slight Joy

 This slight joy, my heavy life.
It never felt like it was light enough to hold in my hand this joy... joy.
Just another fork in the road, maybe soon a knife,
Joyful days that I ran from, joyful nothing days that i should be living.
Through my hands this joy has slipped and how it part remains in my palms.
The fires of doubt never charred this hard skin.
Far from my own heart is this day, these days a sequence of boredom so deafening you´d think joy was slaughtered.
Far from this heart is the sweet goodbye to autumn and goodbye to any taste of real life.
It never felt like it was light enough, it felt so heavy, this joy... this joy who delivered it to me how much should I thank god for this liberating feeling of so much joy.
How abstract? Shall I feed on this joy until satisfied? Or save it for hardtimes knowing how scarce it is in reality.
Hello to all who "pretend and it comes real" as i wish it lovers of the secret. Love me.
Hello to the world like it was a ball of crazy magnets... joy.
Hello to all the Big in the small lunchbox "noones" who made it in their lil´niche, here i´m your relief!
Shout at me with your lips on fire, your burning tongue and your red hot teeth.
Give up your foul illusions and thank me for this very joy i hold before you, is it not the stuff of the milky way on earth? Is it not the very elixir that you´ve sought since you were old enough to cry?
This joy like nothing on earth, not even your most beautiful lie.
Far from my heart, goodbye rings sweet! A true word to be hated. When far from my heart, you are close to me, and i´ll call you friend and all my bad advice will be swallowed by your ears until you can´t recognise your own thoughts from mine.
That joy so precious i could convice you it´s almost divine.
This heaviness weighing us to the earth, i´ll sell it to you... it will set you free of freedom, liberate you of liberation and let you feel every limit like the clothes on your back.
This is the joy, and the currency we´ve chosen. How weak it all is.
This joy.

Chance to touch?

Chance to touch
You said to me you missed your chance...
It´s a sea of opportunity and waves of me, waves of me.
Look down and look disappointed but you´ve missed nothing and if it wasn´t me...
It would be a better man still.
Anytime, anyday of the week i´ve got a reservation for you, and you can show me all you want.
Say it´s time you went, take the clock and bust it right this time.
The useless watch on your mind, take your time and leave it to marinate, the sweeter you´ll cook as the warm spring fire grows into summer.
These arms remain open and your desire to be conquered is a sweet ember that wont go out, my imagination, my watering mouth.
Touch is such a miracle and much more than small talk encounters that get so far from the point, useless noise when hearbeats and goosebumps are all that matter when I have your permission to show you.

Breaking Freaks

Break into the soil with your drills.
Break into the parent rock.
Refill your grand machines, other bodies you´ve fashioned and bragged about.
Break the coastline, scud missile impact.
Break the spirit, torturing yourself even more severly than your victim and you brag.
Break the record for your annual turnover in profit, you shine for your company.
And how you brag.
Break up the new ideas rising from the youth as if they were signs of your decline.
Break through the fertile forests with your grand machines and leave it a muddy wasteland.
And don´t forget to brag.
Don´t forget to boast of your many successes, how your life of control makes money and represses.
Break the next generation in early for the dead world they must inherit.

I´m not the answer

Search for me no longer...
I´m not the answer, i´m more confusion, a treacherous path leading away from absolution.
From this mouth words form sophisticated delusions.
Search for me no more, this image you´ve tied so many ideas to... This image that has no connection to my own energy. This image that you refuse to abandon in your mind of me.
Leave this in the past, for your dawn will be glorius with an empty heart. Let wonder do it´s work for tomorrow. And watch me disappear in the puddle... find the drain, watch me vanish.
I was a cloud far from the earth. I was a log in the current of a swollen river.  Wind and water my pathgivers.
I can´t be absorbed with your dreams, I can´t be convinced of your love. Wallow in the meaninglessness of this life, you´ll see as well as i do now.
Romantic dreams pale, like so many dead fish on the coasts of emotion.
I´m not the answer and search for me no longer... farewell is the last word to travel down the phone line before it is cut forever. The heart was made to bleed.

My plane lands and how sweet

MY PLANE LANDS IN HELL

My plane lands...
and...
Where the plane landed.
Such clouds, such clouds, how they cling to the noble cities.
The noble cities and the structures of thought!
Cities of god?
How well they´ve been mapped out and in, through out i can find my way.
Such blue nothingness, how shall i find my way, the stumps of white smudges they are no clouds but blotches left by the storm!
Where the plane landed and the embarking of salvation, and the burning sensation on my back which still hasn´t left me. I´ll spend myself as if i were currency. Could you adjudicate my entry...
my admission into oblivion.
And with all these constrictions and restrictions I have a nice narrow path which corresponds with the maps of hell, maps of hell that were set out for me like little packages under the pine.
The plane landed on my hangover, on my awakening in anguish, pure coincidence.
One strength in the burning clouds...
Such clouds, such clouds the pillars and columns of psuedo ancient greek cities.
Such lies, such structured lies and how we can tell ourselves what the heart of our existance demands before it even emits it from it´s poisonous studios.

Flying reptiles how could they be any kinder? As their cool blood is kept far from my hot hands. Look at this flight deck mess, and here stands the sourest, the best abortion survival that your church ever condemned.
Confusion in the womb, and in every part of you.
The only thing we share in common is the sun.

Coqueiro queimado

Esse sol é calor sem parar.
E como queremos estar mais perto do mar.
Aqui arde fora da sombra, apenas para escorpiões é lar.
Terra feita com folhas mortas e areia.
Buracos para escorpiões e grande aranhas atrevessando suas teias.
Ao longo de estrada, até os lagos de água barrenta.
Ao longo de estrada traiçoeira até a beira mar.
Habitado pela ciganas e reclusos que tricotam uma teia, cheia de espinhas para apanhar um viajante perdido.
Eles vão sacrificar-los embaixo dos coqueiros mortos em nome do sol.
Terra feita de barro seco e restos de vegetação secando.
O escorpião é rei até seu caminho se cruzar com a casa da aranha. Até o sol não pode lhe salvar.
Coqueiros pretos, coqueiros semi queimados. Que apoia a teia mortifera.

Plantação de vale verde

Fileiras de arbustos frutiferás lutando contra sol, soldados de terra imoveís.
Banana, cacau, maracuja, pimenta e mamão, resistando dentro de solo árido no sertão.
Cabanas pequenas para o agricultor que cuida as plantações e as hortas.
Alguns bodes, galinhas e um cachorro com o rabo torto.
Cercas feitas com troncos de palmeiras.
Secos e rachados, parece ossos de advertencia nas fronteiras.
Aujanias na periferia como grande arvores de natal.
Dividindo a fazenda com o infinito matagal.

caldo de lua

Se a lua fosse uma tigela de caldo,
Testemunha a lua cheia de uma sacada com vista para o mar, o reflexo da lua nas ondinhas do mar.
Caldo de camarão, caldo de siri, uma duzia de barracas tentando vender coisas para mim.
Caldo de lua, banho de luz da lua, cercado por ela, essa noite tropical sua.
Garçons impacientes, restaurantes sem porta de saida. Entre linguas e dentes, tão inquietos anticipando comida.
Artistas animadas, aroma de fumo e musica alta.
Nenhum misterio se manifesta alem o caldo de lua em forma de luz dominante.

Gringo like me

People ask me where i´m from, that´s become my way of life.
Put a label on me... "Strange lost gringo." Come to eat our beans and rice. 
Ask me what i do, where i live and what i think.
Try to listen and link this accent this tongue of rare tongues.
See the way i wave among you, shake hands and even wink.
A kiwi from the mouth I drink, voice box, the larynx and all the way to the lungs.
My gringo existance in this grand countries sprawl.
What gringo thoughts i think when i´m on the move.
Is my gringo beat good enough at all here in the latin groove.
My gringo existance, i´m gringo with the proof.
So ask me where i come from try to guess from where i came.
I´m American, English to most it´s all the same, just an awkward gringo still searching for a life...
Away from the predictable, away from fates sharp knife.
I´m not interested in one nation, and people stationary.
I´m a vagrant you see.
I´ll go where i want and thats my idea of free.
This is the life... and i´ll take it... as a gringo like me.

I AM Aimless, with a container and a dead fly.

Aimless, with a container and a dead fly.
I´m aimless not even a possibility could steer me in the right direction.
A lovely slice of confusion cake, it got me nowhere near my destination.
A container with no substance inside. It carries simply pure dehydration.
That container... someday i´ll fill it with purpose.
A dead fly, one dead maggotless fly, just to dry... dry out in some strong sunny summer afternoon.
Pointless.
Blind now and bleeding bound by balls of fury.
Mumble and ramble to interact, bleed, bleed, bleed.
Aimless and restless call me a child of god and I´ll pay for offending existance.
By it keeping me and destiny at an incredible distance.
You´ll never need instructions to suffocate a prayer.
This container is often filled with the juice of confusion brewed by ghost mechanics.
Their transparent tools mixing the dark juice. That juice is delivered to you.
Don´t forget the dead fly under the magnifying glass and to my amazement pulsating with a grin and a jeer, the dead pregnant fly on some icey autumn morning.
And the repulsive turn so sharply and sublime into beauty that binds balls of lust.
How could this world´s same beauty hide so well from your eyes.
Why do you worship fury? And welcome it like some long lost friend?
Little balls of fury blasting holes through your abode. There´s no polar opposite to the container of confusion.
Clarity´s a word for temporary amusement. Come on down and love the inevitability of shattered truths.
So come down now and buy this absurdity. This confusion, this blood, this fuel.
I´ll be your host you can call me aimless.
It´s selling for under a dollar, dead pretty flies don´t come cheap.