A Arte da Pesca

Por anzol um ponto de interrogação,

Um único fio de seda por linha,
Por carreto pedaleira de bicicleta,
Uma antena extensível por cana,
Por mar todo o ar que nos rodeia.

Espetado o verbo no anzol,
A linha não pode ser embaraçada,
Não se deve forçar o carreto,
A cana tem que estar bem esticada,
E pesca-se sempre em silêncio.

Conselhos de um Ribatejano para Toiros, Touros, Bois, Bous, e Vacas

Se investires contra um ribatejano, convém que tenhas cornos mais afiados do que um touro. 

É que a bestas como tu está ele habituado desde petiz e, como a essas, responder-te-á das seguintes maneiras: Ou acena uma capa para te chamar, e, na investida, desvia-se e deixa-te frustrado no ar marrando; ou chama-te pelo nome de corno que tiveres e, na investida, desvia-se e espeta-te um par de bandarilhas no lombo, que é para urrares mais e, em acrescento às tuas dores, sangrares; ou, se fores bem marrante, foge de ti, salta a barreira, e dás de tromba rija na ainda mais rija madeira; ou, se fores persistente, agarra-te pelo pescoço até que cansado te estanques.

Se o ribatejano estiver a cavalo, não invistas que é cobarde. Perda de tempo a tua: Ele é só maneirismos e fogo de vista; tem pena da besta tua irmã debaixo do seu cú selada.

Para vencer um ribatejano, dá-lhe copos de vinho, e pedaços de pão e toucinho. Põe-lhe a mão nas costas, chama-lhe amigo, e, quando ele torpe estiver, espeta-lhe no cachaço as próprias bandarilhas.

foto: http://basta.pt/infancia-sem-violencia/

Ode ao nigiri de sardinha

Não se desdenhe primeiro a ostra 

que nos desagua o mar no palato,

o mesmo mar que te criou, 

do qual foste colhida e,

esventrada, de ti sacado o lombo,

o teu deslumbre, ó nigiri de sardinha!

Apenas depois de provar-te

podemos entender aquele fenómeno:

o frenesim de tubarão, golfinho, e pássaro

em redor do teu novelo vivo,

investida após investida devorando;

minguando o teu novelo,

e o frenesim aumentando.

Trincar-te é sentir a pimenta e o sal 

a fazer amor com a língua portuguesa 

que te prova e aprova, e te reconhece, 

como um amante que sabe amar,

comer-te, e ao comer-te ser devorado

e ver elevado o espírito a um píncaro de alegria,

por muito que esteja cansado.

* * *

Geografia Errada

As fronteiras? Imaginada fumaça
Dissipando-se quando se as passa,
Duras para quem as traça,
Atrozes para humana massa.

A diståncia? Mera irrelevância
Quando se pensa na circunferência,
E havendo pernas e paciência.

A tribo? Isso, sim, é fodido.

A good Good Friday afternoon

The Christ Child Asleep on the Cross (Our Lady Adoring the Infant
 Jesus Asleep on the Cross) - William Blake  (1757–1827)

It’s not my fault that I’m one of those morning persons. 

I first realized I was a member of such congregation on my 6th grade: For the first time in my young life I had classes in the afternoon only. And soon I discovered that I wasn’t as alert as in the morning. That turned every school day into a dragging endless chore, while I couldn’t keep focus for long and had to suppress the occasional yawn... What a sleepyhead year that one was.

Early mornings are quiet. And, as time passes, we can perceive the day coming into being in a crescendo of sounds, light, smells. Mornings, the Good Mornings, bring a promise with them that no afternoon can keep. 

Mornings bring thoughts that were shaped while we slept: sometimes a few lines for a poem, or an understanding of something we were puzzled about before; othertimes, simply the yearning for coffee, or the pleasure of feeling the bed linens while we stretch, our senses slowly awakening.

All seems to be possible and doable until lunch time. After that meal, a thirty-minute nap should be mandatory for everyone, thus not messing with our circadian rhythms, while the afternoon should be left free for our enjoyment. With such daily regime, I envision a better and more stress-free world. Besides, nagging tends to occur in the afternoon, and the naggers are people who do not nap, fighting against our natural digestive state of drowsiness: therefore their nagging.  Yes, the world is divided in between Afternaps and Afternags. 

Choose your faction wisely.

_____

P.S. These are my thoughts on this Good Friday. Coming to think of it, J.C. wouldn’t have been crucified if only the Romans were less disciplined and took naps.

P.P.S. If you don't like the note above it's because it was written in the afternoon. So go fuck yourself in the most enjoyable manner available to you, please.

The Curvaceous Ss of Yourself & Its Remedy

Why, hasn't this been told time and time again, in different words, with similar dispositions?

Let's recount it once more to vent this seasonally appropriate desire!

Spring, solitude, and suppressed sensuality are the curves of the winding path that leads to memories of you.

This sibilant sequential line of Ss seems to allude to the lost garden of Eden in a slightly twisted way.

The biblical story and its harden believers see in the snake the source of shame and tragedy, while I comically see it as the classic scene of a smooth talker, and as the embodiment of those subsequent sensual touches that would get all of us shamelessly laid.

Snake-like are my fingers that slowly map your shape, and when that picture is fully revealed in my mind, lo, the garden of Eden! 

Once found, we lose ourselves in the garden exquisite scent: Is it of flowers? Of forest? Or is it of sea? 

Have we became liquid and merged temporarily?   

In such a confused state inseminated by a profusion of sensations, we lose sight of the garden afresh.

And, once found and then lost, we are strongly pulled to map it all anew.

* * *

Remedy

Two morning droplets of News each day during the whole Spring. 

A pill of Politics to aggravate that Climate Change induced headache.

Inhale the return of Tax Returns. 

Send Family Problems to the Hospital.

Hoje saí à rua usando dois chapéus e uma cabeça desnuda

Senta-se à nossa frente moça que pediu lhe tatuassem sobre a omoplata direita “Abençoa-me Deus.”

Chapéu 1: Falta uma vírgula naquela tatuagem para que o vocativo funcione. Sem vocativo, equivale a declarar “Deus abençoa-me.” E, sem vocativo, como pode Deus prestar atenção, e logo executar o que Lhe é pedido? Deus é grande mas não corrige os nosso erros gramaticais. Aliás, ainda não vi ninguém pedir a Deus que o faça. Talvez uma boa tatuagem fosse “Corrige-me a língua, Deus.” No caso do moço que me usa em sua cabeça, tal tatuagem, mal secasse, daria lugar ao milagre da língua cortada cerce por agente invisível. Qual estatueta de Madona chorando lágrimas de sangue, qual quê! Língua sumida e sangue vertendo da boca de ateu, isso sim!

Cabeça Desnuda: A pele é dela, se a Deus não a deu. Gostarias de ter visto tatuagem dizendo “Quem és tu para me julgar pelas costas?”

Chapéu 2: Cabeça Desnuda, já estás careca de saber que deverias sair à rua de chapéu como nós.

A Couple of Things

I dreamt that everyday we played a game: we took turns putting music on that the other had to listen to the end. That would be a forced exposure to otherness, a sort of gym for our brains. The other has to wait for the very next end of the day to repay the favour, or to exact revenge: our patience gym. We’d have twenty-four hours to come up with what music to play: our slow-thinking gym.

Then I thought that films are bullshit because if our daily chores were accompanied by music we’d look good as well even while doing the most menial of things. I’m not so sure if our lives would look much better if they were scripted like films. But they’d would definitely benefit from a wardrobe specialist, make-up artist, and perfect lighting.

Now I must go to find the perfect soundtrack for taking a shit.

The Free Hounds of Will

Sometimes, just sometimes, I think

I was born to be someone’s

Lover.

Not a Slave who’s forced to work

against his will for no pay. Not a Slave

who’s seen as an inferior race,

and feared for his superior traits.

A Slave out of being born free to choose

his own shackles and chains. A Slave

out of being taught how to break a lock

and yet never breaking free

without first unleashing the hounds

that will track him down,

and bite his brain

whenever he tries to be his own Master.

The Flatlands of Almeirim Revisited