As Coisas XII/XIII

Hagiologias Iconoclastas: Concluo aqui um capítulo destas apresentações a partir da construção feita de intimidades e desta vez é com imagens picto_esculptóricas que me acompanharam; primeiro um semi-busto do sagrado coração que sempre transportei, lascado do lado esquerdo, deixando ver por um pequeno orifício redondo, o seu oco interior; entretanto muitos passaram – de gonçalo a bárbara, da senhora da abadia à do vencimento, de catarina a miguel, das dores à sameiro, da santíssima trindade ao são bartolomeu, de jorge a roque – termino nesta casa o périplo com fátima sempre iluminada a meus olhos, aguardando um dia a sua taumaturgia. Esta, como tantas outras lendas áureas, povoam o meu universo místico.

Como disse Che "Há que endurecer-se, mas sem jamais perder a ternura.", hoje, no 83º aniversário do seu nascimento.

Only the Truth

Únicamente la Verdad - Part1

Salieron de San Isidro procedentes de Tijuana,

traian la llanta del carro repletas de hierba mala..

Eran Emilio Barela... Y Camelia la Texana...

Pasaron por San Clemente, los paro la emigracion,

les pidio sus documentos, les dijo de donde son?

Ella era San Antonio.. Una hembra de corazon...

Una hembra si quiere a un hombre por el puede dar la vida,

pero hay que tener cuidado, si es hembra se siente herida,

la traicion y el contrabando... Son cosas incompartidas..

A los Angeles llegaron, a Jaliguanes se pasaron.

En un callejon oscuro, las cuatro llantas cambiaron

hay entregaron la hierba, y hay tambien les pagaron

Emilio dice a Camelia, hoy quedas por despedida

con la parte que te toca tu puedes reacer tu vida,

yo me voy pa' San Francisco, con la dueña de mi vida...

Sonaron siete balazos Camelia a Emilio mataba

la policia solo ayo una pistola tirada,

del dinero y de Camelia...

Nunca mas se supo nada.

Únicamente la Verdad - Part2

Buried_Knife

Can I explain this to you? Your eyes
are entrances the mouths of caves
I issue from wonderful interiors
upon a blessed sea and a fine day,
from inside these caves I look and dream.

Your hair explicable as a waterfall
in some black liquid cooled by legend
fell across my thought in a moment
became a garment I am naked without
lines drawn across through morning and evening.

And in your body each minute I died
moving your thigh could disinter me
from a grave in a distant city:
your breasts deserted by cloth, clothed in twilight
filled me with tears, sweet cups of flesh.

Yes, to touch two fingers made us worlds
stars, waters, promontories, chaos
swooning in elements without form or time
come down through long seas among sea marvels
embracing like survivors in our islands.

This I think happened to us together
though now no shadow of it flickers in your hands
your eyes look down on ordinary streets
If I talk to you I might be a bird
with a message, a dead man, a photograph.

The Knife - Keith Douglas (no sexagésimo_sétimo aniversário da sua morte)

Rubis_Nopces

Post nº 300

 S)he says "wake up, it's no use pretending"
I'll keep stealing, breathing her|him.
Birds are leaving over autumn's ending
One of us will die inside these arms
Eyes wide open, naked as we came
One will spread our ashes 'round the yard

S)he says "If I leave before you, darling
Don't you waste me in the ground"
I lay smiling like our sleeping children
One of us will die inside these arms
Eyes wide open, naked as we came
One will spread our ashes round the yard

"The story of Pierre et Gilles - Pierre Commoy and Gilles Blanchard - bears the same fairytale characteristics as much of their work: the young men, both born in the early 1950s in western France, fell madly in love in the mid-1970s after meeting at a party and going home together.
They soon began collaborating artistically, Pierre bringing the fruits of his formal training as a photographer, Gilles bringing his talents as a painter. Together, they have created a prolific body of work that now numbers into the several hundreds, including several flamboyant self-portraits.
In today's world, where unearthly visual effects are increasingly achieved with a computer, it may seem as though Pierre et Gilles's images are further results of digital dream-weaving. But make no mistake about it: their works are one of a kind, handmade objects, a fact that belies their frequent reproduction for use as magazine covers, advertisements, CD covers, and the like.
Artifice is central in Pierre et Gilles's work: their human subjects are set in frontal, didactic poses against alluring, but deliberately fake-looking backdrops. Drawing equally from portraiture, tableaux, fashion photography, and the celluloid media, their pictures serve as fanciful documentation for an array of subjects, each with its own discrete story."

Description by Jason Goldman taken from here!

Também no trigésimo aniversário da descoberta da doença.

Nuit(et)_Brouillard

Paroles et musique : Jean Ferrat

1
Ils étaient vingt et cent, ils étaient des milliers
Nus et maigres tremblants, dans ces wagons plombés
Qui déchiraient la nuit de leurs ongles battants
Ils étaient des milliers, ils étaient vingt et cent.
Ils se croyaient des hommes, n'étaient plus que des nombres
Depuis longtemps leurs dés avaient été jetés
Dès que la main retombe il ne reste qu'une ombre
Ils ne devaient jamais plus revoir l'été.
2
La fuite monotone et sans hâte du temps
Survivre encore un jour, une heure obstinément
Combien de tours de roues, d'arrêts et de départs
Qui n'en finissent pas de distiller l'espoir
Ils s'appelaient Jean-Pierre, Natacha ou Samuel
Certains priaient Jésus, Jéhovah ou Vichnou
D'autres ne priaient pas mais qu'importe le ciel
Ils voulaient simplement ne plus vivre à genoux.
3
Ils n'arrivaient pas tous à la fin du voyage
Ceux qui sont revenus peuvent-ils être heureux ?
Ils essaient d'oublier, étonnés qu'à leur âge
Les veines de leurs bras soient devenues si bleues
Les Allemands guettaient du haut des miradors
La lune se taisait comme vous vous taisiez
En regardant au loin, en regardant dehors
Votre chair était tendre à leurs chiens policiers.
4
On me dit à présent, que ces mots n'ont plus cours
Qu'il vaut mieux ne chanter que des chansons d'amour
Que le sang sèche vite en entrant dans l'histoire
Et qu'il ne sert à rien de prendre une guitare
Mais qui donc est de taille à pouvoir m'arrêter
L'ombre s'est faite humaine aujourd'hui c'est l'été
Je twisterais les mots s'il fallait les twister
Pour qu'un jour les enfants sachent qui vous étiez.
Vous étiez vingt et cent, vous étiez des milliers
Nus et maigres tremblants, dans ces wagons plombés
Qui déchiriez la nuit de vos ongles battants
Vous étiez des milliers, vous étiez vingt et cent.

Ao seu octagésimo nono aniversário, a um mês deste Blog comemorar o seu terceiro...