a dead mermaid, perhaps (parte II).

caído num calabouço
de ninfas, caranguejos e pérolas
em cima do altar
espero a sua entrada
bem menos triunfal do que a esperada.
o cabelo armado
os ombros arqueados
e o fraque em chamas
com o cravo enfeitando a lapela.
o cravo-de-defunto é a flor da vida
o canto da sereia morta
que entoa nos quatro cantos do mundo
entre as pontas da rosa-dos-ventos
uma delirante versão da marcha fúnebre:
a canção do seu amor.

a dead mermaid, perhaps.

have you ever been caught
into the most vicious circle
of boredom, sadness and procrastination?
have you ever felt
your heartbeat stop
for no particular reason?
did you ever go to the beach
and lied down there
over the seashore
picked up shells
and wished your face
was like a silent pearl
sleeping forever in its own cage?

mother of horror, mistress of darkness
release me from all your sorrows
slice me with the sharpest knife you find
because i have, yes i have
(all the experiences of self-destruction
even the ones in my imagination)
i have lived and died alone.

porta-retrato

há exatos vinte anos
o casal esperava na porta do jardim
antes de ser coberto
pelo manto da morte.
andando assim, lado a lado
nem uma folha sequer desconfiaria
que no final, triste sina!
um deles se despediria
abanando um lenço azul
em frente ao convés do navio
e no aceno, o olhar da caveira
desnudo no filme fotográfico.

a forca (ou a sua vontade declarada).

there's a gloved hand strangling me, always.

my neck gets exhausted
and my life crooked
because I never die.
sometimes I try to reach for your hand
and caress it, with the most tender joy
even when it's already busy
trying to murder me, slowly.

I hardly breathe beneath your fingers
a creepy clown's smile on my face
and the hope that one day a lightning bolt
would hit you, like a moving car
and this suffering will fade
into the cloudy sky
of your face, wrist and hatred.

nihilism on top

seu papel aqui é ser niilista
soldado manco, monge copista
de uma escritura póstuma e fajuta
testamento escrito
procuração assinada.
pelos andares escuros da repartição
suas botas estalam no assoalho
a vitrola range
a máquina de escrever pulsa
como um coração cheio de pontes de safena
e a luz na sua cara
refletindo a mariposa que, no inverno,
sobrevoa os mortos da memória.

he buried me (and it felt like a kiss)

as pale as a winter rose
a huge avalanche stroke me
when i've found out
you were seeing someone else.
i couldn't walk for days
and in my mouth, the bitter taste
of poisoned ice cream.
the flavour of distaste
one single bite
and i'd turn into sugar stone
a strawberry disaster
a pistacchio death.
at the top of the red green mountain
this new you looks down
and sees the graveyard
in which my body lays, cold
buried among my favourite fruit toppings.

o jardim do éden

the sort of person
who could be
every witch's best friend
this is who i am.
the sort of occultist
wizard or sorcerer
hidden by the shiniest stone
amethyst, onyx or anything that sparkled
on a gloomy cemetery
above a dusty grave.
i'm alive, i'm coming
for a new ritual of love and hoping
pushing all the satanic forces away.
but, glazing through the night
declares the devil, pointing to us all:
"don't you worry, meine lieben!
that you'll soon be trapped and caught
into my garden of eden".