Archive for March, 2013

A Chinese Judas

a partir de “A queima do Judas 2013 (em Vila do Conde)”

um espectáculo de “nuvem voadora”


A conversation with TS Eliot

Firstly, thank you for coming

Those who sharpen the tooth

are keen to revolving interplays


What are your thoughts on poetry?

Let’s wait for cymbals of algae

holding us in derision



The lot resembles flaccid fat

and sterile surfaces, waxing and waning.

Just preserve a respectful distance



The various ranks of varied green

solely wishes and whims

promenading little fingers

by porcelains

scenting oriental teas


And what about the sea?

If I’m constipated

I ask my muse to

paint me a cavernous waste shore


What do you think of art?

When you’re about to fall

from the precipitous path

women keep come and  going

talking of Michelangelo



Between the violet and the violet

hormones about to sleep

stretched neurons about to explode

rests a human voice that wakes you

and after this the exile


And to finish: how about Pereira?

What about Pereira?

I don’t care



Source of excerpts: TS Eliot, The Complete Poems & Plays. Faber and faber ed.



Is he coming?

Is he going to give me a bone?

Are we going out?

Why doesn’t he caress me instead of the other?

What an interesting smell you have

How comfortable am I at your side

Street! Street! Street!

No? Are you joking?

Woof woof

Sometimes you’re such an involved guy

Let me just have fun and let’s go out


Yeah… green!

Look… what a lovely mutt over there

And who’s coming…

The neighbour’s bitch

What a cocky




Me and my dog having fun with:

My father died today

My father died today

and tomorrow there will be no Mass


there will be coms from the party and ashes

of Lucky Strikes in evening meetings


there will be atheists’ smiles,

for sure,

(is there anything more naive than the smile of a Communist?)


ironies in the Pope’s days

one of those Popes that frights …


Today was a day of harvest

bricks where lifted

bricks that will leave corners

in the cities that resist

and await

the arrival of Bob


have you seen Bob?


exactly 5 years ago

my mother died


but they made ​​the calendars

– we must comply to the fucking days


yes, there was white smoke

and heart attacks


a good man died today

(you can be certain of this)

and the sick loneliness of a perverse Face (b)

gives you  the discourse and clichés

(updated by the news of the day)


We have a short form for communist in Portuguese (I thought “coms” could work in English)

In Portuguese it is written “SG gigante” instead of “Lucky Strike” which is a very strong tobacco that my father used to smoke (I like the story of Lucky Strike tobaccos and that’s why it’s here)

My father died on the 13th March 2013, as my mother did on the 13th March 2008.

I wrote this in Portuguese and it has a few references that only  Portuguese people would understand (as the reference to the corners in a city which refers to a song that is a symbol of the 1974 Portuguese Carnations revolution). This was my way of reacting to this event and I published it on facebook, also to communicate it to my friends. Someone asked (it is only a poem, right?) and I said “No” and they understood it was a real thing. It made me think that at this stage every poem is a real thing and it is there, in poetry, that I express the deepest and serious questions and problems, as well as enchantments, of my days.

My father was a communist, but he was a good one. He had dreams. He was an excellent father (though we had many conflicts) and my best friend in the latest years.

This was one of those things that you write from impulse. I think I might have been offensive to Catholics in the poem, and I regret that… but I didn’t think properly at that moment. It was my first reaction (writing this and publishing it on facebook), maybe I did wrong.




o meu pai morreu hoje
e amanhã não haverá missa

haverá comunas do partido e cinzas
de SG gigantes e reuniões noturnas

haverá sorrisos ateus
(há sorriso mais ingénuo do que o dos comunistas?)

ironias em dia de Papa
… dos que assusta

hoje foi dia de ceifa
ergueram-se tijolos que nos deixarão esquinas
nas cidades que resistem
e aguardam
a chegada do Bob

vocês viram o Bob?

há exatamente 5 anos
a minha mãe morreu

mas os calendários fizeram-nos eles
– que se cumpra a porra dos dias

sim, houve fumo branco
e ataques cardíacos

hoje morreu um homem bom
(podem estar certos disso)

e na doentia solidão de uma Face(b) perversa
deixo o discurso das frases feitas
(atualizado pela notícia do dia)

Hell is green in its essence

In light realms

what you seem to be

is exactly the opposite

of what you absorb

and keep


your green eyes that I’m seeing

conceal the red of fire inside


your emerald wavelengths

deceive me


but still

I’m hoping

For a change

People like rules

or hate rules,

and that’s exactly the same


People like statements

or hate statements

and that’s exactly the insane


People like to fit

or unfit

and that’s likely brain


People like to understand

or be startled

and that’s ely ain!


People construct

or deconstruct

and that’s ly



If you find this annoying

Please DO NOT repeat it

108 times


…but do repeat, slowly:

“strange edge

cuckoos born

a message”


it will work

strange edge

cuckoos born

a message

May God pay you back

My attempt for

(Joining together both prompts)


Nouns: guitar; weld

Verbs: spoil; alter; touch

Adjectives: difficult; stubborn

Radom words: green; passion

Music: “Contrução”, Chico Buarque de Hollanda

(here’s a version with subtitles in English – it’s not a perfect translation but you’ll get the most)


May God pay you back


He played the guitar as if t was the last time

watched the green field as if it was the only one

and loved his woman with the ultimate passion,

as if  bodies joined together  by invisible weld.

He altered his smile as if it was the happiest.


May God pay you back


He drank from the guitar with stubborn passion

fell on her body as if it was to be welded

and spoiled the invisible field as if it was the happiest

and altered his smile as if it was a prince.

He floated on the air as if it was a bird.


May God pay you back


He stumbled on the princess as if it was a guitar

and altered the air as if it was visible

and floated on a field as if it was green

and fell down on the birds

disrupting the Saturday.


For the Saturday that will float

And for the birds playing bold

For the altered visible

and for the simply invisible

For the bodies welded together

For the spoiled princes and smiling princesses

For the flies that will kiss our corpses

and for the wailers that will grief us


May God pay you back

hi form

form being

A yellow opens

the pyjama darking

but often pineapples irrupt

at the rhyme of lines bending

and although needles pierce dollars

while a necklace screws

and boils the shrimps’ assistant

despite the lunch of the lift

the garden waits

if the hour falls asleep


a knife inks pistols