I have discovered the river

It was there, late and lazy, dragging small branches as souvenirs along the way. Feeding itself on portions of dissolved mud. I saw it, almost hidden behind the busy motorway. My shoes were covered in a strange earthy soup. But I felt blessed. And so did the brave three-legged dog and the man with travelling eyes who accompanied him.

The Kings of Rock 'n' Roll

Classes ended at 1 o’clock. That meant we would get light lunch from the bakery. Then head to your house, where the afternoon would sound like Prefab Sprout’s cassette. And then we’d play our games until the bus came to pick me, around 6, as all the relevant girls and irrelevant boys returned home.

Nothing

There was nothing, when I fell asleep. Just a white borderless landscape. No definitive horizon. No concepts. No contradictions.

When I woke up, a whole new world had been invented. There were traffic jams all over my body. Colourful crowds sang and fought with the same intensity. Mountains grew up, opening holes in the sky. These holes hurt. Then, it rained.

And all I wanted was to sleep again.

Henriette

Henriette,
Even at the crack of death,
My mouth is addicted to your name.
And my heart,
Well my heart can barely speak.
But it feels.
Believe me, it feels.

Henriette,
You were the only one,
Amongst the hundreds, the only one
That my heart
Accepted as the welcome guest,
But I guess
You were always busy...

With a loveless life to live,
You’d never dare to give
Your heart to a man
That’s broken so many.

Even though it’s him
You call at night.

Where the Range Rovers grow

My eye, so ceaselessly cries,
For on this sunny Sunday afternoon,
My parents only care about trees and birds.
I want them to take me
Where the Range Rovers grow.

Where noses are stretched
At the smell of English roses,
Themselves inclining their heads
At the parked Mercedes Benz.

Don’t take me to the swans,
Let me feed CEO’s with eau de cologne,
See them fight each other with handshakes.

Take me to the place
Where everything’s expensive,
Except for the heir, that is free
To be whatever he wants to be.

Mr. Winter

Snowflake,
Open your arms and dance, dance
Until you let yourself fall
To the ground, surrendered
To the laws of gravity.

Little drop of rain,
Come to me, slowly, slowly
Fall into me, kill my thirst,
Turn to ice from the weeping sky,
Fall into my eyes,

Pretend it was me who cried.
Pretend it is me that rains.

Excuse me if the air I exhale
Turns into a deadly whisper.
If those sweet words I mean to say
Are nothing but thunder.

Once, I wasn’t like this.
Once, I was all peace, bliss
And good intentions.

The day I was born

I would like to remember the day I was born. The freckled lady who held me as Michel Preud’Homme back in the good old inglorious days. Was it cloudy? Was it rainy? Probably, given the fact we’re talking of Salford, Greater Manchester. I would like to recall the whiteness of those sheets, the greatness of my mother’s tears, the fear in my heart. Or the hope. Not all of us have the luck of being born in a place called “Hope Hospital”. Only the ones who come from that part of the world…

The man who cried

It was only half a day ago I met the man who cried. He was tall and fat and letting people see the tears roll down. I was quite surprised because I didn’t know men were able of such a thing. He could at least have covered his face.

Raymond says:

I had forgotten to look for you. Your pictures. Locked in drawers – the bottom ones – to escape the temptation. To avoid getting distracted from Mr. Gorbatchev, Mr. Reagan, walls and federations, parliaments and constitutions. To avoid love. I mean: you. Ten full years spent in a box: a junkie, yes, but an academic junkie, nevertheless. One of the students looked like you. My career was in danger for five seconds. Then I looked beyond her, as I usually do.

How can you still believe?

Every year, a radical change. A second after midnight. I get tired of changing so much. And always for the better. Oh, stop it, New Year, I am exhausted by the luck you bring...

First Christmas without her

She was 93, last Christmas. She was 12 when she went to my house to work for my Great-grandfather. And there she stayed. It seemed like it would be that way forever. Every Christmas of my life was spent in her company. After a journey of hard work, she decided it was time to rest. This year, it feels strange. I miss walking her back home, just down the road, after midnight. Amazing, the stars were always shining during those five minutes.

These love songs

Love,
I’ve said that forbidden word,
Insulted this modern world.

Love,
Punish me cruelly
And never set me free.

These foolish love songs
You didn’t want me to listen to...
Voices of caramel,
Breaking the spell,
Reminding me I’m lonely.

Love,
I’ve yielded to the pressure,
A cardiac drum that begged

For

Love,
A drug that will kill me,
Only death can cure me.

From

These foolish love songs
You told not to listen to.
Voices of caramel,
Breaking the spell,
Reminding you you’re lonely too.

Me and Carlos do Carmo

Early morning. Lisbon awaking from a warm summer night. Old wrinkled women sweep the small steps to their doors. Our feet skate down narrow roads that smell of sardines and fado. The tram carries childish-looking tourists towards St. George’s Castle. We’re going down. To meet the nymphs that once made ships sink and men dream. They sell chestnuts, nowadays. But keep the chance of looking into the river’s eyes, once in a while. The giant Tagus – “Tejo”, as we say – always disguised as an ocean. It’s OK. We’re disguised as poets.

Lexicon Acid

Bitter taste, this one

That corrodes my mouth.

I can hardly open it.

I have punished my head,

Shaving it as a penitence

For not having managed

To keep my mouth closed.

I have swallowed my words' gall,

Felt it in my stomach, dissolving,

Turning it into a deposit

Of sulphuric acid.

I rolled and rolled in my bed,

Trying to let it all out.

Too late.

The regretting poison

Had already spread

Over my whole body.

I

I was born taller than the others. Since I was young, I always felt more important. But I was always alone. As if to show I didn’t care, I laughed at eu, je and ich, all the time, when they came around. Then, one day, I went abroad and realised I was not that relevant. So I sat in the corner and I cried “Ooooo”. So big fat O came and said I should be humbler. I blushed and became i. But that was just for a second. Then, I got up and said “O,U...”

Enke

Only in your arms

Could the ball believe

To be the size of the world.

Only in your eyes

Could we see the world

As an untouched garden.

Let us water your garden,

Let us feed on the perfume

You left for us.

A fragile majority

Wishes to preserve your name

As petals in books.

(for Robert Enke, 1977-2009)

A Dog

I wish I were a dog. No pedigree. No fancy collar. Just a dog, digging holes, wagging the tail as a smile unfurled.

I would bark. That means no words, which means no lies.

I would run through the fields, regardless of clothes or manners. All I wanted was a family. And open space.

I wish I were a dog, instead of a man. That way, I could be much prouder of my species.

Boom

Boom. The sudden sound. A dream. Gunpowder’s power, more beautiful than anything. A guy? Well, not just a guy. A sorcerer. Turning light into one gorgeous end. Boom. All over. “The world would be wonderful, they say”. A night to remember. To make “The Queen is dead” more than just a record by The Smiths. The Queen, the King, never mind… All that matters is… Boom. Scary? Nah… Beautiful! Imagine fireworks instead of nuclear bombs. Climbing up to Heaven rather than dropping from Enola Gay. Remarkably drawn pictures of the future. And then… Boom. That was all, Fawkes.

Unfinished bombs

We are Autumn’s children,
Carrying fallen branches on our shoulders.
Wherever we walk,
Leaves fall, inanimate, to the ground.

We are unfinished bombs,
Projectiles that do not kill,
They assist the killer.

We walk around, seeing
Splinters reborn men,
Feeding themselves on madness,
Denying their wasteful past.

Our eyes spread the wind,
A suspicious breeze blowing.
We do not murder. No… No…
We assist the murderer.

We are Autumn’s children,
Announcing the arrival of rain,
The sharp edge of ice,
But we do not murder. No… No…
That’s not up to us.
Winter takes care of it.