The Limit of the Supremum

I , sleepwalking across words. 

I, waking up early, 7.20, 9 has the time that cant be lost come yet? 10 - fuck

notes made 

of human mind and paper 

such a frail material to carry the weight of so much future.

sometimes i think it'll rip and all the coffees we'd have together on our coach will drip right through it. 

sometimes i think it'll give me paper cuts deep enough for whole people to fall through them.

I find, in the ends, where pages fold, thoughts find pockets and stay. 

I find I hold dimensions beyond two the paper struggles with,

my words span beyond 210x297mm 

i want a page where i can write fuck all the way across and then 

"i exist for things other than what u left room for me for"

I love the sleepwalking though.

I love the riding of it, 

the hope of it

that’s leading always to those same measurable despairs.

Ντεκρεσέντο

Περώνιαζε το κρύο και βγήκα έξω με τις κάλτσες ν'ανασάνω το χιόνι. Πόσα χριστούγεννα θα περάσουν έτσι καμωμένα; Ανασαίνοντας το χρόνο που περνάει μεσ'απ' τα φώτα του δρόμου τ' αποκαμωμένα. Ξέχασα ν'ακούσω για μια στιγμή τ'αυτοκίνητα και τα σπίτια, το θόρυβο που κάνει η ανθρώπινη παρουσία στο τίποτα μα ανοίγωντας τ' αυτιά μου δεν συνάντησα παρα μόνο σιωπή. Γιατί ειναι σιωπιλή η αγάπη που έρχεται τα χριστούγενα, που ανοίγεται σε τραπέζια, που ξετυλίγεται σε χαρτιά, γιατί είναι αγάπη επιλήσμων. Με το παραχρονισμένο της τίποτα γυρίζει στους δρόμους να με τσακίζει. Έτσι στερεή, αναβάλωντας το τέλος απο εκείνο το αιώνιο και διαρκές που με καταβάλει από χρόνο σε χρόνο προσπαθούσα να θυμηθώ τη φωνή μου όταν είπα το γεια σας το αντίο, το σ'αγαπώ. Μήπως και ακούσω κάπως τη μουσική της ζωής καθώς περνάει απ' το ντεκρεσεντο στο πρίμο φινάλε. Και ζητάει το μυαλό, ζητάει ο νους, ζητάνε τα χέρια, τα χρόνια, τα μαλλία, ζητάνε τα χιόνια του Δεκέμβρη με τα μάτια των φίλων να ξαναπαίξει η μουσική του εντρέ.

Ε λοιπόν δεν το θέλω το εντρε των παιδιών σας, κουράστηκε η μέση μου να υποκρίνεται οτι διψάει για κάτι παραπάνω από ενα χαρτί και το παράθυρο να περνάει η ζωή χωρίς εμένα όπως θέλει , έπεσαν τόσα ξέφτια απ' τα ριμάδια των φιλιών σας που δεν τη θέλω πια τέτοια ενορχήστροση, θα την κρατίσω για τη ζωή των ανθρώπων. Εγώ μονάχα ένα φινάλε θέλω να με χωρέσει, να με βρεί να στέκομαι μουσκεμένος από τον έρωτα της ζωής αγκαλιασμένος στα βιβλία και την ατέρμονη συντροφια των γραμμών, των διαλεγμένων λέξεων, των μορφών που γνωρίζω σύντομα, που αποχεραιτώ συνεχόμενα, που γνωρίζω σκυφτά και διακεκομένα καθώς διαλέγουν κάθε ανομοιομορφία του λόγου.

Αυτά σκεφτόμουν όταν με βρήκε ο ίσκιος στο πεζούλι. Να κάνω σκέψεις καινούριες, να τις γνωρίζω προτότυπες, σαν έρωτας με ενα νεο σώμα να μου έρχονται νωχελικά και αχόρταγα. Έτσι ήξερα πως είχε έρθει η γένεση που ζητούσα, με μανία και μάτια βραχνά, αυτιά μουσκεμένα απ' την ηχώ της περπάτησα την πόρτα αναζητώντας τη θαλπωρή του χαρτιού.

Afternoons

The more I want to talk to you and I don't the more I write.
In the end, in my attempt to forget you I might end up writing you into being
the very root of my existence.

Don't write poems about me

I really think I could ever trust a man who would write poems about me. As if writing poems carries with its grandness an element of imminent disloyalty that is only disclosed to the one who writes himself. Is it that inspiration is unfaithful or that it is self loving? Or is it simply me who cannot stand the clarity and immediacy of my own reflection in the words of others, a tremble of they coming at me like a crystal jar over a kitchen fly.

In these words alone, one can see how love is born on the contrapositives.
I hate for what is.
I love for what is not.

There's also something else that would bother me though. His writing about me can't be but the result of an indeliberate attempt to find, an outcome of an inveterate search in the everything that exists and disappears in the presences of people in all the noises and unclarities, the surrealisms of any given togetherness. In search emerges the poet's condition, the decomposition of constructible realities, a licence to aberrate that defines what is created from the leftovers of what is.

This precise restlessness about the state of affairs is what would drive me mad. For I can't believe my soul was fabricated to withstand being the object of that much searching.

The Many Methods of Moments

Clothes stacked like book pages obedient commanded coats hanging
in silent anticipation, the things you said silent uncomfortable soft
imperative the books in the closet implausible awaiting
all that there is and is not,
all
entitled

the sounds of the creaking desk chair when i sat by it
you
working so late,
hours, amounts and absolutes, I didn't know you existed,
thinking
this is how you understand a person.
then
wondering what's understanding for.

your hand reaching out for me in your sleep
its fingers warm its palm climbing over your waist to find me;
habits of
your body
all creating of love's concavity
thinking it all
so real
and then again
yet
so ready to drift
back to sleep.

Bom dia vida

bom dia minha vida,
hoje posso imaginar tudo como um deus não intervencionista,
uma felicidade mortal que adora dormir cedo,
que tem dedos fortes e palavras tranquilizadoras,
que mora nas coisas pequenas que me transportam da pessoa que era ontem a uma outra.
Hoje sinto que entre os meus sorrisos e lágrimas, posso adorar-te com todas as tuas falhas e isso faz-me rica dentro da pobreza da minha certeza.
Bom dia vida
de hoje em diante o meu desassossego aguentará
a beleza de toda a tua solidão.

Odysseas receives a text

When you are away and I need you
when I really need you
all the screens mock me.

when you are away
the only way to talk to you is memory.

"are you there when you are not there?"

trying to find a memory as convincing as your absence is trying to remember something enough to implicate the same completeness as the physical presence of you.

Like imagining of that "yes" (that you are).

when you are away I find you in the memory of my body being squeezed in your two palms on my waist in how they fit below my chest like my book in that leather cover, that speaks of you in the way it feels soft and important.

when you are away
you have the skin of words and the eyes of smiles I remember.

"There are fireplaces for clumsy people you know.Yes. They are called central heating"
the shape of that very real laughter
jumping out of a fictional you.

when you are away the reality of the things we say to each other becomes loud and aggressive
becomes sleep and tea and drinks with friends
becomes a void with its own language that knows no words
but for the thirsty despair of my every inch that you be back.