de la hierbabuena

dibujar la topografía de las caras

de aquellos que amamos

esa pequeña inflexión en la voz

al recordar sus nombres

. . .

cuando el rinrrin de todas las cosas

que se mueven, que se estremecen

se haya para siempre desvanecido

y del vigor

del hombre híbrido

no quede la memoria

o el sueño

ni siquiera el propio olvido,

cuando el peso del tiempo

se haga real

y nos aplaste

bueno, y me aplaste

porque sin duda estaré solo

cuando todo no sea sino ese estar


y luego hasta eso

vaya lentamente desapare-siendo

cuando la nada


y no haya ya naide

que le brinde

un verso


justito antes de eso

dejáme izar mi sonrisa más recién

mientras me baño en el regazo oscuro

de la madre de todas las madres

ponerle un beso a cada roca

que rasgó mi piel

porque fue mi casa

darle un nombre

a cada soplo de viento

oficiar un funeral

un guateque

una boda

para cada mosquito que maté

para cada flor que recogí

para cada mosca que maldije

y a cada otra cosa en la que no pensé

regalarle un pensamiento-vacuo

y así ir retardando

el nacimiento del futuro

hasta el amanecer

de este momento


sí sí este

y este
y este
y este aún
y esta
y este
y de este
a este
y este
y este
a q u í
a h o r a




PALABRAS ( X micrograbatos)   May~Jun 2018


Cuando yo nací
no tenía dientes
ni palabras
mi boca tuteaba
sólo al vacío
sin-sentido, al ardor
de querer continuar

Mírame ahora con palabras
para todo
hasta para esto: canas
… para casi todo
porque el ardor que arde
que respira cuando respiro
que se mira cuando yo me miro
sigue sin nombre
persiguiendo cada nube
besando en la frente cada roca
saludando a cada ola alegremente


Hablar para entendernos
darle palabra a la confianza
verbos – caricia
al intento


Estoy aquí,
tumbado a la sombra del propio pensar
buscando una palabra
que diga cómo me siento
y la busco y la busco
pero no la busco


y así de queriendo empezar de nuevo se me pone la lengua blanca y negros los dedos relamidos por el polvo del abandono de haber decidido empezar a querer ser firme en el decir y antes en el sentir y aún antes en el fingimiento que se trae esta lista desordenada alfabeticamente, malditas sinapsis mías!


Hoy en el super
la caja de la chica
me sonrió,
asumí política
pero cuando vi que
continuaba y era de hecho para mi
me puse rojo rojo rojo
como un tomate enmudecí
mi amigo Alex sólo se reía
y se metía conmigo
y la chica era muy guapa
entramos en un polígono
abandonado como industriales
reyes gitános con un galgo
bueno, galga… con India << mira que maja
y tranquilos robamos sin el peso
de robar, entonces nos llevamos
latas de aceite, una gran lona, tres catálogos de colores de bolsillo (azul, verde y amarillo), unos faroles de camión, un cubo y las manos sucias que nos lavamos antes de atacar los nachos
y mi amigo Alex me pregunta que si me ha molestado que se riera
tanto de mi super embochornamiento y yo
yo le he respondido que al contrario
que el hecho de ponerme rojo es una especie
de cosa para el orgullo, porque significa
que estoy vivo… que siento, mal que bién
cor to cir cui ta da men te
pero lo que no le he dicho a Alex
es que lo mejor de todo ha sido
que él estubiera allí
y que luego se riera
ay amigo!!!




Le di la lona enrollada al Señor Antonio –
cuando lo conocí, el Señor Antonio se presentó
mismo como Señor Antonio –
el Señor Antonio no consigue pronunciar
mi nombre
que en su boca, tras ese bigote blanco
y tupido de hombre rata
suena a cacharros que se caen al suelo
y despiertan al niño
y con lo que me ha costado dormirle
39 años (?)
yo me alegro que no sepa
El Señor Antonio me ha dado una cebolla
con un ego enorme
la he transportado realmente
y de tal forma que todas las gabiotas
puedan luego comentar la jugada
en fin
es imposible hablar del Señor Antonio
sin mencionar a Jolie
su perrito.
Al Señor Antonio tengo que arrancarle los secretos
de las plantas
poco a poco,
oyendo cada palabra
porque este truhán usa seimpre las mismas
palabras para decir cosas muy diferentes,
a veces la misma palabra
dice lo contrario
sin contrairse ni contrariarse,
el Señor Antonio es de la tradición
de usar también la sombra de las palabras
el otro dia, dijo:

mira un barco
no un barco
un navio, un navio chiquito
va ahí, ahí
por el agua
el barco
el navio pequeñito
es verde o amarillo
un navio pequeño,
y qué será que lleva
el barco?
viene de allá
y va para allá

personas no,
estoy loco o qué?!

Pues eso pero en portugués
que tiene más letras



las palabras son cucarachas arrastrándose

por donde naide se arrastra, y así llegan

sucias sí pero donde naide llega

se infiltran donde naide se infiltra

las palabras como medida

pero la palabra no quiere medir

quieren quedarse suelta de pies descalzos

con sus tetilla al aire, la palabra sa s∑a!



me preparo
me despreparo
me paro
paró paró
aro aro
al hospital
a la aventura
a humildecerme
mientras las manos
me huelen a pies
… te pienso y
más te siento …
y quisiera ser así conmigo
… va, lo intentamos
antes de cada ola
y con los restos
de malquererme

querido ?lex
pongo al pajarito robe
te robo un trozo de poema


y hacer las travesuras
que los peldaños de tu alma no se atreven a compartir
te llamé sin exito y sentí
que a veces
hay que cerrar puertas
para abrir ventanas
y estar en el pasar de los años
con la espesura de un poeta,
que existe quizás algo más importante
que amar las pieles de cada mañana;
el mar
entre tu y yo
ese que creamos
ese que creemos que existe



Ahhhh que rico sol … soy rico de sol … billonario.

Hoy la mar está tranquila, sosegada ( linda palabra) ya hace mucho que no la sentía así, tan verde que es un poco azul, como tus ojos en mi recuerdo. El camino estaba salpicado de flores rosas ( fuxias), que como todo lo que crece agarrado a la tierra está en un momento super optimista … “vamos a agarrar una nube” dice el olivo “o la Luna” replican a coro las habas “esperad por nosotras!” se apresuran las orquídeas.

Vine acá despacio, de espacio en espacio, cómo lo echaba de menos! Ahora, sentado en la roca donde en una vida pasada tu y yo hicimos el amor — y vengo aquí no por el recuerdo sino porque realmente me siento en casa en este lugar — me desnudo, intento el corazón, abro el cuadernito, escucho el suave rozarse de la mar en las rocas, observo un submarinista de caza ilegal … te escribo con mi // este silencio



con las hormigas
creando masa crítica
albur de boca blanca
comba ñoen invierno
se hace de noche y caldo
pero tampoco encuentro
al señor del cuerpo extraño
no hay despedida pues
pero tapioca encuentro
y como engaña la
— che! buen jabato
hasete turrone
un modus vivendi
con namber tu
en la meca
nica ligera
del bufer
en el bufete
la misma soledad
sentada en tu taburete
ahora mags
que sigjnifica revistas
y también donde duermen las balas
de antes de la cuenta de atrás
de la culebra
de lo imposible
que es doblar la realidad
no más usen el poder del perdón
yo les vendo un infinito
y ustedes
con teorias y motores de lenguage
cagando erre-e-pe-eles
evalidan y evaluan
leen donde no hay sino demonios profanos
já! es un chiste
una mentiriquiña
hecha de DMT
en el obvio desierto
porque somos el desierto
y se nos lleva el viento
y por eso semos polvo
polvorones en el desierto
esperando un poco
de boca
un poco de esperanza
de boca
hambrientos, no no
absolventemente esquálidos
de estar en ayunas desde el nacimento
y a veces de antes
antes no en el tiempo
antes en el espacio
antes en suspenso
peloponeso y yogur
de edad sanito
pifostio aguerrido
y todo y hasta lo que no cabe
se apersona
se va haciendo a la idea
de esa boca que ha de llegar
dendritas arboladas
valor y coraje
y más que
la palabra
la palabra que nos ayude
a saber
qué sentir
cuando ya nos
estamos yendo




De la cabeza a la tierra and back {provisory}  June 2018


Me como la cabeza quemada del caballo
por qué tenemos que estropearlo todo?
{suspiro} <<< (?)
hoy soy un caos
de mi mismo,
ya me levanté de 1 salto
una bandada salvaje de pensamientos
pinchara mi sueño calentito y lindo
entre tanto
de respirar
rociar los pulgones
de la selva menta-chocolate
con agua de tábaco, asomar las cebollas
y los ajos que los enterré mucho
sí tengo esa tendencia de avestruz
y también les acaricié a las patatas
que a pesar de grafitadas
con los puntos negros de la mariposa
siguen, se aferran, a mi me dan mucha
ternura la verdad
viva las papas!!
y las cebollas estaban muy lindas
y alguna col comida por la lagarta
y es que quien las ve nacer
y acompaña su subir
su ensanchar
no ve, no puede, a las orugas
y a las mariposas ya igual.
Los rabanitos se preparan
para la batalla
el genginbre genginbrea
en su largo meditar y las calabazas
ay chacho las calabazas
se mamon tonan en un campo gravitacional!!

Hoy soy un extraño
en mi
y así me persigo
en boomerang
recomido de la certeza
de que preparo algo terrible
profundo en lo nefasto
un motín, UN MOTÍN!!!!
Y como le hago para escapar
para escaparme?
Alguien alguna vez consiguió
dejar atrás la sombra
de la capa del destino???

Miro al mar
hoy la mar está verde
verde y azul

… rasgada de amarillos y grises

… Leona…

con su explosiva risa
y su desenfado (totalmente antichic) <<<
a la memoria
ála memoria!!
A la boca de la memoria
unos pechos suaves suaves
y dulces como melocotones
anacarados por piél
y deseo
a la mirada del recordar
un perfil antiguo
de diosa griega desterrada
a vivir entre los humanos
más inhumanos…
como yo
vaya suerte chica
espero que estés bién

y si no me queda más que eso
dar gracias…

El dia a dia en su absurdo absolutismo
se cuela por todas las pequeñas rajitas
que le dejamos
el resquebrajarse
mismo es






a la mar
hoy verde
y azul
con jirones amarillos y grises
… yo voy,
voy a ir
y la voy a dar un poquito de rojo




Esta tierra  May 2018


Esta tierra . ,,,,,
seca, dura, árida
no quiere
que la miren
que la toquen
que la preñen

~~~ pasa una culebra ~~~~

esta tierra nació ya pobre
cansada, triste,

esta tierra sueña sólo con estar tirada al sol
y seguir el deambular de los fantasmas
de los hijitos de los fantasmas
con sus ojos cansados
con sus ojos parados
(e) hirtos
con sus ojos llenos de tierra

Y la tierra no quiere
pero yo no la dejo
me inquieta tanta nudez
su ostentosa anti-maternidad
fértil sólo de pena
y espectros
que sobre ella se arrastran
que la intentan romper
hacer mil agujeros
para enterrar lo que dejaron a medias,
y yo,… yo no puedo hoy
no me consigo
sacudir la tristeza
mas me vale darle abrigo,
encender un fueguito y
arroparla con mantas de camello;
así que la
acaricio, la escarbo, la escucho,
la prendo entre mis dedos,
la acaricio, la remuevo, la mareo
le doy de comer de todo un poco,
la riego y la nitrato… la peino.
la cato

la cato

a ella me confieso
al fin y al cabo (sin)
mi corazón es de piedra
y por mis venas y arterias corre
tierra también
y quien sabe si más seca que ésta.




Toc toc  May 2018

Toc toc
llaman a la puerta
la cosa más extraña
una mujer, francesa
nerviosa, con sombrero
de turista dispuesta a disfrutar,
un poco tímida,
fuera del tiesto, un poco
sabiéndose en aventuras
… que se ha perdido
que del parking viene
pero haber señora, de cuál parking?
Ahora hay un dedo que apunta cosas
y direcciones en general
pero las cosas a las que apunta
no corresponden con las palabras
que la pérdida de la señora
en francés va diciendo…

Y esto es lo que yo quiero decir
bueno y un beso
para todas las que andamos perdidas,
que sumamos muchas
y las peores ni llaman a las puertas
ni preguntan … e igual porque
salimos sin sombrero
y pero que tan perdiditas
que se nos
toc toc
a l’aventura



tiempo=espacio  May 2018


Si al mismo tiempo, que tiempo, que mismo, mínimo y tierno por ser de si mismo mimo e igual lo más ajeno, ajo enajenado, masaje de mojado movimiento, deshojándose, en cueros, un tiempo que existió en desesperar, que recién desiste, que recién cambia el insistir en su sombra por salir de su sueño – el sueño donde duermen los veleros – y por tanto salir y por tanto y tan poco así parido al espacio, al espacio sin tiempo, al espacio sin verso, al espacio sin detrás, sin memoria, sin ombligo, sin deuda ni sentido, al espacio adverso a su talante indefinido, impúdico de luz, elefante en desatino, salto verga choque coño arropando piél sed lazo salado a lengua abierta herida y rozarse y retozando y a poquito y poco ir saliendo ir entrando ir cosechando nuevos umbrales en el diccionario de los gozos lamentos dulces clavadas pupilas suspirosuñas pezonponesos jirones de alma sudada temblor en la pauta del cuerpo a golpe de promesas guturales decubierto y los músculos-cuerda ora tensos ora manteca y besando los pliegues de todo lo que se dobla un bochorno de besos una lamida piél brillante arqueadas columnas y cada hueso un discóbolo resquebranto de estallando … sí, al espacio desnudo y carnoso, olegominoso nutritivo esfoliante detonador inspirado al espacio a respirar, sí, eso es: el tiempo salió del tiempo, salió del tiempo y su sueño, despertándose lento y perezoso para pasear por el espacio, para ser espacio, para parar—-se de si mismo, desde sus adentros, desde el anclaje de su sin verso… ahí ahí, ahí donde la-en-la-mina-da luz no ata las sombras, donde se es muelle sin marea, sonrisa y olvido, donde la palabra escoje su propio camino… ahí se mira el tiempo en el espejo de su futuro líquido; y lo miro yo a él, lo miro y lo lloro y lo veo dar del fruto la promesa y de la promesa un suspiro y del suspiro una flor y de la flor um quejío, ardiente, anhelando, anulando SE anudando se, dando lolos, dando nuca, dando sin medir y en verdad sin dar y no más siendo el propio quejío, la propia flor, el suspiro propio de la promesa de su mismo fruto en el mismísísimo acto de darse para siempre a cada momento, bueno y ya que estamos también mi llanto. Y así se salió el tiempo, en verdad se sale del tiempo, se sale salao, se sale paridito de si mismo, se sale a ser el proprio pararse… y como es eso? Se sale el tiempo a ser, despacio . . . se sale el tiempo a ser espacio, se sale y se sigue saliendo sin parar y por eso quizás digan que es el pararse mismo que no acaba, pero lo que no acaba ya no es el tiempo y sí el espacio, el espacio que fué tiempo y que volteado re-rápido se encontró a si mismo siendo y no sólo se sorprendió en jaleo-regocijo como se dio un gran abrazo amigo, y digo dio pero no acaba aún y hay quien rumure que ha sido siempre así y continua





Las sirenas  May 2018

El constante murmullo
rudo pero calmante,
caudaloso y sordo
del AC en el patio exterior
acá, en dentro del otro lado
risillas explosivas y platos
hacen eco por los pasillos
mientras la luz se hace ceniza
pasa un avión…
ahora otro,
se impone un pajarillo sobre las sirenas
las sirenas que ya engulleron a los humanos
y al tantito los vomitan rotos
en algún lugar hospitalario
donde intenten denuevo
volverlos a rejuntar.

Me quitaron el cristalino

gashô x • gashô





From La mar lo perdona todo  March 2018


que verde está la mar
como sus ojos cuando la sueño,
bruta, juguetona, banboleante
. . // mullidita por dentro.
La mar lo perdona todo
el mar no.

Estoy mareado
pero no es como dicen
de la palabra,
la sensación
es entera, profunda
de libertad
de ser algo
de ser.
Lo propio
será entonces
soy mareado
       .  .  .
soy de la mar
en la mar


el universo del reverso del lado helado de un beso, ay pero qué bueno!

las cosas tienen su punto, su apuntito para que te toquen y luego, claro, hay que dejarlas llegar… así, cerca, cerquita de íntimamente, ya sea besito cuchimizo o puñetazo al maxilar.





tuesta el pasta hasta que esté azul


no el cambio de teclas

embadúrnalo todo

embetutéame sin pudor

viértelo sobre las cosas

pocas que

yo ya te digo

pegar gafas



pensar compost

sacar piñones

secar riñones

ay, pero so seldom

que tu mira chico

hasta que tu retina

se derrita en un charquito

de deseo

pero yo tal vierto

que loca es la vida

ha sido prostituida

ha sido subvertida

subvertida hasta la saciedad

y es ahora la sociedad

y que chistoso si cambio 1 letra

no? :::

s u c i e d a d

a que te doy una ostia

palo-raiz… perdóname, mijo

me arrodillo ante ti

te me entrego

hazme mantequilla

no soy digno

nosi digno

equix putz ses lof mi

quesea mi sangre el pliego

donde escribes tus versos

tus insultos sinuosos







turrón de tiempo

mantecado de pecado

y un enorme orgullo mojado

que lo engulle todo como agunero jegro

if wendo pepe si se ful content vibrana la kista

cuerra llave modo iguale a release y abre llave

bar ache erre te open ele máas ur respom

se tex galen cuatro galei zero bakbun

so exqueleton codemi ror code

mi ror mas menu te eme ele

si llevara se haga suse abre llave

mode seas se punto y com





El escorpión autista  March 2018


escorpión autista
osea, no mames guey!
encoje el escroto
y hazte nube
oigo ruidos
al pensar
y eso me molesta
porque sí.

Es carnaval
baja la marea
el sol está buenísimo

Me tengo que rapar la cabeza
lo dice dios
diosito para los amigos
poron pon pon
poron pon pero
rajas en la tierra
rajas en el cielo

La soledad
es cuando hay de todo
pero sólo alcanza la duda

Me voy a tirar al agua fría
y mientras del estar temblando
con la piel almibarada de sal,
voy a nadar con los ojos cerrados
voy a dejar que la mar me mezca
y pa riba y pa bajo
y pa ca y pa lla
y que me diga
al oido mojado
cosas viejas

y mientras del estar temblando
nadar y sentir
que paso deˆespacio
que pasan las gabiotas
totas totas
y los cuervos marinos
y sus abogados
tocando la ficie
la super ficie
con sus alas siempre
en vuelo desgarbado
y por encima de todo
entre el cielo y la mar
un olor,
pero un olor
qu’es puro trance
qu’es la especia de Arrakis

la cama donde se acuestan
los sueños

e igual por eso
me lamo el rostro

Querés venir?
No? entonces
deséame fuerte




No Pais do Nada {excerpt}  February 2018


No País do Nada eu tinha também tudo isso e muito mais que tudo junto precisava dum outro país para pôr tanta tralha, para por-mãos-juntos lábios secos de dizer palavrasem quanto as palavras – as verdadeiras e fugidas pelo que contentes longe do homem e seus países – se enchiam de cheiro a plantas e fazia o tambor planos de voar, de nos nevoar, de nos baralhar com acento agudo, com acento nú, com acento… No País do Nada era tudo com acento, pelo que acentuado e de vida curta, de muito sorrir, de muito estar periclitante e por tanto frágil e por tanto permeabel a mudança e assim toda coisa que fosse vestia uma gabardine colorida e galochas transparentes.

Como havia um gajo de deitar nada fora neste país?!!! era impossível e alem de tudo muito difícil; lá de vez em quando morria alguma coisa e a gente enterrava ou fazia fogueira dela, conforme fosse expresso o desejo, mas para o funeral já era uma festa tal que em vez de diminuírem, as coisas não faziam se não aumentar e que alegria que isso nos dava no nosso pequeno país que trasbordava e que a gente nunca tinha vergonha de dizer que dali éramos e não de outro sítio… quase como se dele tivéramos orgulho, sim duma coisa assim vulgar como a porra dum país.
Mas na verdade a gente não precisava de sentir orgulho ou pertença tanta assim, porque No País do Nada, todos e todas partilhávamos só um alma, uma alma magrinho, uma alma luminoso, uma alma curioso, uma alma fermoso… a quem chamávamos O Menino Alma.
No Pais do Nada o sol não aquecia nada e a luz nada iluminava mesmo, tudo se começava por nadar com ondas ou sem ondas a gente brincava com a dor ou o que houvesse porque, sim adivinhaste, o normal era não haver nada…. Bom, nada havia sim, muita, muitississima nada por todos partes acumulada, em todos os cantos deitada, nada fazendo de todo a sua casa. […]



Chaotic ensemble  February 2018


Chaotic ensemble
creeper of skin
I am nobody
would you kiss my back
would you share some light
dark is the path
dark is the mouth

— unwritten wave of sin —

I lay on the stone
I caress the stone

— rigidity’s a trail in the sea —

the warmth of the sun

the warmth of the sun

the warmth of the sun

I let go
I pee myself
I give holidays to all my sphinxes
to all my plans
to all my dreams
to all my hopes

. . .

you wanted to know
what happiness is

is this tear
while it falls




From DJR’s first  February 2018


O mar lambe as pedras
um momento junto ao outro
o sol e o vento
é tudo festa na pele nua
e é pela rua da pele
que passa o tempo
e dá sustos em forma de rugas
e dá alegrias em forma de rugas
e daí ninguém diz
as rugas serem
as raizes do tempo
dos homens, mas são.

Aqui o amigo Daniel
diz que está com o ISO 500
eu sorrio … lhe
em quanto da playlist
shuffle mar.




From esferas de ayer  February


llorar mojado
de la mano en la mano
pero piel y no foto
pero descono-cién-donos

curando y ahogando
el llanto




que adentra lo desconocido
sin opción
sin diálogo
paulatino asesinato
de las cuerditas
de los vocablos
hasta que


la sangre a borbotones
y hagamos cordón
del alma-zapato




de seda
de la dama
de beso frío
de sedoso beso frío

y dama

y útero de tierra
sólo de tierra
sola de tierra

con un puñao de
pupilas arredondadas
el camino polvoriento
enquistado de piedras

. . .

no lo llames




  January 2018


——– one day ——–

After the rain
diggin’ over the ground
with the smell of earth
my shadow’s drunk.

Even through the steel of the tool
and then the wood in the handle
I can feel its texture…

Now the sun
has bathed it un-till morning
I give my hands to the ever warmth
of its amniotic body


——– another day ——–

Today the sea is wild and cold, maybe all that energy recharges me; yes I went to the rocks and carefully enough to the water – one of this waves could crush me like an egg against the rocks. Went swimming.
It’s incredible to ignore your instincts, to act opposed, contrary to the body’s preference to be comfortable, warm… but the reward feels as strong =)

I was swimming amidst the waves with my testicles reduced to raisins and I felt at peace… all around the waves carrying enormous masses of water from one place to another, battering salty foam onto the rocks, crashing on everything and of each crash a sound, a percussion… yet I felt completely at peace… I drifted farther away from the shore than usual and so I could see behind the last line of cliffs. There was a seagull there, on top of the cliff; she was looking at me, I thought “If I die right now, quickly, it would be okay, I am at peace”.

We tell ourselves so much bullshit, we seem to need it to carry on our days… but there’s a warmth that’s beyond words, there’s a friendship that’s beyond gests, there’s a love that’s beyond doubts… there’s a song that is both parent and child, death sings it, life is constant singing it through death… sometimes I can hear it so very clear.


——– another day ——–

Without any doubt light’s the most important thing.

“In the deep of each being there’s an enigma dark as the night” L. Gustafsson.

Men only grow big enough, bright enough if it is an enigma.


——– today ——–

This beauty burns cannot share
a secret oath of silence
love, fly, rocks
———— moon
come close up
my open chest
this bed of flesh
where no tree dares to grow
but a jungle





… estes também somos nos (num sonho)  December 2017


Na outra noite sonhei contigo. Eu vinha pela rua abaixo cheio de pressa ao que parece, meio vestindo-me, meio dançando, estressado e feliz… e contribuindo para – se não causando – tudo o anterior uma morenaça agarrada do braço. Tamos atrasados tamos atrasados – dizia ela e eu ajeitava o sapato; é sempre a mesma coisa, vamos chegar e eles já se cassaram – continuava a minha deusa da pressa e eu apertava o cinto, apertava as nádegas e acelerava o passo. Curiosamente o efeito que este “ir a correr” tinha em mim era diferente ao da miúda (não apanhei-lhe o nome); em quanto ela blanca-flor-nuvem deslizava com graça sobre o pavimento, eu desfilava mistura de lagarto com dor de barriga e pato com PTSD. Como depois de um bocado a quase tudo uma pessoa se acostuma e as vezes ate começa a desfrutar, assim – ainda a correr pela rua – comecei a reparar nesta formosura que o sonho decidiu me acompanharia sempre puxando do braço… ah vamos a um casamento… mas casamento de quem, quem se cassa? É uma experiência interessante esta de aparecer no meio de um truculento ir a onde nada sabemos… como se já adultos estivesse-mos a ser paridos para quem é esta miúda gira… por que me puxa do braço?

Antes de conseguir resposta alguma chegamos a uma igreja que mais parecia um chiringuito de praia disfarçado de marisqueira vietnamita. O “prédio” era todo construído em madeira e o telhado forrado com grandes folhas de palmeiras secas. A volta do terreno onde a igreja assentava, havia um muro e por trás do muro casas pintadas de alegres cores; tudo rodeado de frondosas árvores tropicais… assim laranjas monge, verdes viridian quase pistachio e óxidos jade a procura de lapiszuli se fusionavam para fazer pano de fundo ao edifício mais escuro, escuro mas curiosamente leve, tão leve de facto que parecia que se dispunha a levantar voo…

Especado a frente deste altar psilocybiniano era nestas elucubrações que eu me encontrava sumido; de repente reparei que a moça tinha-se pisgado, provavelmente foi a correr lá p’ra dentro, não deve querer perder o sim quero por nada do mundo pensei, mas assim solta que frase pombalina “não deve querer perder o sim quero por nada do mundo”, em fim… dizia, pensei e pouco mais do que isso porque – e é que os sonhos (caso haja dúvidas) seguem sempre a regra more is more – momentos depois estava te a ver ali deitado no chão de relva, relva e grandes folhas verdes. Para minha surpresa dentro do sonho não fiquei nada surpreendido, e disse para comigo olha ali o André… o canito.
Descrever o que tu parecias não é fácil, de todo; porque alem das minhas limitações descritivas, parecias muitas, muitíssimas e complexas, contraditórias coisas juntas, juntas numa harmonia que chatiava, que chateia como algo que está muito para alem de nós do nosso alcance de mão suja e déficit de atenção… vou fazer meu melhor.

Um mendigo, era essa a primeira impressão que se tinha, pois tavas deitado no chão com um a vontade que só os africanos lá da África mesmo e os sem-abrigo (bom e o Alex) tem com o chão, como apreciando a textura, com ple ta men te a vontade, num ioga simples do estar deitado, num reclinar romano sem banquete… assim te vi sobre a relva meio queimada e as grandes folhas verdes. Parecias ligeiramente entretido, do género de quase a ficar desentretido com qualquer coisa que se passava do outro lado do muro… mesmo assim não o suficientemente interessado para fazer o esforço de ir espreitar… se fosses um deus, e tudo o criado estivesse ao teu alcance e tivesses estado ali deitado por um milhão de anos e a tua frente uma galinha andasse a perseguir uma barata, mais o menosh assim era que estavas. Mas mal me vistes, levantas-te, não a correr, não não, devagarinho (como gosto dessa palavra), muito devagarinho, meticulosamente vagaroso e a espreguiçando-te de forma tal que as aves em unissono deixaram de cantar e abriram muito os bicos num aarhhhhhhhggghhhhhh. Em quanto te aproximavas a imagem primeira que eu tinha tido transformava-se agora numa outra, pois trazias vestida uma camisa de linho ou tal vez algodão enrugada mas impecável, sem uma nodoa o que era um mistério porque aquele chão… em fim… e uns calções que te assentavam como se tivessem crescido a volta do teu corpo… se um príncipe encomendasse a seu melhor alfaiate um traje para passar desapercebido no meio da plebe… seria a tua imagem.

Muito próximo de mim ouvi-te trautear mhuishk muiaghkh e soltar um suspiro, que chatice mal passou um milhão de anos e já tem um gajo que se levantar! parecias pensar, mas no teu rosto vinha o sol em forma de sorriso. Abraçamos. E como se tudo tivesse a seguir rigorosamente uma pauta maluca escrita algures pela Dani, demos meia volta e nos dirigirmos a entrada da igreja. Ai tu viraste a cabeça e disseste muito descontraído vai com calma e não me enchas com tuas merdas, claro que de repente eu fiquei cheio de merdas e com muita pouca calma; pensando olha-me este cabrãozinho empertigaitado… mas o sentimento e o pensamento se desvaneceram rapidamente e tu próprio, uma vez fora do supor e o suporte do chão, ficaste rapidamente histérico e a provocar e te meteres com todas as pessoas, animais e incluso objetos inanimados que encontrávamos no caminho. Antes de acordar, lembro-me claramente que não fiquei contento pela ironia, por te contradizeres (que não o fizeste), mas de olhar p’ra ti e p’ra mim, para nos por tanto, com carinho e com um redentor estes também somos nos. E assim acordei.






40 Ki’  December 2017


As if was 

on Earth

my last walk


and I mean e very thing

is sacred

on this _______________________> path-not-mine-but-LIFE’s


Amidst the car’s fumes

with humid hands

somehow the trees manage

to touch it all

somehow to leave

some of its leaves



to fly


the ground;

parsimoniously invisible

douce dance of

the daughters

of the city

of its inhabitants


wait, I have a note here that reads try to take the “I” out of everything, ja ja ja that’s actually tragically hilarious…


At Soonam’s

met his wife,

Is this the real one?

I ask, he tries to cover up,

her name Susmita looks at me

a bit mad

a bit sweet

a bit funny

a bit dramatic

a bit forgiving

a bit this will also pass

and this, this is true

and the wave I ride

on my secobd glass of wine

I am at home, detached

gashô || smile || bismillah

connected, focused, full opf shit,

getting drunk.


From the book

folding its soul

behind the glass

under the table

a tank of time

an orchid’s skin

garlic’s existence.


Touch and go, touch and go

Daniela’s gone to disarm a pig,

a tiny car,

a child climbing a step

and her father’s yeah!

A sad girl walks a wolf

and this one smokes

– I’m with Karma –

They say smoking is bad…

She wants to nuke the root of my ancestors

but instead smiles and answers … they say …

IT is so good that all of this is going to end, I mean it for real … because that … all of this is going to end and that’s so good right now inside of me


on the fact…


This other smiling (incomprehensively written) #
asking for some place I know very well but I’m drunk already and I get lost in her smile… and she gets it and goes for a better, faster, mechanical answer and I totally get it, the need for patches, the silly face I’m wearing and anyway she went to the dude… and the dude, this dude, this fantastical dude that came out of the dream manga of a video game’s character… with his dark moustache and dark hair, wow that is an explosion of unbelievable curly fluffiness, I want to touch it… and he’s so funny too, I ask him if the cushion in the w.c. is for resting the horns, and so it seems and we laugh hard, I rip a couple vocal cords and everybody’s looking inside my paranoia, fuck you!!! very funny the dude, I feel blessed – almost like crying –  so stupid overall, yet that’s how it is, right here, right now, ja j ajaa << then we got inside a carboard box and gave ourselves as gift to 40 Ki's and broke plants and they complained about their girlfriends, and I kept the drinking steady to keep my happiness afloat and my doubts drowning and everything was a micro-second burst of melting extasis… where did it go, did it really happen?

Maxi, maxi… of course it did not




{sight} just today {smile}  November 2017


What a beautiful day

nothing special has happened

and that’s what makes this day so special

the water was cold

I saw a dead mullet 

a seagull observed me


for a while

another sunset

with the c-soundtrack

I remain a stranger

to this town

and I like that

I like to be a ghost

wandering the streets

a ghost who pretends

touching the ground under

the smell of fresh laundry

gashô (s)





There’s the archaic blue  September 2017


There’s the archaic blue’s

infinitely soft gradation of a smile

— a hum, birds tunning,

kids on nap time;

then, spurted all over

pods give birth to clouds

parsimoniously moving towards

a loophole, shit I forgot the sun.

Well, behind everything

and leaning to the right

is the sun with his sun glasses

baking a rythm

and eating potato chips.

Ahó majo Sun!

I turn 180º and now

there are mountains also

of green in all possible shades

from a deep existentialism

to acidic reed-rides of joy.

This breeze is cool but not so

that carries anybody’s dreams.

I just don’t know.

Pain on my neck,

must have hurt myself when

I was being born earlier

this morning.

Dogs remaining

and so is silence.

The shark kidnapped by the wind

lives inside the house now;

actually he’s a dysfunctional door.

There’s nothing to be learned

all insects insist.

– – – unison – – –

I close my eyes, take air with a long breath

and let existence

swipe me to the left.

Now I’m present

Now I’m past

Now I’m future

always again

now present

now future

past now









Lying on the ground I can hear

the leaves talking backwards

their trembling exchange of secrets

with the smaller winds.

A minuscule spider just climbs and just crosses this notebook

smiling and singing a generic bib’s tune.

The birds, the flies, and distant children’s laughter,

all in through the same ear

It feels really really really really

real, relaxed yet riveting…

I try to spoil the moment

thinking I’d love to be embraced,

entangled with another body,

with a woman’s body;

no one in particular,

just any woman with an energy akin.

That it would be nice

to breath onto each other

to share the intimate praxis of

trying to make one layer of two skins.

But then… a gust of wind,

flapping birds, tree dancing

‘nother deep breath and… this is reality.

Yes! I take it, respectfully over any day-dream borned longing.

I smile… falling asleep within a warmth current

All is good

all is good


Anouk and her entourage of 52 colored cats wake me up:

“Do you have shaving cream? I want to make slimmies”

My hand on the tiny bare foot, her skin is buttery smooth…

I caress it and hear myself answering in a tender manner =)




Dentro de Nada (para Alex)m  September 2017


Hoy es un dia raro

porque todo se tropieza con todo

y aparte se tarda demasiado;

demasiado en conquistar algo,

algo concreto, algo sin lodo

y sin duda en concretar lo conquistado

como unas croquetas relindas pero tan

durisisísimas que doblando van el espacio

– ay! pero qué doblau va alexpaciu –

y van que se acumulan, que se acurrucan

en este siendo de todo en demasía,

demasía de restos

demasía presente de

mega-hecatombe de indicio de restos

de sueños con indicios de restos


joder como retuerce,

se voltea lo de dentro pa fuera;

yaya así ni modo…


Que no quiere el colador

que no quiere, que está generoso,

que le hace gracia y así lo deja todo pasar

y pasa todo tragicamente y atrás nos quedemos

sólo nosotros ( la dulce patata con hojas y yo).

Pues qué gracia, pero un poco triste también, sí,

yaque no podemos, yaque no encontramos el truco

pa ser del lodo, del lado del todo e ir pasando…

pasar también donde quiera que pasen todos

y así no mas nos desfamiliaricemos

y nos desenpechemos la raiz del momento

y encuerados al viento

y acorraladitos por el tiempo

y desacostumbrados a la caricia amiga

no nos queda otra que orar

orar y orar y orar

pero tan que desesperadamente

pero que tan de pezón en pezón

que va sintiéndose igual

que estar llorando… bueno llorando no,

aguacerando en llanto, dando hasta la nada

en pura lágrima viva, kamikaze

satoriana y final…

y no más que hasta que el propio sentir

y de pensarr lo propio también,

por lo que el sentimiento mismo y

el propio del pensamiento no sean sino líquida catarsis

y el orar entonces como estar mojado por dentro

y no ser del todo

ni de la nada ser ya

sino del pasar mismo, del movimiento

sensualmente perpetuo que sin rastro peina el universo

desde que el universo era un niño

y soñaba

que de mayor iba a ser astronauta.





From Life’s loops  June 2017


Estoy apuntito de que me de vergüenza


Tu mano caliente en mi espalda
sabe siempre tan rico
mil sonrisillas se arrastran
através de la piél…

Y yo digo
y yo digo
y digo

Yo te digo SOL

Estoy aquí
y estoy solo, pero no estoy solo
y eso me arranca una sonrisa inmenmsa
ja ja ja y los peces – sí porque estamos bajo el agua –
los peces me miran como que no como
y ponen ojos de kibushis que es
el amago de ironia rancia en un pez
y yo me rio aún más
y se me escapa el aire en un remolino de burbujas
y por eso hoy puedo decir
que casi me ahogo de felicidad
ja ja aj a

Es una amante salvaje
la Mar .,. ,..,, ./ ,., .\\.. ,
eso me gusta
a veces me asusta
pero es perpetuo el
deseo de querer estar juntas .,…/// .,..\\/ ,.,.
de ir dejándome llevar
hasta donde quiera ella,
de que me envuelva
en su sal
y olor a algas
de que me enrrede
en su melena
que no acaba ni empieza
ni sabe del tiempo
ni de cosa otra





  June 2017


Once the night is gone

I’ll be the obituary

of my Dream, IF only these

damn dogs, stray thoughts, polluted stream

wouldn’t further crook

the roots from which I breathe.


Mediocre but that’ll bro



A spider’s single thread

has set its mind

in containing the whole of the light

of the hole in my eye,

that’s weird



………….………….…………….……. floating protons ……….


e      v      e      r      y      w      h      e      r      e     



a silk energy hair

going loose about the space

YES YES, it’s all about the space!!!

we are but space… and maybe dreamt

whatnots kneaded from liquid troubles.


There! another thread,

another life — word “life” inside a nicely drawn circle —

across my mind ===>>>> in sequential decay THUS beauty


This b e a u t y




wow, gone

into more confy

vessel aflame

more dying

changed again

more skin





In an all continuous plane

Jefe Death has disappeared

behind, inside, around

just beauty itself

and most amazing unfinished commands

carried on by Cut-cut

and some un-identifiable white flare wizzzzz

Come again (?)




Diminuta dinamita de minuto de minotauro en minoria  May 2017


Diminuta dinamita de minuto de minotauro en minoria en maresía en isla de herejía en celosa cría algo-flor venenosa último tiento silencioso abriendo pois pois. Eso escrito y enviado a celular, enviado sin saber la lengua, olvidando el diccionario que traduce el sabor de la sal de la isla desierta del mini-minotauro, pobre… tan allá y tan solo, en su isla pezón en el pecho de la purita mar. Y de la flor, de la flor hermosa, demasiado hermosa y en verdad venenosa demasiado también que le hace compañía, que él quisiera acariciar y llevarse de paseo … de paseo no más, de mirar las olas siempre, de oliendo la humedad áspera por el espacio áspero de su piél de minotauro trágico que se pinta los labios con la sangre de no poder compartir sus sueños. Y claro que el mino arranca la mina y todos morimos, todas morimos en las manos de la pasíon, de la pasión enajenada de querernos acompañados, apapachados y rebozados en el perfume del estar dentro, dentro del corazón de la vida, dentro del corazón de la vida, dentro, más adentro, más. Y ya no va el majo del minotaurito a poder ver el ese eme ese que le respondieron, porque arrancó la flor y osea así es que se pinchó en sus mini-cuernitos de querer olerla mucho, de queriendo olerla toda. Y la flor sí ya fué de paseo, un paseo primero y último perfumando la negra crin del minotauro, la negra lengua de la noche de sueño eterno a la que se dirigen y que los digiere, los va digiriendo mientras tu y yo leemos esto. Buen viaje… deseo, de ese o seres




City pompoem  May 2017



Like places to be

not to represent

like places

that come as I come

that leave as I leave

that take their shoes


and then we’re both barefeet

Like places

that do not wait

that do not strive

to be free,

present in those places

and sometimes in me

is all that there is

and then is so much

joy laughter clap blinking teeth swallow light root exploring flees

single hair soft carcasing inner buik love littering earth pause

rec pause warrior dreaming comb waste and words

diffused now but moving but still, grabbing fingers

making families of dreams (SIN). Crystal boats smiling explosions


flowers and flowers and flowers through the mouth, go!

Flies over tech place to sit walking pussy juicy pussy smell of pussy

actually a wall a black dog a black cat sunshine money








breathing shadows narrow street narrow mind crap turists fast amicci

eating cramps eating people uneat.

Some hot some wheels white tide parking bonheur with a fine

stupid pidgeon funeral dance gathering sidewalks great bracagem

deadman just arrived dressing noise put finger on computer

taxi fart escaping thoughts hand in left nipple bullshit story

serpent eyes afternoon deceasing monkey-donkey more bells

nother cigarrette glasses of seeing beer beer beer beer, glub glub glub.

Play limbo macarena dust and satan licking a police officer drums

lies sweating socks garbaging, flaneuring, mimetizing bullets,

so you’re sad, good for you

so you’re hungry, good for you

so you’re dying, good for you!!

Sun on back, CO2, pulp, mesh, tram, and so on.

Early morning whores consecutively beating time non confirmation

no-notion no self preserve bowel moving crazy crow crazy crowd

ineptitude free form lost self again with feeling repetitive tas keh teh

error manager family as a concept red car fashion names bird massacre

killing me body that man! no legs we’re late to begin with.

Patience is expensive cunt.

A shower of fat cockroach ride more fucking turists or…

how we go? where is here? do you come?

Walk with your mouth open so everything gets in

pregnancy thanks world boom

BOOM! and so on

Cat glued night smells from exoesqueleton tight passage holes everywhere

inside men cora bombóm muak windy stranger

inside heart moon also closing accounting exchange analog intel

remembering hili hili hiii music

inside music once in a lifetime bird shelter bird shit

but much more dog shit idea sidewalk made of dof shit brillant theme (DIC)

dusk coolnes fatigue clothes being washed turbo nap tucha tea

fullfilment of something of something tender song

zeitgeist telescope planet zeug we play I’m a dog… and I need a TRRRRela

now you’re an owner this is your game your rules fofinho.

Too much planing aquaplaning Karma’s arm this on me

delicious food from the hands of a warm heart belonging tram bus

bus metro metro tram black gypsy white blue yellow mustard

outskirt antennas buracos buraca green lung rotonda rotonda rotonda

desert sunday crowilng downtown lay down metro tram bus bus metro

roasted chicken black beer VHS tapes nederlands lusitania retardant

comma full stop small stop fear cooperative treminhas red shoes

louder african lady verbal change just every-where here it is here it comes

dig da noiz this guy eyes out of sockets knife-mind yields his hands…

I look him in the eye and ask what? He looking in the eye

hand full of coins says money dirty money I say NO he goes around

the wagon annoying people feel like farting him out of this


Kanthavel Alex Lauri Snup Albi Dani Xico Piter Arne Lagoa Shiva Karma Biuli

bus again swalloed eyes going coming returning leaving arriving

happy seriousness communication terminals rush hour tired

low elbow and blue building sunset road… and so on


} crossing a river and flying through the blue skies {





SCIENCE FRICTION or a couple weeks’ notes  February ~~ March 2017


23 February 2017

• Breakfast’s baked beans with fried egg on top, skating orange, toasted rye bread and coffee too… they all come with me on this bus to the city; then a train, then half an hour car ride to arrive at the same spot we are already, greit! Lets keep it rolling!

• Last time I was in Lisbon, a couple days with Bernie drafted this bit:

To see to drink to write.

Got sit got drunk got written.

While the kid gets here, LIFE passes by… “home” on the side of a truck.

To eat to drink to laugh.

Got eaten got drunker got laughter.


Tears of joy over the face of friendship

• The sprouted teenagers at the back of the bus – and they always go at the back – talking loudly; it would be annoying if they didn’t laugh but they laugh loudly aswell. Laughter is a present to yourself and to the world. gashô

• Pine trees on a yellow ground. Dark faded green and brighter yellow, can’t get tired

• Restaurant sign Dora’s little seed, wonderful!

• Magic, every time, entering the city through this high batom-bridge

• Noticed a diagonal through the river, wonder if it’s where both shores meet. Small waves

• Delivered gift, breif phone call with Dani… dear Dani, inner smile kiss-kiss-underground, ticket bought, couple fags, a cute puppy and we’re moving again; on rails now

• Hon Shirabe / Basis to Enlighment in the shuffle soundtrack. Trains man, you’ve got to love trains. Shakuachi massage to the soul

• Things pass by and I remain still, yet I’m moving too. A cloud allows the monk to stop looking at the moon

• Factory called “grief”

• Feel so calm right now… what a contrast with the past few days

• Town called “swimming pool”, ha ha ha greit

• I shamelessly look at all the women’s asses, follow the folds on their clothes. I hold them all, for a little bit, on ma mind. Then they vanish

• This music has as much silence as it has music. I guess that’s one silly reason it helps widening the gap between​ thoughts… and entering a sleep like state. Jodorowsky wrote that when one wipes out the intellect, one sleeps, one enters the Universe

25 February 2017


• Bunch of days, rushing to rebirth, how are you my dear friend?

26 February 2017

• Bought a new printer with 4 years extended warranty and ample refillable cartridges

27 February 2017

• Prep of the stills and video is done. We have started cleaning the new space, some montage, some geeking, some dreaming

• About to leave, we’re in need of paper, paint ah yes and food!

• On the car the didge music’s so loud I can’t hear myself thinking

• On a family restaurant VP insists is too bourgeois, ha ha ha, give me a break! Been here before, the girl is so young, so many adventures ahead of her; making her smile is my treat

• TV splits between the Oscars and Brazil’s carnival, I couldn’t care less… with all these people, with all this energy

• Fine art shop. The guy at the counter is so gay and talks so much… thanks god I don’t have to say anything and drunk 3 glasses of wine…. aahhhhh. I feel fiiinnee, like a hasty biiiird on a fiiieeelld, sunshiiiinnne, no wordss just a gentle breeezzzeee, soft and tender I’m flying, chirping, jumping treeee to treeee, bushh to bussshhhhhhh

• Bought paper at big store. Girl was nice and cut it

• Bought glue at small store. Guy talked too much

• Bought food at big store, woman with audi had a beautiful round… soul

• Still, we bought hot glue silicone pistol, electric cable and something else at big appliance store where girls were outstandingly nice and smiley

• I like these women of the countryside. They are voluminous yet packed tight, with good colours ( a permanently blushed face) and a certain healthy candor that is impossible to fake. They are genuinely friendly and they smile and look in the eye… I guess that’s why we’ve spent the day from store to store

28 February 2017

• Ash sky, timid rain

• Complicated and difficult dress different wear. Making green tea. Drinking green tea

• The blossomed almond tree makes the sky darker

VP says “cair em si” = give me a break… and we believe everything VP says

• It’s cold now, like a regret. The white Budha’s outside; always smiling the motherfucka. Going to smoke a cigarette with him

1st of March 2017

• Bees are busy with the rosemary flowers, that means that they will spend the day exclusively with the rosemary… ummmm rosemary honey

• Roasted chicken in literally a family dining-room 2 villages away… to forget, to forgive… wiiiiinnnneeee

• The whole day I’ve been installing a grid of lights. Still magic when they all turn on

• Gained a couple blisters from twisting the cables. Appropriate tools make the job easier that’s what they’re telling me

• Heard this saying on a stupid hollywood flick: If you give a monster a cookie… he’ll want a glass of milk. That’s sometimes true when dealing with other people and it is most certainly always true when dealing with ourselves

• I’m reading this awesome book Verde Brillante – Sensibilitá e intelligenzia del mondo vegetale by Stefano Mancusi and Alessandra Viola. I’ll never look at the plants the same

• Bits and pieces of a poem that probably would never be


Scarecrow with the hands on the air

thinking things that will never be

— what a lovely beginning

for an empty head —

look a cloud,

look a sparrow through the cloud

and through the sparrow’s heart sunshine,

you smile, I smile

then a naked horse

pulls back the rear leg


Scarecrow you have nothing of yours

but your fortune is unmeasurable

you don’t move yet everything changes at your feet

stranded on a stick you’re free

little by little the wind carries you away

closer to everything


you know the simple stuff and the ancient truths

you’ve heard the cicadas and the owl and the crows

and the goldfinch, the frogs and the human laboring the ground.

You’ve seen the sun and the moon

and the moons and the suns,

you know the sound plants make when they grow

and their silent fellowship whipping

when a fire breaks out afar

• For several nights now the screech owl has been screaming her ass off… Commune of country mice’s horror film

• There’s still contraband going on the roof {see POST}

2nd of March 2017

• fzf ; brew ; ls ; ctrl a ; fuck ; z ; mcd ; topo ; rm -rf ; h ; tab-tab ; ob ; ctrl t ; hhf ; supu ; or ; .. ; make ; gsort ; ln -s ; obr ; cp ; tt ; sou ; zz ; ˆ ; jump top ; killpid ; mem_hogs ; pimpin : ls -G ; ctrl k ; echo ; fix ; trans ; :en ; configure ; cd ; htop ; etc ; chown ; chochoin ; ps ; pax ; clear ; fill ; bif ; k ; mv ; write-good ; DT ; fkill ; ql ; lr ; curl ; f ; ~ ; stuck ; alias logout=”ps -Ajc | grep loginwindow | awk ‘{print $2}’ | sudo xargs kill -9″


Santiago and Miguel. How 2 brothers can be so different (?). Kids-me-only-gurus. Their teachings are ever generous and precise, funny, direct, full of energy, tender and joyful, for the most part.

• I concede myself, entirely, with no reservations whatsoever. Take me now, piece by piece. Not because I’m a boddhisatva nor ’cause I want to die… I’m ready

• The warmth of the sun is a gift

• Every night I wake up grandfather and feed him. He feedbacks such a cozy smile. gashô

• A fire is a home

• Watching telly… completely numb, electric morphine…. aarrgrghhhhh

3rd of March 2017

• The olive trees have been trimmed

• Heavy rain and now sun

• The frogs are pond-ering

• An invisible army of tiny birds joyously weave a blanket of {trills}

• A donkey… at the distance… wants to have sex, now!

• I’m on murmex

• Grab a mint leave, scrub it between my fingers, smell… travel

• The wind is playful. Patterns

• Wonder breakfast:

  • Chá de nós
  • Magnesium, Spirulina and Mouringa
  • A skating orange
  • Couple rye toasts with avocado, fresh goat cheese and scrambled eggs with green and ginger
  • Porridge reheated in green tea with cinnamon and honey
  • Coffee with Açores’ milk

• It takes time… to forget about time

• Feels like the sky has decided to come down, down hard to the ground. Lots of pressure on ma head

• On the road, a lead sky and suddenly a rainbow crossing the entire valley. With the Debussyan soundtrack I feel like crying… just to release some. Beauty, a rendered enactment, LIFE nevertheless. No unicorn though… ohhhh

• Extremely windy and inhospitable outside, coffee places become social centers. After our errands, we stopped here for a soup and a rizzol de camarão

4 of March 2017

Today made porridge with oatmeal, ginger, orange peel, raisins, walnuts, cinnamon and honey; shelves with bricks and pine planks; cut wood; double door with VP; a jumbo pan of soup with potato and sweet potato, garlic, ginger, cardamom, cabbage, nettles, olive oil and cumin and croutons with whole bread fried in coconut butter, salt and black pepper; hand washed some clothes and dried them in the fire; chip’s snack with a dip of quark cheese, avocado, tahini, olive oil, salt, pepper and garlic. I also laid down and gaze at the horny clouds and the moon at night; let the ants climb my legs, tickling tickling; looked and felt the roughness of my hands for a while; poke my hard dick and whispered “you’re wasting your time, buddy” ( with a smile); drunk coffee with VP at l’esplanade {see POST}; cut the beard of that frightening guy at the mirror; saw again Benigni’s La vita è bella. Going to sleep now gashô

5 of March 2017

• To my buttons: do not take effects/people for granted

• These days I’m dreaming a lot, I dream about relationships in complex contexts; go figure. Tonight I dreamt I was chasing a foxy girl with pale skin and her sister through a neverending house. The rooms were endless; living rooms, corridors, dressing rooms with their own subdivisions, waiting rooms, unknown rooms and especially bathrooms… The girls laughed and ran to hide somewhere; I got lost and opened a random door. It was a bathroom, a bathroom like a cathedral, such a suspended light… I looked around and landed my gaze on the toilet and the bidé. These were covered with colourful hand painted wildflowers. I stood there looking at the flowers and forgot everything else…

The dreams are not confined to a single instance, often the next night the dream would resume, sometimes even merging with other dreams I had before. If this goes on I’d most certainly need some kind of dream managing solution or an assistant.

Something I love about “this” dreaming business is that there are rarely words involved, a lot of colour, many faces, a lot of sensory stimuli ( stimuli stimuli) but no names, no names to keep track of, no towns or street signs, no time division… actually no measurements of any kind. My theory that there’s solely space and that time is a pure human construct is therefore proven right in these dreams of mine 😛 Maybe I can move and live in my dreams…(?)

• NOTE TO SELF: this day’s when I first clearly thought about the COMPRESSION project series

• My hand has 2 holes… it’s like a vampiress bite it, uuuuhhhh

• Finally went for the big tour. The woodpecker and mushrooms’ trail. Then the orange trees and water reservoir. The magnificent chestnut was there with its verdant sleeves; I leaned back on it for a while. The laconic grandma-olive tree was there too, looking at the grassy prairies… I totally understand, numberless variations of green to grasp. Down through a firewall path to the old shack, the plain with the big well where once a cow drowned… trails covered with a green carpet with white ( marigolds) and brown ( dry leaves) patches. Onto the eucalyptus forest in its constant orgy, always getting naked these guys. Then arrived at the midget stream, zippy with the last rain. Crossed the suspension bridge and ever so slowly walked the trail of the reedbed. At last arrived at my favourite spot. I always joke and say that if I had the money I’d buy this piece of land… truth is I don’t need to own it to enjoy it.

In “my spot” there’s a meadow that gently goes down, a turf that today was bright green with innumerable explosions of white – ’cause of the daisies – and red. Stood there in the middle of this holy land; gazing these colours is good for the eye, good for the soul.

Then I sat on the ground.

Then I laid directly on the earth. I could hear the echoes of the stream mixed with the thousand songs from the creatures of the air. On top of the hills, the trees danced clumsily with the wind. I closed the eyes, embraced the earth and let it all engulf me.

Ahhhh… peace.

When I was nearly sleeping, started to rain. I still laid there feeling the soft tickle of the rain’s pointy fingers. Then, slowly, kept on going. Not only colour, shapes and sounds but strongly a myriad scents were nurturing at each step. gashô

• Before climbing back, I sat on the bridge for a moment. Smoked a cigarette and bathed my timpani on the stream’s voice. Looked up at the trees, wondered which one would support my weight if I hang myself; entertained for a bit in this death theatre, I calmly started the journey back.

• Made monster salad with rucola and lettuce from the garden and walnuts, cured cheese, tomato, onion, rice vinegar and olive oil. I seldom eat salad when is cold, but this one was un manjar

• At night made whole rice with wakame algae and tortilla of 3 potatoes’ varieties, ginger and a touch of vaporized verdure. MMmmmmmm


6 of March 2017

• Sitting outside, writing some more. Today we’re leaving to the capital. It’ll be long till I come back…

• We came to get lunch at the bio supermarket. Almost all the staff here is black and they honestly look quite miserable. Met a friend of VP‘s, a retired lady that now is a full-time activist. She produces a rather expensive organic olive oil, talks non-stop and has some problems listening… to other people. Yet I find her fascinating, a free show with mucho magic tricks. She can be eating her lunch, stressing out about the construction of a new offshore pipeline, yet making reference to art and cinema and still laugh and have THE PRESENCE OF SPIRIT to look you in the eye, open wide hers and blink in a charming if provocative way. Multitasking perfected. No wonder women used to be the transmitters of knowledge. Amidst this live improv show, she said “people need to know who is producing what they eat” I could not agree more =)

• A minuscule olive green fiat cinquenccento going backwards at high speed. It parks. Door opens and a giant long white haired man gets out, amazing! Of course I have to say something to him

• Oh dear, here I am, drunk already with big brother Karma. Yihhhhhaa! Si happy, so loose at Soonam’s place… Wueni’s opening another bottle, she leans plenty close and looks at my writing, I tell her “I’m writing about you” and that’s the truth and so 500 points in the slide to death weekend special ride!!!!

• From now on my writings were impossible to decipher. I’m kind of amazed that in the state I was I kept on writing, that’s OCD for you. Basically and no doubt helped by the medicinal vapors I entered my happy happy joy joy mode

• Dani, Xico, Karma, Lagoa, Píter, Diana and me had a wonderful dinner. I don’t know how I managed to get at Dani’s ( 5th floor through open fire stairs) but it was all superb and I embrace the hangover talking to my good friend




Naked Mnitor  January 2017


Naked monitor
just enough
water so green,
along the lines
all is falling
mechanicly blue.
Dwarfing a wave of doubt
the sun is here
walk with me
sun is here
tell the moon
about my dreams
making nest-vision
a church in each heart
holy guacamolly
and sex plants.

The sun is here
walk with me
sun is here
walking me

Ahó father
hocus pocus
pilates platz

Ahó mother
the earth’s fragrance
is your sheath

This morning
anger’s gone
morning of today
I feel lighter
carrying only pocket words
basted as a prayer
but more like a song,
a peaceful
an ocean
of humble surrender.



take pictures
with the eyes closed

keep up

the pace

gravel noises


This is not a concept
this is a heart


From tooHeichdiarrrghsAhomyPancake&eiCaples’portry  Dezember 2016

Got two and a half black
plus one and a half red
breakfast machines
complaining news
all very confusing
bullshit smoke curtains
coming out the network
inside our heads
like plastic butterflies
they say but actually
more like fat flies
with fake eyelashes
looping around nightmares


From something… to believe  October 2016

Today the froggys were cold, suspitious of me how can you be, how can you be swimming so happy, IT IT IS CO OLD?!!! Even the frog’s kindergarten was deserted and those remaining had ill colours. Yes, had to swimm real fast, body’s temp dropped like crazy (ahhhh I’m dropping!!), first 3 laps are the worst, then there is a doubt about the 15th… Bill Frisel’s on the PA… rainning and all, I’ll swimm the same, if it need be with the stars. Our bodies can go far beyond what we’re used to… one friend of mine enlisted in the mercenary used to say that. I miss him, I miss you Guevara.

The rain has come to stay and that means the green stuff’s popping out, already collected some beetroot, chards and veggie brains –cut them real thin – says mr mouse, he is small but a bossy motherfucka – and form a top layer on the fussili – I do as told, then sprinke grated goat cheese when it’s dente caliente, yuuuummmy. Stinging nettle would come soon and with it the hard-on soup; country side wisdom, I am a donnnnkkkkeeyyyyyy with very little teeeeeethhhhh, would you loooovve me daaaaaarrling, would you run your fingers through my dirty donkey hairrrrrrrr???!!! I can’t giiiiiiveee yooouuu everything you waaaaannnt but we can share the paths’ duuuussttt!!!!!!

I’m starting to suspect that somethings don’t take so long but rather I make a little adventure out of it… I should have brought my guitar and torment the little frogs with corny love songs; shut up, I know you like them!!!
Done, 3 lamps all with unmatching teck and colours; a double neon mix of daylight and 3200K, a yellow antimosquito bulb inside of an olive can and a energy saver one inside a yellow tupperware with a pink napking over it, ja ja ja ja… not so bad as it sounds. Tetrapacks with parsil, coliander and chives, make rice, gather all manure bags and cover them, a mini terrace with broken shale plates, make a huge pot of soup, clean the garden passage, the rubble around the house, general house cleaning and washing, a xist shelf for the washing tools, fix the outlets, time for desert, scream with mice family making too much noise, better djay for them.

Reminder: the compost spot is being left to die, flies have massively complain DO SOMETHIN’ MAN!!!  disassemble and re-use plastic cover after stonemason comes and steals the wood… maybe kill him just for fun, anyway think about Attica, how dense might be mpv’s deep fried post structure and the 10 animations lined up and waiting FOREVER. Call your mother, have patience, massage your 2 and a half neurons, try Ami also. Search for drugs and remember the figs, they’re so sweet. Forget the superesolution stuff, it’s too much hassle. Snup’s birthday must be soon, investigate… a little. Jesus blog never failed me yet, never faiiiiled me yet.

The mouse boos says you have to put Nina!!!
Do you have any tobacco?

Time for dinner now, maybe a film if you eat it all………….. gashô


something… froggy chants to me, when we swim  October 2016


Light’s deflected
atop the olive trees
everything’s motion
and hues’ shift

Froggy sings:

Shake shake, shake and tumble
these eyes so already gone
to dance the dance
smiling blue sky
giggling like a child
the wind’s fresh, the earth
a tongue of warmth…

Who cares about
anything really?
The time of humans
cannot feed here
cannot breathe here
there are no axis
no equation
no observer
no interpolation
nothing’s defined
no mind
forms no forms
even light’s enthralled
in an untaxable
s u s p e n s i on
yet motionless
as the space itself
is movement
and still
the same
in sync
at the same time
because is lost
and there’s no time
the unmeasurable
flow is only but
what it is
but what I am
but what we are
now by now
now by now
sheer bliss
without separation
now by now
now by now
hosted in
total detach
now by now
shattering pulp
endless laugh
of open beauty…

now by now

an unredeemed

now by now


now by now


now by now

and true



by now

o r g a s m




  September 2016

As ervas a estalar com o sol logo que o sol decide por-se a estalar tudo que têm superfície, tudo que mexe, tudo que respira e transpira e faz som. As pedrinhas do caminho suam, o vento do sul é só suor e os pássaros já meio assados vão aos puñaditos espalhando mexericos.
O VP já está conectado, o bicho-pau pos-se em fuga, as moscas abastecem sem pudor, a casa contorce-se e faz “clacks” na juntura dos ossos.
– – – – – – – –  Mas que pouca vergonha, que excesso de confiança; tou sentado a escrever estas palavras e o raio do ratinho a passear-se… a dançar no meio da cozinha o filho de puta!!!! Dou um berro e o gajo sai a correr, je je je ratinho fofinho =) – – – – – – – – 

Tou cheio de pequeno almoço e já estive a ver os bambu, os bambus – la puta opepé no sound system, oh yeah – juntei magnesio a mouringa a canela ao gengibre as ervinhas chinessas que são supostas libertar-me o coração… Isto é capaz de rebentar com tanto pozinho, vamos ver se faz cores.

O VP suspira e rebufa fortemente, eu nunca sei se é assim por se esforçar muito (ejem), por não estar a esforçar-se quase nada, porque está apaixonado – que sempre está o raio do homem – ou simplesmente porque reteve dentro ar demais.

Si te ting de zing rollo chachi wafli, diganle que boi que boi, en contemplando el bodi benga muebe el pié y si te pone y si respón de donde el espacio guapo que pon de ponte posturitas y bailongo hongo se enrrollamazo con el men de menda, y si te hace ting el bodi, de zing decín que rollo chachi wafli dale marcha benga peña, vamo al frululú, que boi diganle que boi que boi

Tradução = {voz de professor universitário cronicamente deprimido}
O contorno do conforto no espaço não é físico mas antes um conforto no sentido de pertença, de sentir o espaço, de sentir(mo-nos) pelo espaço, no agora… que não precissa da nossa ajuda, dos nossos conselhos, que se desenvencilha (palavra apoplética) sozinho. Sozinho connosco…
{professor virou luz quentinha, tipo mijo}

Já o ontem fica tão longe, va de cuatripei; e assim a mosquiteira to tiesa amontoa 4.0. To-do list

      • sunshine de sorriso feminino
      • comida bio pra os mosquitos, nhef!
      • gasóleo de pele quente
      • imperiais em calda
      • experimentação atribulada * cool

Apanhar amoras significa picar-me mil vezes ou lo que es lo mismito, acupuntura natural gratuita, um freebie que diria o Keith.
ACHTUNG!!! Machete afilado com carácter imprevisível. Como não vai apreciar um gajo o sabor das amoras silvestres quando volta a sombra com uma taça cheia de olhos arácnidos, púrpuras e brilhantes arrancados do coração de uma silva milenária (ay migacho que no ha salío el gitano mentiroogosso essste) e com os dedos todos!!! Presentemente no transporte de 72000 gramas de corpo emprestado.

Meu querido VP anda p’ra aqui as voltas a tentar construir uma mandala-proxy-atómico com os restos dum chuveiro benzabá, va va va  XD  tu consegues

Agora tamos no lago, a nadar, sim sim, tá a rãzinha Frululú a escrever isto na beirinha em quanto a gente anda as voltas…

Mais um shoping lift, digo list

• Trocidar mãos, silvas, pestanas, pele, ar navegador, raices em requeijão e montes de guerreiros

• Ex pi li ca protestão, o ponto ao fim da linha, uns três ou quatro

• Guru em pó, óxidos confirmados, verduras gouveia e analfabetismo digital (sem glutem)

• Coelhos angolanos, piropo válido, tessão no algodão, pensar não, as rusas já não são rusas

• Fendas no carvão, efeito visual bacano, feridas frescas e arrefeceres p’ra fritar

• Droga, muitos sabores de mantêms, mind e manteiga de amendoim p’ra os insaciáveis mosquitos

• Um computador fundamentalmente humano, silêncio q.b., molduras p’ra o silêncio, aproximações as palavras de vários tamanhos.

• Não esquecer dicionário etimológico em branco p’ra possível namorada e velas auto-sabotadoras




Night’s awfully quiet
wind’s departed
mind closer to the stars…
the overwhelming noise
in the practice
of being human



From a mystic deepweb of olives  January ~~ June 2016


Do por os pés na cabeça da árvore, da magia em cada ramo, haja vento ou deixe de haver do equilibrio e da dança-balanço, da escorregadia pele ao abraço, da cabeleira verde, do suave cheiro a folha rija, azeitona espachurrada e musgo fofinho mas traiçoeiro.
No fruto do movimento o som da rede amparando os cocozinhos pretos e compactos, na conversa filtrada pela penugem fotosintética, a paissagem triádica, aparentemente sossegada, enganadoramente simples é sempre pano de fundo, cenografía ilimitada e, claro, orgánica.

Da variedade dos tons, texturas, densidades e formas de cada azeitona. Do preto sem esperança, tão saturado que absorve o ar, ao preto satinado, o azulado batiscafo, ao purpúreo que se funde em burdeos… já para não falar do infinito verde tão tosco na sua pureza que o pantone não consegue catalogar. Os cinzentos que fazem da pequena galega uma deusa persa, os castanho manchado, indecisso que salpica umas tantas e outras deixa.

Das oliveiras destemidas, acostumadas, ambientadas, lutadoras do seu spot que não tem frío, que mexem os braços ao ritmo dos ventos com a ponta dos dedos molhadas durante muitos muitos tempos, sem frutos, se encolhem, mirram, viram-se p’ra dentro ate chegar a hora do salto ao vazio…

Um gesto, um simbólico gesto que têm muito de práctico. e a natureza é só praxis, e o amor é só praxis, é saltar ao vazio, é lançar-se ao desconhecido sem comprobar primeiro se há rede, se existe alguma coisa que ampare a queda… Mas a queda também é amor, não como contrario mas como fé, palavra tão manchada, tão cheia de burbotos por uma praxis enganosa, falsa.
No amor tudo é verdadeiro, é a luz que faz as sombras, e se calhar aprender a reconhecer as fontes de luz, descubrir uma passagem por entre a escuridão, por entre o nevoeiro… na mente, perdidos…….. e de repente o salto, o salto ao vazio… como fazem as azeitonas desde bem antes do homen conseguir se equilibrar nos seus pes.




looks like a photograph  February 2016


The word
out of the mouth
into the world
unwrapping itself
from any sound:
I am the punchbag of silence

The memory is the mother of memory says Pietá but she also says I’m a lonely wolf but she also says I’ve been in this world for too long but she also says she has balls but she also says… and I cannot but hear the song, the sad nested soul-song, the one the Earth weeps and weeps and weeps, I can hear it, even with all the asphalt, it is soo sad and everybody seems to avoid it, to auto-deaf themselves… to entertain the slightest chance, how could we even reply? It is a sad sweet song indeed, I wonder why do we pretend that’s not important, that’s not there… I also wonder if I’m loosing my mind, maybe my mind’s growing finger nails attached to finger tips which touch everything but grab nothing. I wonder if I’m delusional ’cause I fucking hear it, I hear it damn it!! I hear it and makes me sad also… I had to escape the city, literally I got sick, my soul was being shuttered, consumed, tainted… and none of the human made leisure cubes could make any difference… try to explain that to your friends, see their faces, feel their ronhonhô sympathy. Anyway I’m glad I’m back to the bay, as a good fish that I am I need to nurture on the ocean and the waves and the storms’ sad pomelegy and the seagulls, the lovely crazy and free seagulls that I do not own but they’re as mine as my lungs and the clouds always buying new clothes, so conceited and hasty yet playful… I think I’m on the process of stopping being a human… not so much as a kafkian sequel but as an enfolding (involute) movement… back to the nothing, back to the void, back to the form, back to the unknowable non-entity energy stream someone left flowing inside a donut



..as every moment frees from itself  February 2016


A veces no puedo,
no puedo y me entrego
a la tierra,
a las raíces,
a la sal
ála sal
toda mi energía
atroz o depurada
te regalo,
ofrenda humilde pero total
no me quedo ni con la nada
con este rayito de sol
que viene
desde antes del ahora
y que en verdad
es sólo un préstamo,
una luz caliente
un suspiro del universo
que por un micrón
de enésima potencia de quarzo
combuste el origen mismo
del amago
que es mi existencia




Ex-Madrastra (from Karuma diaries) – – – What are you talking about man?!!! – – – 490 words, NHIF!  November 2015

Korsori banta TST?
Back in the city with some home made ten took and a better Karma, jiji
Saw a pregnant cat lady with chewed up ear. We pet her for a bit.
Just outside campus getting high on the rush hour’s activity.
In my bag a whale with a round stone, a shell and radioactive-green fishing line in her belly; my gift for Chiara‘s 38th birthday.
We are getting old and wise and no doubt childish at the same time.


It is time that ceases and not the ending of meaning.
J. Krishnamurti


Snorkelling man, goofy but friendly rises his hand yellow =)
The fool moon, glowing between two traffic lights
it’s unavoidably comfortable to watch.

Leaves… dry and wilingly fly around in all directions, what a strange scenario!
Seven two six to Pontinha, a mess of white balance decisions, fearlessly, glitched yet detached, beautifully random plastic bags dancing amongst the cars.
I am no cool, also I’ve stopped worrying ’bout what gets me and strive for its rhythm. Bullshit choreography, darkness postponed one more day… who’s the soundtrack?

God what a great yesterday flowing get-together of familiar faces. Known friends, new house from before the big earthquake, versed habits, mixed alimony, permeable ideas, heterogenic energies, empathic orchestration on the dream of being alive emancipating itself from any possible programming, ja ja ja come ‘n’ get me, renewed bonds… yes… acceptance, active, tender and sincere, smiles, laughs, loads of laughs, blinking shiny eyes that just for a split second unravel its roots from the soul’s bight. Completely drunk on friendship, on celebration, on the spunk of timely and buoyant conversations…

Beauty, beauty borned on the faces of my good old friends

Dusk is all, and here we are in a packed two zero seven back to somewhere yet to discover… let’s call it Ex-Madrastra

Bon Voyage Lagoa, Stay cooli-iaooli Ki, Piteripoweris quebranozes, Thomas assim, Karma de corazao poço, Javi chulo gachas-migas, Dani fragilizantemente, du Snup pelos telhados, a Joana sem fim e o Maxû e seus poopoozas



… of irked shadows  November 2015


The heart’s pounding like mad
cannot tell the outside from the inside
in its crude and sloppy crib
immured by flesh and bone

I wonder if that’s ‘cause
I’m so high at this depth
of the machine, turn it off, please
turn off the machine of being human,
let the shadows feeding light to the bay
inhale the night
into their cute little dagger-souls
and randomly slight the hollow intent
of bringing life to more words;
let them all naked and free
as just-noises,
as nightmares made out of dead wishes,
covetous gazes and expired memberships;
let them prowl
and find us
let them
gobble up
inside out
through our guts,
from the bone marrow
to the glittering mosts of hair,
it would be neat the extra space
and to lose for good the grip of
this zonked gaussian retina.
~~ Tired of being lonely
but not of loneliness,
sick of the darkness
but ever more of
night dressed.~




Extract from Karuma diary  November 2015


27 • X • 2015

Biuli and I left the bay very early this morning, rain’d stopped but the night was still entangled will all things. A full-blown moon was our companion, beautiful in its scarlatina slow dance towards the mountains.

Berni’s in Denmark searching for answers, Piteripoweris in Budapest wearing out the soles of his heart’s shoes… we’re gathering first sunshine rays at the airport.

Nuno‘s just arrived

It is now……………………. it’s night now. Behind, (THE) 3 breakfasts, noisy flow, some sun and some rain, hypnotised fellow tourists scratching the surface, 3 black cats crossfading environmentally, a nap with dutch patterns, cuban rice lunch, lots of good dust-talk with my lovely friend and hostess Daniela, Samjana and Nirsara at street level, plenty detached interactions with perfect strangers, incredibly vast and dense free catalog of scents and odours – black Betty Boop coming, the experience of following her trail. Lively streets where arquitecture’s made out of cathedrals gathering a myriad exotic fragrances.

So yes, much flaneuring, documenting everything till soul’s buffer is full. Got a bad teeth removed – – twisting and creaking and cracking; a fascinating sweaty irreversible nightmare this one time show, this “healthy” breaking of a bone – – the girl-doctor was stronger than I thought, should I say “good technique” (?), she was also fatter than last time, maybe two years gone. Despite the finger-mouth I asked her if she knew anyone who liked dentists.

Quick stop at Soonam‘s

Chiarita joins us for dinner – “only” ice cream and beer for me =) – she sports a great sense of humour. These are beautiful ladies I’ve been gifted for company.


28 • X • 2015

A new day, a new body each day, a new body inside the same rotting carcass, all good. Daniela and I grow old talking about lots of thing, na na na, na nana na naaaa…

Where can the dust settle?

48 hours have gone by and I hadn’t had the slightest mindspace to write anything whatsoever.

Got to meet my Karma though and we got to get drunk yo – yeahhhh!!

Life first
Life’s first
Refilled the buffer, soul’s buffer with life so many time these last 48 hours.

Right now there’s a mosquito – and we’re ending October – making tactic round flights overhead… Akira entertains herself smelling the stories impregnated on my clothes, she likes the sound the pen does when I write, she’s young and curious, we play hide and seek, my hand and her claws.

I’m sheltered at Pedrito‘s… who’s stressed out and very tired of dealing with the absurd of Culturgest’s systematically inept bureaucrats… ahhhgggh the people who’ve sold their dreams and hopes and try desperately to suck everybody else into the putrid swamp that their hearts have become … tough business. Nevertheless he’s going to Korea in December +)

Before we, Ribas and I, had tickling epithelial arousing non-stop eating momus and dido at Soonam’s. Rose was there, luminous as always and as I was crying (literally) ’cause of the chilli’s boost, I joked with her “I’m so happy” to which she very calmly replied “your happiness it’s my happiness”.

We had a super-chachi-piruli-juan-pelotillas geeky talk. Ribas’ the utter most geek being I know and he’s able to go thousands of layers deep… we try to practice the healthy and pro-active kind of geeking out.

Before that I went to the usual afternoon master-class with the hood’s gurus: twisted bad-ass Luigi d’Angola, who’d got removed 8 teeth in 1 day, one of which infected, “I’ll never again go to the dentist”; The Wet Engineer, a sweet 50 something child with a snow beard, a big belly and an inextinguishable desire of seeing women without clothes; Zé Dubar and a very weird tall, long haired, black dressed chinese dude that popped up like a mushroom and just sat there drinking with us… So much bullshit!!!

Before that breakfast at Dani‘s with Diana and Ribas. Then met a very cool mozambican old lady at the bus stop…. it’s empowering to cross with old people fully engaging and openly curious about life. She farewelled me with a “good luck” within a sparkly eye in eye’s good look.

Somewhere in-between the befores, maybe merged, maybe lost but happy camping, got to the edge of moço Edgar‘s 42, delivered the handtage, went chinatown for material hunting with Paulinho and very attentively heard and memorised all about his brazilian girlfriend’s orgasms and other boyfriend.

Akira purrs and I really need to sleep some.


30 • X • 2015

Despite I spent a good piece of the last 48 hours listening to sad complains and futile little disputes comin’ out cauterised brain-clogs, despite assisting in ego-decadence, despite all the BS, me own included, despite the pain, despite capitalism, its noiz, despite the sea of loneliness… life’s surely beautiful.

Back at the bay, morning steel guitar, festool talk and delicious grilled fish lunch with Ribas. Truly feel lucky and grateful



  October 2015

Por el suelo – a rayas – una culebra lleva un bicho, pero no un bicho cualquiera, un turbillón de Antequera, reluciente, despanpanante, como si fuera nuevo y se estrenara majestuoso en sus ojeras.

Ay! no se puede, en la noche dormir con prisa y malas maneras, no se puede porque la almohada se acementa mientras que el lecho voltea chicle y uno mismo sinónimo en desusanza… y aunque poco quede para que todo lo achique la pereza…

La pecera de la muerte, mientras tantito de lo dicho antes, la van llenando fantasmas del pasado caducos y en el futuro-tanqués.

Qué bién se teclea con la estilográfica, obcecadamente de bién, onomatopeyicamente fluído… un dia, porque siempre llega el dia tras la insomnia, el sonido del própio escribir será un cliché usado para referir fulminante antigüedad… como el mini-traqueteo acelerado de un proyector de 8 milímetros, más o menos, más o menos.

Soy un fracaso… pero no miento si digo que el admitir del própio hecho me colma de paz. Ahora ( con tremendos aspavientos… del género que sólo ocurren dentro de nosotros, como y para siempre grupo anónimo), ahora cuánto va del conformismo y de la innanición del espíritu al aceptar qué es uno, a sincronizarnos con este ahora tragaperras? Yo personalmente no poseo respuesta alguna, en vez, me divierto sobremanera viendo al mosquito intentando desesperadamente – y si tenemos en cuenta lo poquito que viven los mosquitos pues aún más desesperante se vuelve la cosa – intentando, decía, aunque ahora que la veo ahí, tan concienzuda en su escrutinio ( qué poco sabemos de la vida emocional de estas lumpen) , más parece que prepare una emboscada mortífera, musquitum pterodactilis … en fin yo quería rimar con la palabra “mosquitera” pero ni modo oye, no hay manera.

Aparte del incordio de estas pequeñas vampiras-F16, sólo quien haya visitado una zona tropical plagada de malaría otorga a esta sábana hecha de agujeritos poderes mágicos y reboza cariño con sólo contemplar su puesta en escena. He dicho.

Voy a subir a la nevera y comer unas galletitas con un vasito de leche tépida, ja ja ja, que no, que no, que a mi me gusta fría… igual y si sobrevivo a la emboscada, al ratito nos vemos… O será mejor si la mato, espachurrándola entre los dedos…?
Ahí está la respuesta, ya viste?! NoJotros podemos cuestionarnos, las mosquitas no. Poder elegir es una mierda, ja ja ja

Bueno; pues ya así de puestos y no más que aunque ahoritita mismo ya me vea yo como que en la obligación de intentar de algún modo continuar entreniéndole -pues que leer trae solera como actividad individualizante – ya me comí las galletas, no sé cuántas porque no las cuento, pares, de las pocas pares en mi pertenencia, porque me las como de dos en dos, bueno y los calcetines, pero esos no me los como, los agujereteo.

Mientras que del desayuno madrugador, he pensado ( actividad de riesgo por lo infructuosa, falaz y adictiva) en las hormigas. A mi las hormigas y las abejas me caen bién; son trabajadoras y socialistas. Los mosquitos son medio facistoides, que no?! Los grillos son temporeros, anarquistas y fumetas… por cierto, increíble lo definido en la banda sonora que trae la noche: el chirpi chirpi hiper-agudo de los grillos y mira (míralo bién) que estamos a medio-octubre, pero la verdad hace de manga corta y los grillos lo saben; el ronroneo oxidante, omnipresente y no-sé-que-que-que de una fragata-draga anclada en la bahía y, claro, las olas de la mar, ésas 24/7/365. Las olas, saladas, también me simpatizan.

Pues antes que ocurra algo más ( para contar) voy a ver si viene Oreo, digo Orfeo ( oro y feo, qué mezcla?!)… Mañana ( bueno de aquí a poco) va a ser bonito.

Soy brutote pero muy agradecido, así que gracias por leer y que te vaya lindo



cabac=1 / ref=4 / deblock=1:-1:-1 / analyse=0x3:0x113 / me=umh / subme=9 / psy=1 / psy_rd=1.00:0.15 / mixed_ref=1 / me_range=24 / chroma_me=1 / trellis=2 / 8x8dct=1 / cqm=0 / deadzone=21,11 / fast_pskip=1 / chroma_qp_offset=-3 / threads=32 / lookahead_threads=4 / sliced_threads=0 / nr=0 / decimate=1 / interlaced=0 / bluray_compat=0 / constrained_intra=0 / bframes=3 / b_pyramid=2 / b_adapt=1 / b_bias=0 ☀ / direct=1 / weightb=1 / open_gop=0 / weightp=2 / keyint=250 / keyint_min=25 / scenecut=40 / intra_refresh=0 / rc_lookahead=50 / rc=2pass / mbtree=1 / bitrate=1500 / ratetol=1.0 / qcomp=0.60 / qpmin=0 / qpmax=69 / qpstep=4 / cplxblur=20.0 / qblur=0.5 / vbv_maxrate=31250 / vbv_bufsize=31250 / nal_hrd=none / filler=0 / ip_ratio=1.40 / aq=3:1.00  September 2015

Throw myself into the streets as a normal thing to do on a normal day… but something’s strange; off. Where am I, what is this? Am I going crazy? Oh my god (read accentuating the pauses between words as if a teenage girl in Minnesota) I am tripping, I’m squinchtilating, zeddubing, flipgortitating, rotoblasting big time… uuuuu, uuuhhhuu uuh uu uuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhh aaahhhha aaahhh!!!!

My bedroom’s window has been uninterruptedly wide open for the last 5 months, that must be it, the city’s fumes finally kicking in. And so this disproportion of scents, the splotch of colours hurting me eye, the weird twixtor in movements and semi fluid state of earth’s spine… uhuuuuu, now all these people make sense, it makes sense they’re in ma head. Nhgek! wish I’d been issued some kind of warning, some clear, unavoidably giant luminous sign… but on the other hand, what a nice surprise YO T!!

So… relax Max, fasten the seat belt and enjoy the trip, ride along IF-brother!!

//// ……….. some indescribable and defying any notion or concept of a possible beyond “this” {time} after ////

At my street’s soul-sourcing, ritualistic mumblings, publicly accepted addiction’s get-together, simplistic abridged to café – but nobody drinks coffee after 5 o’clock {face off} – this is a fucking theatre, the theatre of life and it’s a blast of fun and I can participate and all, in all and with all of my own bullshit; can you believe it? For free!!

Let me see what’s on the program, between the mistreated woman and the bureaucracy needed just not to be mistreated, the football, the soft political satire and tax cursing, the burnt raisins going on detail about the good old times, their lovers, the one whisky bottle a night, the whores, the booz feed, the recipes for great sexual life… alone, the six o’clock soup, the ´whose paying this round?´ echo, the football, the undercover cop that looks like a crossbreed of lonely pimp and travesty, feeding the dog without elbows, feeding the wax lady, feeding all preconceptions about myself, the voluminously tight butt fighting to break free from within a two sizes below white pants’ nurse from the dental clinic, the football, lawyers carefully analysing the odds to squeeze a bit more, a lot more out of anyone, everyone, the wifi controlled children, the smoke made out of time, the time made out of sticky sexist jokes, the old unflagging lady always bringing strangely sweet plasters – wait we have 2 black widows (yes I repeat two widows in black) from a man, a neighbour who recently died, sorry passed away, now into the rot, he went to get his toe nail cut lalalá and something went terribly terribly wrong, so we, somehow, quickly have to stop drinking, stand up, put sad dog face and say maximum 10 words that make sense, you know what? I’m not getting up – … Gee there’s a lot to engage with and get even higher

Tried to go shopping but the lack of inspiration and the “products”… How am I supposed to eat this veggies? They look like a deformed cute little familly!!!
Bring it on, lets dance!!




( . . . ) in – out  September 2015

Woke up with a hard-on, what a waste!
Woke up to the dead of night… so hungry…

I light up a candle, dress stealth under the moustache and embark on a quick trip to raid the kitchen, trying not to disturb VP. Managed:
A cluster of round, dark and sweet grapes, a black beer, organic corn cakes ( 5 and 1/2 by my count), fresh and middle-matured goat cheese, some french butter and dijon mustard and a handful of pink radish sprouts.

Ate and drank it all, still hungry but realising food it’s not gonna put down the bug’s inextinguishable fire. Bill Viola anyone?

The tiny rodent making late anthropological work in my room doesn’t care… Just don’t wake me up oh little you!!
Roll a cigarette, open the window, jump outside. It’s dark still, it’s hot still; the cicadas seem to be getting out of batteries. Some faraway lights, some clouds, a couple anxious roosters and plenty stars.

Glad I called my friend Arne. I’m a reckless lonely wolf, a lonely wolf with a mobile phone… of which I barely make use. But somehow, when I’m about to start travelling I like to call someone, by now has become a kind of personal silly tradition.

This song’s cover on ma head playing looped since I woke up; South Salito

Writing has a lot to do with filming at least to me it does.


A cloud comes to mind; Madrid, that fiery summer’s night I crossed the whole city ridding a magic owl to meet… to be with Ana. What a beautiful night it was, how hungry we were, how unaware of anything beyond the reach of our hands. Love devouring from inside…

Breath… a deep in – out movement, in – – out, feel much better now.

Come back inside, close the window, hear the mosquito’s rave that got started, blow out the candle, lay in bed, in – out, in – – out, in – – – out, happy I’m here,
in – – out, in – – – out, now, in – – out, this sense of gratefulness almost makes me wanna thank aloud, in – out, in – – – – out, thank you in – – – out, in – – out, little careless mouse goes on with night excavations, in – – out, thank you for waking me up buddy =)



August 2015

The town’s effervescenting with life. If you were here you’ld fucking know that the only possible word to describe this collapsation of spice-time is effervescenting.

People’s skins are toasted to a healthy cinnamon tone and a gentle breeze goes around loaded with hormones, salt, sun lotion and summer ephemeral passions.

Sitting under an old tree in the central square.

Many years ago I also lived my passions here, though now it all feels distant and foggy like the residue of an ancient dream.

Sufi say “the whole world fits in the heart of a man”, Gabiot the seagul couldn’t care less about that stuff… surfing the coast, making spontaneous poop art and eating fresh fish is what is all about, maybe making a baby once a year and then push him from the rooftop so he can enjoy the world, pretty cool I’ld say… anyway I drift again…

An elderly couple is sitting in a bench nearby, we’re all under the same old tree. They are having a snack and probably engaging the same present I do, maybe just a bit slower; I wonder if by now their dream has shunted further away or just blended completely in.

While the teenagers rush somewhere a couple’s friend arrived. They greet him.

In another bench there’s this girl with long long beautiful hair. If I say that it looks like a flow of honey, doesn’t make it justice.

Food of the fifth gamma and fucking camera freezed out ’cause of pal or ntsc dilemma, stupid fucking piece of… uhmmmm the fish is just too good… total unashamefullnable mouth-stomach orgazm.

The fog engulfs the bay. Human ghosts emerge from parallel worlds. If I weren’t so happily embodying the best grilled fish in the universe I’ld totally go for a swim, water’s temperature feels just perfect. The general mood is very peaceful, everybody seems at ease and energy is high and jaunty.

Yes, I am drunk and happy!! I want to salute all souls that pass by; young, and innocent or twisted old and loaded with the wisest sins. The truth is I make no distinction, I feel brother and sister to all of them; the wrinkled old fisherman, the widow and her grandson, the ever loud brazilian couple and the cranky retired bus driver, the rich ukranian tourists and the tall, burnt dutch misses.

I am one with them, without hysterism nor passiveness.

I rejoice within same present.

I flow in the same moment, I smile to life… and to death…

I am as part light as part shadow as everyone else’s =)

Forgive me my little princess, you know I’ve got temper/patience issues; in the end the fault was mine anyway, you rock and record my world I hope you last longer than last one, je je. Look how bichifool chu recordid di flawer chuchu chuuch@!!



The embarrasing moment of being myself  July 2015

Burnt eyelashes
albino tinto breakfast without a soul,
naked palm-tree
inpudic dead dancing.

All I see
but the kettle sprayed on the wall,
my heart is gone
my heart is gone

with the sad potato chips
back skin peeling off
wrist invader strain
enhancing cosmos

Meet my neighbour
she grabs my hand
and tells me about
her dumb-ass husband,
we plan his death
by poison.

A little table
looks like a spider




Cansado de esconder
la boca en la mano,
me trepo a mi ego…
mira qué chiquito
se ve todo!!
y si me caigo?

El perfume de las mujeres
se mezcla con el de las flores…
ya no sé adonde estoy
ni cual era mi destino;
bueno que no se me olvide de respirar

Comprando filtros y cerveza,
una chica tatuada por el sol
y una tan viejita
que el propio tiempo se perdió
entre los pliegues de su piél



The feet
on the sand
at the sun
a strip of blue sea
a gradient sky
on top
as backdrop
a clear gradient of sky
and under
some humans
and over
Then waves
and patterns
and drift they drift
spin then drive
then drift
beautifully hopeless
millions of holes
like dunes
but smaller.

Faraway mountains
of semen houses
a stick
a butt
a plain
the green
of the pines
the loco-flora green
sand beetles
going about
their funny walks
not so funny flies
a breeze
the feet getting red
seagulls’ master class
on tap dancing.
Squeaky bird
feeding the beat
and beetles
eating a peach,
baby seagull
another plain
my brother
… time to wake up

{unfinishable loop}




HOUNDss no borboletario


Today’s hot
people looking crazy
reality’s melting off
leaving a grotesque delayed
. . . trail
of humanity . . .

What is it that is
you want me calling you?

My base is sound
extra pacacity dismal reflexion
so I can leave the ground
to the other side of sanity.

While we excel at being us
the clouds merge into each other,
people go shopping,
a little girls’s mesmerized
by her reflexions on the cars
as she walks . . . very slowly,
her father shouts – hurry up!

The light holds all
buildings’ roofs
and a black mama passes
with a collosal butt
enclosured by too tight
a pair of jeans.

Budhas’s watching over us
assisted by the solar powered praying wheels
made in China.
Dikky’s onto online puppies,
we’re about to eat

I drank
I spoke my BS out,
I looked
and was looked in the eye.

In the public transport
next to 3 african muslim pops,
My heart is my biggest person
. . . really . . .


an impromptu form, from just now


All the tyrant children of the world
were transformed into tiny baby squids,
they kept their shinny innocent eyes
while their parents ate them.
It happened on a Sunday
precisely, when the same phrase
letf the shelter of their blossoming mouths:
I always want to remain bored.

more loose stuff from afternoon at the park

The tree is leaving
I don’t know where
but it’s leaving.
Said domethin’ about
the only path being the one under its roots

The tree is leaving
and I am taking its place,
’cause I always wondered
how would it be like
to feel the rain
for a couple hundred years
and then take six weeks
to undress . / . ;
droping leave by leave
onto the whirly mouths
of northern winds

Having a family of coal ravens
or a myriad sparrows
would be such a cooly coolio YO!

Of many creatures’ lives
I’ld become witness and confident

\\\ the sound of a beaten and enraged teddy bear at a teddy bear’s therapy session is quite somethin’ – I’ve been told ///

I wonder how long it takes
for an email tree to tree?
I could write:
Salam alecum brother oak,
how are you doing today?




Paco, las perlas de tu boca eran silencios embarazados
April 2015

       It was my last year in high-school – code name in old spanish’s studying system: COU – which is mandatory only if you’re planning to go to university.

What the hell was I still doing there?!! I cannot tell, but I clearly recall I had decided not to go to university and do a 3 year image module instead. For me it was then cristal clear I wanted to understand and be able to decypher the surrounding world of images. So… I spent the best part of the year smoking joints, fucking, playing volleyball, tripping to the beach and… writing… in no particular priority order 😛

Through high-school I met all kind of “teachers”, from the professional ones that took everything seriously and were very disapointed at my waste of potential, to Hitler worshippers, dubious yet very friendly and lived bisexual beings, unbearable little dump smelling mouth rats, to the ones who wanted to be cool, the cynical old masters trying to get to retirement as sane as possible or the ones who didn’t give a fuck.

Paco was neither of those. He instructed language and literature; at the time we used to make fun of him, specially his inability to pronunciate the “r”; so we recite this paragraph of a poem the pearls of your mouth. Paco was from a village that is commonly regarded in Spainish culture as the place where brutish people are borned and thus many jokes start with someone from this village: Lepe.

Irony from the destiny, through my 5 years (I failed one) of HS public study, Paco was probably the only grown guy who understood me and respected me. At the time I was too dazed and confused to see that, but after 20 years – I must now have the age Paco had when I was his student – it is touchingly evident how this guy influenced me.

For starters he talked to me and listened to me, Paco also understood that part of being a teenager is breaking rules, questioning authority, trying new things and so on, so he was pretty flexible about some clowning and some joking during his classes, from time to time he would also engage the hormonal mayhem which was puzzling to say the least. In one of our talks I told him I had zero interest whatsoever in his subject matter, I also confessed that I didn’t really know what I was doing there. He was an awesome humble guy and as such he didn’t take what I told him as something personal, instead he proposed me a deal: You like to draw and write poems and stuff don’t you? So you can come to my classes and do whatever you want as long as you don’t disturb the others. Of course I cannot pass you, but if you change your mind you can study during summer and go to September exams.  

And so I had a warm place where I would spent several hours a week drawing intricate nightmarish stuff and writing many many popoozas. Since recently I have been going through all of them (thousands of pages) and must say, most of it is so obnoxiously repetitive, nonsensical or full of agony, formal yet chaotic and… a search, a search for my own code, my own language, a search for answers and the meaning of dreams, unstable emotions, overwhelming passions… and off course the unknownable… that is not worth even reading. And despite this fact, at the time, Paco was always very curious of what was going on in my little notebooks, ja ja ja. Almost at the end of the year he even offered to proofread them and give me feedback and so he did. He corrected ALL of my orthographic mistakes and took little humorous notes with a very light pencil. Paco didn’t say I like this or I don’t like that, intead he pointed out some writers I might be interested and just underlined some parts.


That (have to refrain from crying as you would not see my beautiful shiny tears) touched me beyond anything I can express, despite all the shitload I was going through I had a clear goal to achieve. I spent the whole summer studying, no beach, no friends, no parties… not easy to do if you’re turning 18!!! I was a devoted studious disciple of the spanish grammar… and of other disciplines. Aunt Rosa (she’s not really my aunt but a cool friend of mum’s whose hair is made out of fire and whiskey) helped me immensely too. In september I passed ALL of them. But in the language test I made a mistake that would have failed me with anybody else… I had to analyse a phrase and I mistook it. Funny enough this guy from the brutish cradle of Spain, so they say, understood that even though I had not correctly identified the type of phrase, I did analyse my mistake correctly and so it was not as important that I just accumulated knowledge as was that I knew how to use it =)

Today I am fully conscient that without me knowing it, Paco was a real teacher, he didn’t taught me with words, he planted seeds to grow in the future, now. I started to write when I was maybe 8 or 9, but since that last year at high-school I’ve been trying to write more freely, more true, more passionate and yet consciously. I knew then, after that year, that images and words, sounds and silences, all are part of a dainty ever-growing and whole pervading language.

Today is almost twenty years later and although I don’t even recall his surname I am plenty grateful that LIFE crossed our paths. I must be now the age Paco was when I was his student and I would underline those same loose lines, part of them run below -)

Te presentas en negro tintada,
atrapas mis ojos
y del corazón alado,
encerrado en la infinita abertura
que es su boca,
los labios rellenos de labios.

Tu lengua es la lengua del tiempo
hace mella en mi boca
eternamente humedecida
por el roce de esos labios.
Marfil choca marfil,
dedos de piel,
calor líquido…
…hombres luchando.

Tus hirientes dientes clávanse en mi yugular,
chorros de tinta,
baluarte e infierno en mis poros,
el color del olvido eterno y frutálico,
una memoria oxidada,
un conducto hepático dañado,
una ducha de sangre y vísceras.

Y es mareo el camino hasta-laverno,
como nube verde, paladar rojo,
gritos de auxilio al filo del abismo.
Fría y cortante noche de invierno,
de tu mano que es estéril recojo
las semillas mías… de paludismo

• • •

Como en un río, la palabra de amor fluye…
desde su nacimiento inquieto y goteante.
Mil hojas en un sólo viento
mil lágrimas en una pena sola.

Veo llover en tus ojos
llenos de peces ingenuos.
Soy lago y soy pez,
una ración de pena,
el llorar diseccionado…
en símbolos de piedra.

El tañir de una campana en el desierto,
metálica sombra profunda de deseo,
sonidos besándonos con su rostro líquido
los párpados.

Te huelo,
te siento por dentro
té frío Don Simón.

La acelerada caída del telón
con imágenes encadenadas a gritos
tropiezan con el aire…
es la sombra donde nos ocultamos
del miedo, en su forma de serpiente.

La mente que encarcela
los sentimientos,
en un talud de dolor,
es el mar que no cesa
golpear eterno
de sí mismo contra el sol.

de nuevo empaparé mis palabras
en el enorme perdón.

• • •

Moldeando su cara,
así me lo encontré,
infinitas son las posibilidades
en el lago de tus ojos

Alivia de tu carne el dolor
para que la herida nunca sane,
perdido en la tempestad sé
de unos labios que me darán la calma

Gris plomizo para un sabor
cementado en boca de plástico,
mastigadas palabras como castigo
al abandono del placer sentido…
Inteligible parece el cántico
orquestado sin alma ni motor

Inocuo lagrimeo contorsionado
en el pálido rostro falaz,
me encuentro buscando la verdad
en tu tenebrosa selva sin claros

• • •

Bajo un tremendo dolor
se oculta un infinito placer,
tras la oscura cortina
todo lo abarca
tu sonrisa… feliz

¿Quién maneja
las ruidosas cadenas
con las que la noche
ata mi locura?

Cuelga el teléfono
dime… ahora… cuánto!
Cuelga tus sentidos
del perchero de mi alma;
te llevaré por un viaje,
arrancaré los paisajes
maravillosos, que en tu interior
se forman cada amanecer

• • •

Mis deseos todos
en un punto concreto encadenados,
futuro en lo que somos
de presente aplazado

¡¡Turbinas de carne por
hélices de piel!!
Oscuras pero lustrosas partes por
la unidad que siembran en un ser

La llama encendida
de la llama apagada hermana,
una ostenta la vida,
la otra es un recuerdo en la nada.

El sol padrino de tantos,
la luna en los tanatorios;
la mentira y cerrojazo,
su certeza en vomitorios,

… and BTW ¡¡¡VIVA LEPE!!!!



Can I say animal words?


For some time now I don’t like to think, I’ld rather flow, flow with the rosemary, find the answers imbued on banana peels and pervading all the paths, all the meaning, all the preachy words that come out my dirty mouth.

I’m not happy and like me there are millions of people, maybe you feel the same. But I don’t hope I’ll be, I hate hope… it is the western’s socio-economical tick that has succeeded in hiding its individual growth’s interests and selling us a freedom of choices’ possible happyness bullshit. Meanwhile it sucks our blood, our light, our dreams and spreads larger and larger consumed by an insatiable hunger.

Presenter is a clown, inner most rational realisation, related to will power?… WTF?!!! Personally I would relegate “choosing” to a whole byproduct of most important thing, to be able to be conscious.
For me that’s the only true possible freedom available… and by my account, freedom it’s so much better than (illusory) happiness

But what am I talking about, who cares? That, right there, it’s so freeing and yet scary: who cares?

Quantising the choices, reducing them by bypassing whatever could be there available to a given set, creating niches and one day will arrive cybernetic simulators. Make the most profit the fastest possible says the rabbit before getting beheaded, crazy crazy global comparison models making sure it is never good enough, you are never good enough, what? Yes, oh yeah fucking yes!!! Let me roll down through all the linear schnittstellen and sing the neverending song of the sharing information paradigm.

Meanwhile, there has been stablished a course of actions to attain the cure for all possible deseases, I firmly believe everything I’m being told; I’m a fucking obedient dog, here guau guau grrrrr!!

Around the world, round about the content creation fun moment, people hold hands, reaching for the useless scraps that once were our souls, singing defeated eulogies for the places we used to belong… but don’t worry all is good, nothing to be afraid, happiness is coming said the consortium of downgrading doctors.

I feel like a piece of technology, a piece of human technology, programmed to be obsolete, programmed to go Ego-YOLO and then made liturgically disposable… or maybe recycled in someone better, someone who runs on fun, someone who doesn’t loose pretious time wondering what happened with growing together? Someone who everything sanctions with a good job John!!

Life itself seems to have become a niche, as we navigate through a set of frozen, self unpacking and pre-digested given choices without even understanding or caring anymore for what the fuck are we doing and more importantly WHY are we doing it?!!

At least ants are unaware and then… who knows?… maybe free of this torture among brothers and sisters.



Arne says this is a song
March 2015









Excerpt from gtr (spen) • paste url to poem

The black screen slow reading turtle
with nails made out precious stones
is coming through a soul-cluster
smiling rainbows and axial-moments
all aspherical light bleeding
little orbed mirrors as pupils
to say: wake up man, wake up


Wonder how much OFF
till everything OFF
had become
swollen flakes and OFF
radioactive dust
backpack glued OFF
spiralLing OFF
sunshine rays
the inner OFF
ear and fingers hard OFF
metal scrapes
. . .
on a
. . .
outer city’s








Back from 2009 Como los Cangrejos




January 2015


I’m sorry yells
the sunset’s engulfing light
While traffic mesh’s score
follows as usual,
people pass by
leaving a trail of unfinishable conversation,
A plain,
another plain imitating the former,
Some funny birds,
excited, playing catch,
Relight the cigarette,
check horizon for stability,
check golden hues,
temperature decreasing
Directly gazing the sun
or grey matter nurturing,
check for spots,
small dogs with silly names
and free falling angels.

Don’t forget to breath
written down
as first to-do list item
Change skin,
spit on tempo
with the universe’s lock down rehearsal,
trim moustache,
exagerate blonde’s leg skinniness,
enjoy the company of solitude,
roll another smoke,
release all the apple’s snakes,
gently accommodate testicles,
both left and right…

said the heart attack
to the humming bird




excerpts from excerpts form exceptions // possible captions  November 2014


..… a burdeos backpack, this guy in hiss-commercial car, making hands even tinier, the kid has a cute face and twisted teeth, freckles and oxygen tank, pulling the dog with the left arm, makes me feel sad, eyes fried with light, heart fried with love, pulling the dog with his right arm, keep the pace, have to breathe now, gashô, the city is engulfed in peacefulness fake dust, helpless bullets giving birth, delta magic and tremeluzentes bursts, wrinkles still, the strangest rolling shutter of a child’s dying scream, wonder wounds, free everything till saturday coupon definitive idea forwarded, old man, hello mum, during that time, new man, pervading shadows, chords of beauty, exits rumbles checking accurate values, LIFE, some other prototypes, entering now, thank you, uhh portrait, ohhh free fall, minimized self oh my, did I mention the cars without context?, sex-up tasks, chickpeas joining the digital age revolution paradigm, that pretty girl all crooked over her pink tablet, exploding airbags, and everybody finally waking up to find each other movements apart, back in the bus, back in bed, back in dream’s twisted arms, I respect you, dog, cat, bird, frying pan, cloud, emails, raining, smoke, fog, water inside out, in order to remain in order to remain in order, pupils, brain, drugged old lady death scent, humid streets, the darkest night, the brightest soul, bodhisattva zone, magic words random your mouth, red little book with drawings, forget, forgive, forload, forroboró, robofor chisel craving my heart, helloooooo, are you there?, let’s commit to the motherfucking common sense, real loneliness, ja ja já, theater is made out many pieces, waiting for mean rain, go away pain, the kid has a cute face, the shininess, taling, timing, trimming, telling and always searching for sugar while the countless freckles span…



loose rumbles  November 2014


By realese all means I jump into the abysm of your pussy wet cream, I obviously meant dream but it’s so tender to render a lie out of life that I’m affraid of overdoing… Digg the whole perspiration of things being borned and sensible to the flesh while already dying in our heads. Sharing flag testaments endorfines and the unshameless light of conscious noodles, making genders cry with outmost desert wave thirst for spontaneous clog swipe bubble psychopathic letchuces’ heart breaking infancy while the world of human crumbles gets harcorisized with sweet, inminent fractal pneumonias most mistake for oranges or orgazms or orcas or ortodox relationing… What a screaming of waste funeral arrangements and pay-me now curative rituals baby!
So, let’s fuck!
I love while I’m rotting
it could be no other way
there’s no contradiction
and furthermore it’s the same

And I rote very fast
so sometimes I don’t get to choose
what I love and
the objects of my affection
become very unusual things…
like a potato peel, the unknown corner of a street,
a scent left (to) drifting // cast away

As I keep rotting
I keep loving, that is
somehow a relief,
a redeeming circumstance
for loving while dying

At dusk a burning cloud
folding into dreams,
where would we take shelter, refugee?

The city landscape seems static and defined
when observed from faraway, but
as soon as one starts walking through its streets
and squares it becomes alive and fluid,
all integrating matrix of life,
infinite spontaneity flow of being alive…
and dying at the same time. Beauty!

One cannot stop loving,
well one can but that doesn’t make the rotting stop

There’s nothing to control
which means we are not free
unless we ditch that silly idea

Just breathing is an ongoing miracle,
why don’t we stop breathing?

Same thing extrapolated to all other “things”
Why don’t we just breath?

Good in nature is spontaneous humbleness
taking place even if is no good
But good or bad are just words,
brother-words from the same mom
We are the father of those words
and the outcome
and the mirrored image looking back
where they change costumes
and comb their hair

We are so busy embodiying all these concatenation of ideas
that we pass the present to the past longing for a confy future,
we poison any possible spontaneity of loving
so to have a false sense of belonging between us.

The mistery of the unknowable needs space to breathe
and live through our ever ongoing rotening

And, to me, the saddest is to just have the past to share,
memories cemented too heavy to be lifted, too easy and comfortable
to adventure our souls into new mysteries


It has rained all week
the streets are full of mud
I feel like puking
but is not ’cause of the mud
it’s ’cause of the coffee
I’ve been drinking way too much coffee.

Hey but someone
has to keep company with solitude
and the ducks seem too busy
rehearsing strange laughs.

The light has turned golden and green
so blondes are more blonde
still and grass
and foliage is way overdubbed

I called a friend
but didn’t answer
so here I am wondering
the streets with nothing
to do and nowhere to go

I’m pretty lucky
by not answering my friend made possible
for me to check the revolution birds do
when they go to sleep.

Wish I had a favourite coffee place or bar
where to go in the lonely afternoons
like this one and call the waiters by their name.

But I am unshamely too unrooted,
maybe loving chaos too much.
Maybe detached,
maybe scared,
probably too lost
to turn back the ship…

…a girl in red has sat nearby,
I wonder what’s her story.

Maybe she’s listening to songs
(I cannot tell) and living her own music video.
I know I’m living mine just
with these crazy birds

WHILE I loose count of my beard’s new white sprouts – descending curve to the left,
next to recycling bin skuba love, lost & found random memory failure department…

A girl in the bus with the hair all wet,
short coverall pants and big ass… so sexy.
A phosphorous hair young fellow’s
sitting and chatting with a wannabe blonde.

Russians enter and she sits next to me,
smells like candy, I smell like a dog, a wet horny dog from hell…
but don’t worry she’s too busy consulting with her mobile phone.

Sexy girl prepares to leave… what the fuck!!!
I’ve been all my life repairing to arrive

A gray hair, thick glasses middle aged cro-magnon woman
tries to make a circle on the window and so – with such a
simple gesture – art was borned

This bus looks and feels more like a sauna
of human humidity, wet hair and slippery motion.

The girl next to me has now the chance
either to stop playing with her hair and
talk to me or to go sit next to her very attractive
russian girlfriend

Now in the tube and a girl sits next to me
— I start to sound like a dirty old man, good!!—
it feels I put my head in a garden
full of blossoming flowers. She’s busy
with her mobile phone and listening to somethin’

Just in time the accordionist arrive with his
micro dog. He must be, what, 19, 20 now?
I remember when he was a very small kid
with a very small dog. He’s playing well today.
Time to leave

Clouds are having fun on top of the mountain.
Plenty rain for cereal crops,
for bone structure not so good.

I wear the clown’s invisible make-up,
pink is a great colour…
I wonder if I’ll have something pink inside.

What a nice spot to witness this awful weather.

Two chicks leave,
they bought milk
and condoms.

Fine rain,
thin grain
give a hug,
rig-me with love
or pretend I’m dead.

Very visual burdeos mercedes
driven by a man, a man like I am,
just my pink mercedes’ on the mechanic
right now, this, here,
this old guy driving very very slowly his

The monstrosity of present’s stain…
why even bother to get rid of it?

Embrace the stain,
dress pink in the rain
be those clouds
having fun on top of the mountain,
tall, steady but unsexy,
faraway yet present….
unembraceable grey matter of the universe
take me now though I might not be pink enough,
I’m ready



1 coisa a mais  July 2014


Sou 1 coisa a mais
a olhar pela janela
do peito do prédio que me alberga.

Sou 1 coisa a mais
assim tão fácil,
não me tenho que preocupar
pois já como coisa definido estou;

como coisa, mas não sozinha,
há outras, eu só sou mais uma
no acumulo de coisas
que se geram e se juntam,
que se amam, se ignoram ou desprezam,
que se encontram ou se perdem…

E o saber que sou a mais
dá-me a liberdade efémera
de pensar que poderei também eu partir…
mas partir p’ra onde?
p’ra fazer parte do que?

Se calhar p’ra ser uma coisa a menos
ou quem sabe, ate coisa deixar de ser.

Mas a verdade é que eu não quero
de todo deixar de ser coisa,
porque curto a cenografia que as coisas temos
e os rituais de que fazemos parte
durante a nossa vida na Terra.

Eu gostava sim,
que em recompensa pelo árduo trabalho
que tenho em quanto coisa,
pudesse desfrutar dum estatuto mais digno,
algo assim como vir a ser
A coisa a mais…

Mas se calhar também é demais,
imagino-me a ficar com o peso do olhar reprovador
d’alguma outra coisa invejosa e
lidar com o crescimento insustentável do
e g O
não há nada pior
que uma coisa com ego em demasia.

Em fim,
vendo melhor a coisa,
acho que estou bem assim
sendo simplesmente
1 coisa a mais… a
olhar pela janela.




Unfinished letter to a dead friend  May 2014


My dear FRIEND:

You’d like to know
the stone man is comming
he’s gonna fullfill I’ve been told
meanwhile the rehab’s going well.
The intro countdown’s random enough,
the seagulls seem loudly happy,
the ocean engulfs my soul beyond
any possible safety measure
and everything’s turning into everything
through unfamilliar patterns that
I make my best to embrace…
picture a bear embracing nail cutting, je je.

It’s overwhelming to let yourself be overwhelmed
by the tiniest inconspicuous little things
like the death of a bee
or the slow rocking dance of a standard pine tree.

The threshold of what makes me happy got so low
that now even the threat of a precariously insipid breeze blow
or a wild flower painted with the most common unrefined colours
can draw me a smile which echoes and echoes and echoes
in turtle dreams =)

Amidst all this “stuff”
I often think of you, not to keep me company
but as a way of preserving a bunch of nice memories
and further nurture the light of your spirit.

You were a good friend,
how’s that measured anyway?
You were my friend,
through many adventures,
y         o         u
taught me important lessons
never hidden the mud behind poetry
and for that I’ll honour our relationship
every single day of my life;

The sea darker blue
the sky pale skin or celest blue
and the clouds, the motherfucking neverending
sheep, I’ll swear someday now they’re going to start
meeee meeeee meeeee

Wait a sec, the sun is bursting
I’ll go and catch some for us

Do you remember those songs
that lasted several days
and the nights just a few seconds?
I remember mushrooms growing everywhere
and walls painted with smilles
mirrors and crazy gazing
drunken chicks wanting
more and more.

Do you RememberS all those friends
that vanished in the mourning
and the discombulated talk
about… well, anything really?
Just skeletons trying to scape
the mussel hustle.

I remember your drawings,
spiralling, always spiralling.

I remember that neverending love
made of precise molecules
and the chaos of trying to
deal with it
having to get through it

I remember your face
coming out of the shadows
of the strangest fairy tale story
and that constant mantra of yours:
good vibe, good vibe,
everything’s allright
everything’s allright
I have control
I have control

Well, that was just a belt
attached to thin air,
wasn’t it?
We were too young
too dum and full of cum
we didn’t know fear
and that
no freedom,
‘cause wasn’t an option
just a master ticket
to all heavens and hells
skipping purgatories and meals
and all boring things in between.
We had a lot of fun though,
we burnt bright, piercing the night
while dancing and dancing and dancing
blindly, passionately, unconsciously




The horny inverted bunny  Feb/March 2014


The horny inverted bunny

fucking everything upside down

while days drift

like a song you haven’t heard


The sea atop the trees

keeps merging onto IP7

just for downscaling purposes,

powering ghost moans,

discussing products…

doesn’t go persons


I love you – says the flea

then bites and dies, big smiles only

Have you backed up today?

Have your self back again, sir!

Thank you


Wind blows so strong

I might forget to backup

I might even forget

to forget the path

amidst a trail of smoke

and a thousand and one nights

of silently talking to the walls of the universe


no tight nots

no sunshine at midnight

no wet pussy for breakfast, ohhhh


It’s okay, it’s okay, it is okay

keep saying till sun arises

it’s okay it’s okay it is okay

it is okay

it   is   okay

it     is     okay

it         is         okay

it                 is                 okay

it                                 is                                 okay




the little mirror  November 2013


The little mirror outside the hall
between the bouncing rays of light
left by a hurry someone told
lubricated and snorting constantly
consonants made of pure truth
ja ja já


“Kiss me
   my arm”




Then you came, you;
unexpected crawling from within
the hall itself bended
and extended my arm too much
too much too much too much
too much too


              my throat”


That was not
what I was
anywhere lost anyway child.
Now the thought of the memory
blinking inside a jar
beside the semi-darken hallway
makes me want
not to go back


“Gain butt harder!”


My mouse is feeling sad
my house is made of sand
my nose is full of crap
my words not mine


Mind exploding blooded confetti
orgasm coperativism quarter inch
whole flavoured death wishes
refucking inside a moths’ brain


“That’s how you feel?”


what an awesome weep cream
passage to hell you’re delivering man!!!
I could use your skin to wrap me up at night
then for sure, no doubt,
I’d dream about all these worlds
making sense pass the hall
to the right, skip the shards
drink the light, then straight
reaaaallly straight forward
then free, then die
the come back
the die
then free
the coma back
then you kiss me
the kiss you
then we die
then we’re free
to come back
and start
everything again
without knowing each other






  November 2013




We do, we do we do we do, redo
We do not choose the things that touch us
We do not choose the things that touch us
They just do

I walk through the empty city
I walk the city through, like a ghost
All the friends that I meet want somethin’
What could they want from a ghost?
Walk through the empty city
Walk the city through, like a ghost
In the desert

There is like a caress
Like a rain caress
Descending from the sky
There is like a caress of rain
Descending from the sky
And I’m so shy
I can’t stop walking
If I stop I’m dead





world senday (uninstall)   August 2013


It’s like the world has come to an end

like if uninstalling itself

The day retreats leaving a burning trail…
a goldy warmy caress of peed light, and yes
August’s best to wander the cities

streets are empty


so many images

that need to let go

so many thoughts to abandon

to the flexy plexy destiny of ants
this is of no consequence
but sharing is loving
sometimes’ not enough.

How the fuck, yes the FUCK
I am gonna uninstalling love of me,
of inside me, of burning of motherfucking
burning me alive slowly, relentlessly,
passionately … and … finally

How to share without sharing
international happiness
yoghurt weavers
sky fridays
    sad music with           (avaliable) friends
    available — 1 and fatal,      hole, lazy … unfinishable





  June 2013


     What’s that smell, said the head of the plastic bags’ division management, just orange letters everfescenting everywhere.
A foreigner’s blurping, a young female (called that when fuckable but unsure of age) getting red, so many bags and they all look empty… oh well, I thought I was going somewhere. Took out the black sweatshirt, now I’m too red. Emerald shoes hugging flowers, a giant on the doorstep of this underground carriage. Brought the internet in my head, guess I’ll have to dump it somewhere next.
2 days latter, here we are, same underground, same carriage. Still in red, but now more african. Hangover of happiness… beautiful girl a body distance, fingernails paint also also also shinny red.2




drawings words  June 2013


Comin’ down from crystal palace to an earth strange,
feeling the feelings of the wind mingle with dry hair
and stealing the pores of the ground, asphalt everywhere.
No footsteps I can trace back,
 only squeletons
unable to breath, unable to laugh, skin is so tight.
Symbols need empty space ’cause they’re shy,
we rob them the power of their beauty singing
turning everything into context, all meaning.
What is important? I have had no focus in days
Who am I? Only in dreams I have lived
What am I doing here, writing on the back of torn books… ?
I’m truly sick and conversations have started,
If I could just chew the bones of silence – but machines,
machines and their deceiving decent words
have become my sirens, insect guides
of a short scattered melody
to the and the an in fucked up
– and here – fucked up – also here.
The hands on the chest the nail through the wall, through the hand, into the chest, through the heart, into the wall…
that ricochet is the brain






The sun’s setting
roll a cigarette
watch the leaves
in the tallest trees
say à demain

The swallows
surfing the sky
some big buildings, some small
the pale river
blurry other shore

Faraway mountains lying around
doing their thing
commercial planes
comin’ down, literally,
to the city

A car, a motorbike
and a guest brother gazing
we share
while we’re alive
these blood gradients
an apologetical skin
and the thrive
*to be in this world
without being of this world*

The soul almost set
time to change the eyes
fit the hoodie
take a lust breath of light
disengage the brain
put the hands
out of the pockets

Cold colours
drinking from roof ponds
the wind, always comes
a plain, drawing a line
time to roll a cigarette
and welcome the night

* sufi saying



fucking stones  May 2013

running over her with the car falling the nails of the stars to the earth and such a sound of despite and yet the talking still IS happening. what are you talking about? no no, what are you talking about?!!! communication must be the most beautiful of all the whores that ARE my mums, ji ji, I said that too many times in the last 10 minutes. in the last 10 minutes since I typed that I’ve been loving, yes it is measurable, yes it is contagious yes it is here aussi. some images become words, some sounds inside the words become silences which are born dead images, not tragic but necessary empty vessels for our eyes to find the confort of synchronization. I know, I know, this is all bullshit, but it is the best way to get rid of all the leeches at once…
it is also
a lie
at least if you happen to have a quantum physical heart inside.
at least the beast feasts only on stupidity
like mine, fresh, flowing honey, pure gold
so methodically radiant
everybody is.
if you do understand what I mean
good luck,
there are no belts,
there is no car,
the ground is not
you are not
only I am
repeat that now, for every single living being and
to every single living being give a kiss and
to yourself, which is like saying
to the lie
there is hope
consecrately violated
what an awful choosing of words

I can do better:
yet there is hope, yes that too is a lie. yes is such a shortcut
sure is just a seashore and so on and so forward.
what I mean is lets do the thing
love each other till we bleed
outside in
in a transplanted orgasm of light and ketchup
if not… well, then let me slip one of these images before they become
silences and die in me




when zombies are asleep – heart of suribachi #2  April 2013



when zombies are asleep
dreams are free compression artifacts gradients

when zombies are asleep
expand their dynamic range’s bite to infinity

when zombies are asleep
intro titles run as smoothly as brain’s grey matter

when zombies are asleep
all f-stops on every lens have wonderful bokeh

when zombies are asleep
gear runs on endless power

when zombies are asleep
focusing is easily accurate

when zombies are asleep
programs are real time oh yeahs!!!

when zombies are asleep
they’re one with motion blur

when zombies are asleep
they eat self-centered forum smart asses

when zombies are asleep
all is just pressing one button: now

when zombies are asleep
the chicks are nice zombies too

when zombies are asleep
politicians are fed to zombie dogs, cats and beavers

when zombies are asleep
framing is effortless… all is in perfect size

when zombies are asleep
other zombies are motherfucking compassionately helpful

when zombies are asleep
there’s no such a thing as corrupted cards or files

when zombies are asleep
they smile and have white teeth

when zombies are asleep
they see everything as for the first time

when zombies are asleep
there’s no need for keyboard, mouse… or computer

when zombies are asleep
the apocalypse is same for all

when zombies are asleep
humans are easy to talk, easy to befriend and tender to eat

when zombies are asleep
breakfasts are served with ganja butter

when zombies are asleep
they learn something on every job and are paid fairly

when zombies are asleep
when are zombies asleep?





black lineScape  Jan 2013










angrynessgone – for today  Sept 2012

Sometimes I’m angry, very angry.
   Most of those times I’m angry at myself;
     I guess that’s because I’m too hard on myself.

       It has frequently helped me to feel things through,
          trying to get resonating acquaintance with the residual murmurs
            or just a good laugh at the abyss of my endless ignorance.
                Then move forward… to the next abyss, hi hi.

There are a few occasions where I’m mad at a friend.
    This causes me much a bigger distress… specially if I know I’m right
      – here to be right is “to feel it with the heart” – or unnecessarily hurt
           (as if any hurting was “necessary”???). Maybe being a strong tempered
               person doesn’t help ( I like to say things loud and clear); maybe is just my            stupidity and pride – which I have plenty to sell, interested? – and perhaps is
      because I believe words don’t heal/illuminate always everything; which means
only time will tell.


Summer has gone and we meet again.
I see you, I hear you, I acknowledge you.    
I give myself to our space… waiting nothing in return.       
My mind’s not in past events neither in future plans but here,         
here and now


I don’t seek to be angry or happy, I just want to be in peace.


anyway… these buzzwords are a door that goes out of itself, or like ?lex
once wrote, well he wrote something in spanish which I translate my-way :


To be helpless we find healthy reasons
that give us the value of a constant suspension







some of them (ohhh ancient labirynth…)


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