quarta-feira, fevereiro 06, 2008


Bem vindo de volta amigo, bem vindo....
Deves seguramente ter ouvido meus insidiosos suspiros
minhas doçes palavras de loucura
sabia que ias voltar
sou muito paciente
estive aqui sempre, no cantinho
esperando por este momento
para atacar
rastejei quase até ao oblíveo
quase até ao mais profundo dos esquecimentos
e, quando me afogava
baixaste tuas defesas
apoderei-me imediatamente de ti
tu que em tempos me chamaste musa me clamaste
agora revoltado pela minha presença em ti
sangras para aqui
mas eu estou aqui
para te acarinhar
para te deixar dormir esta noite

retrocedo, sim
mas estou mais perto
aqui bem perto,
sinto o calor da tua pele

se precisares....
quando precisares
estarei aqui
a tua querida loucura
para te deixar dormir

quarta-feira, julho 04, 2007

Robert Browning

"Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came"

My first thought was, he lied in every word,
That hoary cripple, with malicious eye
Askance to watch the working of his lie
On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford
Suppression of the glee that pursed and scored
Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby.

What else should he be set for, with his staff?
What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare
All travellers who might find him posted there,
And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh
Would break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph
For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare,

If at his counsel I should turn aside
Into that ominous tract which, all agree,
Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly
I did turn as he pointed: neither pride
Nor hope rekindling at the end descried,
So much as gladness that some end might be.

For, what with my whole world-wide wandering,
What with my search drawn out thro' years, my hope
Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope
With that obstreperous joy success would bring,
I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring
My heart made, finding failure in its scope.

As when a sick man very near to death
Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end
The tears and takes the farewell of each friend,
And hears one bid the other go, draw breath
Freelier outside ("since all is o'er," he saith,
"And the blow fallen no grieving can amend;")

While some discuss if near the other graves
Be room enough for this, and when a day
Suits best for carrying the corpse away,
With care about the banners, scarves and staves:
And still the man hears all, and only craves
He may not shame such tender love and stay.

Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest,
Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ
So many times among "The Band" - to wit,
The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed
Their steps - that just to fail as they, seemed best,
And all the doubt was now--should I be fit?

So, quiet as despair, I turned from him,
That hateful cripple, out of his highway
Into the path he pointed. All the day
Had been a dreary one at best, and dim
Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim
Red leer to see the plain catch its estray.

For mark! no sooner was I fairly found
Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two,
Than, pausing to throw backward a last view
O'er the safe road, 'twas gone; grey plain all round:
Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound.
I might go on; nought else remained to do.

So, on I went. I think I never saw
Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve:
For flowers - as well expect a cedar grove!
But cockle, spurge, according to their law
Might propagate their kind, with none to awe,
You'd think; a burr had been a treasure trove.

No! penury, inertness and grimace,
In some strange sort, were the land's portion. "See
Or shut your eyes," said Nature peevishly,
"It nothing skills: I cannot help my case:
'Tis the Last Judgment's fire must cure this place,
Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free."

If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk
Above its mates, the head was chopped; the bents
Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents
In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to baulk
All hope of greenness? 'tis a brute must walk
Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents.

As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair
In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud
Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood.
One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare,
Stood stupefied, however he came there:
Thrust out past service from the devil's stud!

Alive? he might be dead for aught I know,
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain,
And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane;
Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;
I never saw a brute I hated so;
He must be wicked to deserve such pain.

I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart.
As a man calls for wine before he fights,
I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights,
Ere fitly I could hope to play my part.
Think first, fight afterwards - the soldier's art:
One taste of the old time sets all to rights.

Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face
Beneath its garniture of curly gold,
Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold
An arm in mine to fix me to the place
That way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace!
Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold.

Giles then, the soul of honour - there he stands
Frank as ten years ago when knighted first.
What honest men should dare (he said) he durst.
Good - but the scene shifts - faugh! what hangman hands
Pin to his breast a parchment? His own bands
Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst!

Better this present than a past like that;
Back therefore to my darkening path again!
No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain.
Will the night send a howlet or a bat?
I asked: when something on the dismal flat
Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train.

A sudden little river crossed my path
As unexpected as a serpent comes.
No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms;
This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath
For the fiend's glowing hoof - to see the wrath
Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes.

So petty yet so spiteful! All along
Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it;
Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit
Of mute despair, a suicidal throng:
The river which had done them all the wrong,
Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit.

Which, while I forded, - good saints, how I feared
To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek,
Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek
For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard!
--It may have been a water-rat I speared,
But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek.

Glad was I when I reached the other bank.
Now for a better country. Vain presage!
Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage,
Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank
Soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank,
Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage--

The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque.
What penned them there, with all the plain to choose?
No foot-print leading to that horrid mews,
None out of it. Mad brewage set to work
Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk
Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews.

And more than that - a furlong on - why, there!
What bad use was that engine for, that wheel,
Or brake, not wheel - that harrow fit to reel
Men's bodies out like silk? with all the air
Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware,
Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel.

Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood,
Next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth
Desperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth,
Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood
Changes and off he goes!) within a rood--
Bog, clay and rubble, sand and stark black dearth.

Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim,
Now patches where some leanness of the soil's
Broke into moss or substances like boils;
Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him
Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim
Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils.

And just as far as ever from the end!
Nought in the distance but the evening, nought
To point my footstep further! At the thought,
A great black bird, Apollyon's bosom-friend,
Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned
That brushed my cap--perchance the guide I sought.

For, looking up, aware I somehow grew,
'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place
All round to mountains - with such name to grace
Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view.
How thus they had surprised me, - solve it, you!
How to get from them was no clearer case.

Yet half I seemed to recognise some trick
Of mischief happened to me, God knows when--
In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then,
Progress this way. When, in the very nick
Of giving up, one time more, came a click
As when a trap shuts - you're inside the den!

Burningly it came on me all at once,
This was the place! those two hills on the right,
Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight;
While to the left, a tall scalped mountain . . . Dunce,
Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce,
After a life spent training for the sight!

What in the midst lay but the Tower itself?
The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart
Built of brown stone, without a counterpart
In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf
Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf
He strikes on, only when the timbers start.

Not see? because of night perhaps? - why, day
Came back again for that! before it left,
The dying sunset kindled through a cleft:
The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay
Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay,--
"Now stab and end the creature - to the heft!"

Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled
Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears
Of all the lost adventurers my peers,--
How such a one was strong, and such was bold,
And such was fortunate, yet each of old
Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.

There they stood, ranged along the hillsides, met
To view the last of me, a living frame
For one more picture! in a sheet of flame
I saw them and I knew them all. And yet
Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set,
And blew. "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came."

terça-feira, junho 12, 2007

Overkill - Deny the cross!

I'll steal your life and cut, out your heart.
Rip the core of your, world apart.
Then I'll, Take your sight.
Leave ya blind.
Laughing hard as you, loose your mind.
Smash in your skull!!!
Kick out your brains!!!
Dance all over!
What remains!!!

Life! The living danger,
Death! The welcome stranger,
In sin! You deny the cross.

Deny the cross...!

I'm an angel I'm, virgin white.
This only happens, every night.
Restitution, for my sin,
Imprisoned virtue, time begins.
Killer instincts!!!
Escape my find!
Path of destruction!
Left behind.

Life, it walks away...
It walks today...
It fades away...
Death, is here to stay...
Is here today...
To deny the cross...!

Draw and quarter, slice the meat.
Now there's something, more to eat.
Nothing left there is, just a frame.
This poor soul, has no name.
Back to dirt!
Six feet deep!
I take a breath!
Long and deep!!!

Deny the cross!!!

terça-feira, janeiro 23, 2007

desistir? NUNCA!


I wish from the beginning of this game
I had known it was in vain
That everything was doomed to fail

Too long I lived in childish innocence
While the teachers of pretence
Tested my will to prevail

I cannot trust in anyone, I know
To me my neighbour is my foe
There's poison in the sweets you find

Exploiting weakness with freetrade lies
The only thing you cannot buy
Is happiness and peace of mind

It's a balance of power; should I jump
From the prisoners tower

Sometimes I wish that I could lay me down
And hope for no tomorrow
But you'll never see me surrender my blade
Refusing death's call, I will conquer my fate
For I shall not yield

And I cannot even sell my soul
It's breath, torn and abused
Still my lifejoy may fetch a fair price
Since it's only "slightly used"

It's a balance of power; should I jump
From the prisoners tower

Sometimes I wish that I could lay me down
And hope for no tomorrow
But you'll never see me surrender my blade
Refusing death's call, I will conquer my fate
For I shall not yield

Gods of life!
I meet your challenge
I shall rise from every blow you strike at me
I shall break every spell you throw at me
You will not push me that last bit of way
Over the Egde
Even if I'm only holding on by sheer spite itself
You may have woven this one's lifetread
Of a fowl and poisened string
But it shall not break
That final victory shall be denied thee...forever!

When even my imaginary friends
Turn their backs on me again
And leave me bleeding on the ground
I can no longer welcome each new day
But on this battlefield I'll stay
'Cause you will never bring doen

And when in time to the ground I'm bent
From carrying life's stone; my strength all spent
I shall drag myself forth by the tip of my nails
To spit on your feet with a last scornful hail

It's a balance of power; should I jump
From the prisoners tower

Sometimes I wish that I could lay me down
And hope for no tomorrow
But you'll never see me surrender my blade
Refusing death's call, I will conquer my fate
For I shall not yield

terça-feira, outubro 03, 2006

An homage to true bloodshed

Amon Amarth

Valhall Awaits Me

Blood gushes from the wound
The cut is wide and deep
Right before I turn around
He falls to his knees

A clear song rings in the blades
When steel meets hardened steel
I hear the sound of wood that breaks
A sword cut through my shield

I drop the shield and grab my axe
A weapon in each fist
The first blow makes the helmet crack
The axe cut to the teeth

I rip the axe from the head
covered in blood and brains
Leave the body lying dead
Ready to strike again

My sword cuts through clothes and skin
Like a hot knife cuts through snow
I smile as the bastard screams
when I twist my sword

Sword in my hand
Axe on my side
Valhall awaits me
Soon I will Die

Sword in my hand
Axe on my side
Valhall awaits me
When I die

Bearskin on my back
Wolfjaw on my head
Valhall awaits me
When I'm dead

I raise my axe above my head
My eyes turned furious rage
Yet more blood will be shed
This is a victorious day!

Blood gushes from the wound
The cut is wide and deep
As I turn around
I fall to my knees

Solo: Mikkonen

Sword in my hand
Axe on my side
Valhall awaits me
Soon I will die

Sword in my hand
Axe on my side
Valhall awaits me
When I die

Bearskin on my back
Wolfjaw on my head
Valhall awaits me
When I'm dead

domingo, setembro 24, 2006

doença bipolar sob a forma cliché

no fim
desvanece-se a glória
mas a beleza
é eterna

nada é eterno!
nem mesmo o sopro de vida
nem mesmo tu

pálida luz
negra sombra
sol escaldante!

Eu sou apena mais um
nada mais
não sou
nada mais

Deixa-me adorar em paz
deixa-me sentir em paz
deixa-me em paz

nunca estiveste em paz
nunca te sentiste em paz
nunca adoraste (com ou sem paz)


nunca te deixarei
nem que fujas para a mais remota ilha


entao porque nos entrelaçamos
nos beijamos ternamente
nos pés
minha sombra?

somos simbiontes
não podemos viver sem o outro
ou serás tu parasita?
e eu o real eu?

eu sou real

não convem seres dogmático caro colega

eu sou....

nós somos!
sorri e segue em frente!
estou farto destas paisagens

não o farei

posso esperar


domingo, agosto 13, 2006

mais uma flor na grinalda do homem morto

as palavras não querem sair
apesar de sentir

por isso não escrevo
não com a mente
e deixo simplesmente deslizar os dedos
na esperança de que as palavras se formem
e expliquem este inexplicavel sentimento de solidão
como um drogado que espera pela proxima dose
enquanto é esmagado pelo som
pelo barulho das rodas dos motores
do corpo
da cidade
que roda sobre a a volta dele
que roda também em pânico
até cair
e abrir no chão a cabeça
e acordar no dia seguinte igual
ou então ressacado
com um suspiro humilde
e percorrer novamente as ruas

não é algo bonito de se ver