Thirty_Three

speak to me in a language i can hear
humor me before i have to go
deep in thought i forgive everyone
as the cluttered streets greet me once again
i know i can't be late, supper's waiting on the table
tomorrow's just an excuse away
so I pull my collar up and face the cold, on my own
the earth laughs beneath my heavy feet
at the blasphemy in my old jangly walk
steeple guide me to my heart and home
the sun is out and up and down again
i know i'll make it, love can last forever
graceful swans of never topple to the earth
and you can make it last, forever you
you can make it last, forever you
and for a moment i lose myself
wrapped up in the pleasures of the world
i've journeyed here and there and back again
but in the same old haunts i still find my friends
mysteries not ready to reveal
sympathies i'm ready to return
i'll make the effort, love can last forever
graceful swans of never topple to the earth
tomorrow's just an excuse
and you can make it last, forever you
you can make it last, forever you

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...

Death_Fugue

Thus with the year
Seasons return; but not to me returns
Day, or the sweet approach of ev'n or morn,
Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose,
Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;
But cloud instead, and ever-during dark
Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men
Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair
Presented with a universal blank
Of Nature's works to me expunged and razed,
And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out.
Lines 40-50. Book III

Unfinished Contrapunctus 14 in JS Bach's The Art of Fugue BWV 1080

With thee conversing I forget all time,
All seasons, and their change; all please alike.
Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet,
With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun
When first on this delightful land he spreads
His orient beams on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,
Glist'ring with dew; fragrant the fertile earth
After soft showers; and sweet the coming on
Of grateful ev'ning mild; then silent night
With this her solemn bird and this fair moon,
And these the gems of heaven, her starry train:
But neither breath of morn when she ascends
With charm of earliest birds, nor rising sun
On this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, flower,
Glist'ring with dew, nor fragrance after showers,
Nor grateful ev'ning mild, nor silent night
With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon
Or glittering starlight, without thee is sweet.
Lines 639-656. Book IV

Paradise Lost by John Milton