Archive for October, 2012


My Simpson likes peanut butter, and it’s embarrassing – “Why don’t you read Virginia Wolf?”

 

When I was 7 mom told me I was European

and shooting the fall guy in the woods was wrong

(actually we played cowboys in a corn plantation –

but corn is American and she didn’t like it).

She also asked my doctor:

“Isn’t it dangerous for a boy handling guns?”

I was embarrassed, with the doctor’s snicker

and his apologetic words while blinking.

 

When I was 8 mom asked me,

in one of those Saturday’s café mornings

with friends, out and loud:

“Ricardo, the ballet teacher,

that elegant man over there,

the father of Maria

(I knew the gorgeous Maria)

told me you have the perfect body for ballet.

Don’t you want to become a dancer?”

“That’s for girls, mom”, and that was the end

of an embarrassing conversation

before my mates at the table.

 

When I was 9, at the swimming classes,

I was afraid of jumping into the pool,

trembling while the others jumped happily.

One day, irritated, the teacher threw me

and I finally learned to swim:

waving in panic,

grabbing the legs of a fellow swimmer.

Everyone laughed,

but mom was proud

because I was swimming

without the Styrofoam,

and was the first.

But to me it was embarrassing

and I left the classes.

 

From 10 to 16, mom was devastated by divorce, segregation, disease

and I wasn’t kind to her.

I experienced fashion and drugs,

discovered The Doors, live concerts, evasion,

a few girls discovered me…

nothing embarrassing for my surroundings.

Mom experienced very strange men

sunny days in a dark room

suicide attempts

institutionalization… almost no friend.

Truly embarrassing, I can tell.

But we kept our respectable Sunday lunch

in family – till Grandma’s death.

 

One day we reconciled but she died soon.

Today I’m eating peanut butter and watching the Simpsons (on facebook).

Mom would say: “that’s so American, why don’t you read Virginia Wolf?”

Without mom’s sensibility life is embarrassing.

She’s in heaven and me in the wasteland.

Fortunately I swim every day, dance alone in my room and am anti-militarist

but the butter glides whenever I’m with my pals.

I miss mom.

<p><a href=”http://vimeo.com/50052307″>“from the solar bench the blue indigo reflections on shopping in body-boxes”</a> from <a href=”http://vimeo.com/user11909581″>Ricardo Andrade</a> on <a href=”http://vimeo.com”>Vimeo</a&gt;.</p>

Meditationness

 

Once upon a time there was an Indian Sikh

Who sat beyond a candle spry

And sifted the allures of the catching light

Among an anguished thread of sights

Inside his mind

 

That was a time of missed aims

Resting grave without a frame

To stand against the pain, the lame

That brisk heed ebbed from faith

 

But now it’s time to seek behind

The eluding fair of thoughts in thine

The vague recall, the one which falls,

Aerial wave that will reach and call

 

That waving kind and loose and tie

That, which tries and keeps, then dies

 

For there shall be a ravishing fate

‘Cause in thou you’ll find the escaping bait

The one you bite, beaten each day

For there shall be a flow, a tide

Out of shells an e an s shes and hes

(in ultramarine Italian mode with a German “Ich”)

 

Please clam up like the vongola

(“ongola!? ongola!?”)

and feel your inner zeal

mussel the cozze in

(“cozze!? cozze!?”)

in relentless caresses

‘cause your deepness shares the darkness

(but it’s Pacific you’ll see)

 

“thy abyss

is abyssal

oh fatal to him”

 

let the granchio crabbily crawl

(“granchio!? granchio!?”)

around your simple white feet

and scuttle-around the-fish

fishing-the-ish

while I hold you in il Seppia

grabbing you in tenta-cles

(“if it was, please, just use to be“)

 

lob- the claws of l’aragosta into the endless… well, cheers!

and holy holy mackerel,  how I love you

– you per se

in lo sgombro of an umbrella,

a postcard – no seal

wondering through, thou… me

diving into you and me

(“and bring the doc just

pointdoc, yes

we will phank you

– ‘you’ and ‘me”)

 

But still there,

there where you oyster in shallow thoughts,

you, my sweat little ostrica waving out a spada-ish

sword-fishing out that precise she

you my devil-she-childiny,

you an e s me

Siren

Sphinx

seriously, “don’t-you-see?

It’ll be Pacific, you, me

(maybe a rendezvous in tea?)

 

Oh mighty mighty pacifier

This is shit, he just wees!

————-

Meanwhile, along the blue of the sea horizon someone will ask:

“Is this to be?

To be in shell, only self

A F’kingIch bin gebin?”

————

Please, darling, could you just pass me the

re-cycle-bin?

 

“thy abyss

is abyssal

oh fatal to

‘he’”

Coming just to see what happens

 

They’re lovers

They entangle themselves with

questions questioning questions

 

They care for whys and whys,

why?

 

They touch surfaces

and breathe

They insufflate and insufflate

… and insufflate… again

and then they just gaze at that surface

and the other

and another

 

and then they wonder

Why and why?

And why, again

 

They throw a glance at the mirror and ask

Is it me? Is it you staring at me?

Who are you?

And again

In…sufflate

In…sufflate

 

 

They’re inebriated

by the scent of the surface

by its minifies

and its mimicries

and intricacies

or intriguisies

and they love it

 

Philos entering the banquet

together with

“The affair-man!” clap clap clap

“The bohemian!” clap clap clap

“The gambler!” clap clap clap

“Don Juan!” oh sh sh

“The woman!” oh sh sh oh oh clap clap oh oh

 

(“And the slave”) who? who? Ah

 

but they just

enter, stare, breath

And they touch it

as lovers do

contem…plating

contem…plating

to see what happens

 

“what happens?”

The side of a Spanishyard

The side of a Spanishyard

 

They speak Spanishyard

Under the sun, they don’t know your name

They do not CARE, they’re mad

They go ON

 

You decide to post a SYMBOL

(maybe they’ll understand)

BUT you’re restricted

You only have signs

Not even RED signs – PROHIBITION

Neither TRIANGLES – DANGER

You have words WORDS

Actually, only words

 

You construct with CAPS and italics:

CARE for

BUT

there’s

PRO-HI-BI-TION

Suddenly Un danger

(“please read it in French” – he informs you)

et un danger

 

Even onomatopoeias don’t work

A dog dogs-dogs-dogs-woof-woof

A cat catsyyy-catsyy-catsyy- meow-meow

Au-au Miau-miau

(please read it in Portuguese – he informs you)

Au-au Miau-miau

 

There’s no solution

They don’t

don’t

CARE

 

“It is not allowed” equals “It is prohibited”

They don’t

don’t

UNDERSTAND

(the understatement)

 

“MEANINGS” means minus:

“La bêtise of knowing”, my friend,

about languages

when you’re lost in another country

 

Who cares about meanings

and understatements?

Who cares?

 

Well, it’s just like a job

And you continue:

woof-woof meow-meow

 

But now

I’m caressing an animal, just beside,

and continuing

even if one day they had sent me to

THE OTHER SIDE

 

woof-woof

meow-meow

woof-woof

 

“WHAT THE FUCK, MAN!?”, they say

 

And all I want is going back to

THE SIDE of a Spanishyard,

just there and then,

then when I was speaking it RIGHT

“right?”

 

meow-meow

woof-woof

 

“I am with you

and my dogs and I are proletariats”

“inhaling gently a cigarette (in a mirror”

the boyish creature asked IF

if I was going north

through the dream of those who care about

about a brisk wind and waters from sky

the muse was resting

and there was only a TV

only a TV

a TV

set to the world

I watched the

the chamber providing

providing statements of welfare and of

and of

and of

CAPITALS

The gentle silhouette of the

of the smoking beggar

reprimanding the status-quo

guilty, I said

guilty, I said

I said

on the screen

there is a running sports´ TRUTH

a pair of NIKEs made in Palestine

throwing stones and basket balls

(3 points construe about priceless empires

and of

and of the whiteness of the things with a price)

–  the sweat of teenagers

on the skin of a poem

everything is a Bank

and its logo with a SWAN

and those

those

commercials which fool

you

you and the paradise

digesting

cellulosic deceptions

Utopia is a village in the coast of Alentejo

and from the shore

(there is still a shore)

and from the shore

a fire signals the hemisphere of

ABSURDITY

while widows of the fisherman in black

repose their hand on the curls of their children

with green eyes pondering

pondering about literal algae

and the UNIVERSE

this made me swear for the people

“I am with you

and my dogs and I are proletariats”

proletariats manufacturing poems

for you

for you to lick

the sweat on her skin

the skin written with the words

CAPITALS’ TRUTH and

and the NIKEs’ SWANS and

and the ABSURDITY of the UNIVERSE

of the

of the

he is gently peeling (in a mirror…