Tag Archives: Poetry

iris murdoch the one alone

26 Wednesday Jun 2013

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

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Is there any other way out of this
skull? I’ve drugged it, drilled holes in it, shot it
full of electricity. Nothing. There’s bliss
in pain, yes. But not release. I mean, shit,
Murdoch’s fog still creeps in. I am blurring
in front of the mirror. I’m freaking out.
Maybe ghosts are just us dead forgetting
who we are? Without memory I doubt
I am going to be saved, find a path
out of this woods. Lover, do not leave me.
I am afraid. Perhaps I have always
been this afraid, I do not know. My wrath,
my laugh, my fears, my love I am sorry
no, no, no do not sink into this haze.

machine-born rage and bedtime stories

25 Tuesday Jun 2013

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Homer’s heroines were virgins, witches
and fools. I need more than that from my myths.
Give me witches who can raise slain corpses,
virgins who command armies, girl blacksmiths
who forge the sort of swords that burn worlds down.
There are fools enough to make any queen
of the wood fairies swoon. I want to drown
the world in menstrual blood and fire, machine-
born rage and bedtime stories. Homer’s ass
hangs out here. We all take turns kicking it.
Poor mule. Poor Titania. These myths blur.
The world is a tinder box; with teargas,
sulfur and wrath. Would you try to light it?
Let us go and try to replace Homer.

the thing you call without a name

25 Tuesday Jun 2013

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Because we’re fragile. Because we spill truth
the way blue glass spills light. Because someone
loved us enough to be rude and uncouth,
crude and bestial, in ways that heaven
refuses to be. We’re the harbingers
of our fate. We’re cracks in the stonewall smile.
The blood-copper smell of sticky fingers
under your nose. Heh. Because the exile
wants to be something else. Because we all
want to be something else. Our mysteries
are just like that, kid. We’re unknowable.
We’re the cracked enigma. The thing you call
without a name. Except me. I’m a tease.
I’m what you want that’s rude and bestial.

last cricket song

25 Tuesday Jun 2013

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The dead aren’t poetic. They don’t murmur
about being leaves in a storm, the last
cricket song on the last night of summer.
Leave that bullshit to the living, who cast
one scared eyeball on the shadow and claim
it is in their image. What a deep lack
of faith. As if faith was some sort of game
you could name. It’s either raw and bareback
or not at all. You can’t pull out, just pray
that this time the crude dead will not claim you
as their own. They will, sooner or later,
but not tonight. Tonight you should obey
no one, no laws, like the dead. The one true
law that you’ll learn later, but not sooner.

monster [monstro]

20 Thursday Jun 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, Portuguese, Translation

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Acordar o bicho a minha forma usual. Tens sido vida fora o meus desejos escuros. As treva desliza, se desenrola na dentro treva. Este é o meu noturnos. Tua boca em flor; beija-te, beija-te, beija-te. Forma usual.
.
Waking the beast my usual way. You’ve been living off my dark desires. The darkness slips, unfolds within the darkness. This is my night. Your mouth is in bloom; I kiss you, I kiss you, I kiss you. The usual way.

all of us who love the erotic [todos nós que amamos o erótico]

20 Thursday Jun 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, Portuguese, Translation

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O teu corpo é um licor em minha boca; água que queima com a minha língua dentro de a têmpora.
O teu leite é um mistério que escorre senhora sensualidade.
Quando criança o erótico me assustou.
Eu carregava a loucura dentro de mim, eu compreendi; um beijo e meu melhor amigo regrediu com o desejo devassa.
Mas isso foi há muito tempo atrás
Hoje eu perder teus mortos mãozinhas.
Eu perder teu louco riso; teu julgamento sobre todos nós que amamos o erótico.
.
Your body is like liqueur inside my mouth; burning water with my tongue inside the temple.
Your milk is a mystery that oozes sensuality.
As a child the erotic scared me.
I carried the madness inside me, I realized; a kiss and my best friend regressed with wanton desire.
But that was a long time ago
Today I miss your dead little hands.
I miss your crazy laugh; your judgment on all of us who love the erotic.

my sister [irmã minha]

19 Wednesday Jun 2013

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Irmã morta minha dentro de mim está.
Você entende os mortos?
Se a minha irmã era uma montanha eu era um cactus em chamas, aquecendo sangue dela.
Os mortos não têm casa, e nada pode acalmar seus medo.
É por isso que irmã morta minha dentro está de mim.
Porque eu amo ela.
.
My dead sister is inside me.
Do you understand the dead?
If my sister was a mountain then I was a burning cactus warming her blood.
The dead have no home and nothing can calm their fear.
That is why my dead sister is inside of me.
Because I love her.

dreams of the dead [sonhos dos mortos]

19 Wednesday Jun 2013

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Como faço os mortos dormem?
Eles são feitos de céu e pedra.
O céu não dorme.
Pedras não durmo.
Sempre que a minha irmã sonhou, a grama torcida.
O céu sangrou.
Sonhos da minha irmã definir nossa cama em chamas.
.
How do the dead sleep?
They are made out of stone and sky.
The sky does not sleep.
Stones do not sleep.
Whenever my sister dreamed, grass twisted.
The sky bled.
The dreams of my sister set our bed on fire.

the heat of the beast [o cio da fera]

19 Wednesday Jun 2013

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Você é um deusa do morte,
e eu sou sem pudor sem roupa.
Não me toca.
Eu sou o fogo que os mortos tem de se lembrar.
O cio da fera.
A loucura de uma irmã.
Há alguns incêndios que você não pode matar.
.
You are a goddess of death,
and I’m shamelessly naked.
Do not touch me.
I’m the fire that the dead must remember.
The heat of the beast.
The madness of a sister.
There are some fires you can not kill.

i will not show you mine [não vou mostrar mina para você]

19 Wednesday Jun 2013

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Estamos todos vimos que de fenda imaculado. Mesmo as crianças vão dizer o que é. Eles vão explicar-lhe por que ele abre e fecha. Ai!, minha contrações, sangue bombeando, minha flor que arde. Vá-se embora. Não vou mostrar mina para você. Minha longos arrepios. O pulso de meu desejo, duros, retesados. Minha curtas contrações. Vida latejando, querendo implodir, ou escoar fora. Vá-se embora. Aquele pequeno fogo, no interior do ferimento de faca, pulsa e repuxa, molha minha boca, pressionado contra o chão da cozinha.
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We’ve all seen that immaculate slit. Even children will tell you what it is. They will explain to you why it opens and closes. Ai!, my contractions, blood pumping, my flower that burns. Go away. I will not show you mine. My long chills. The pulse of my desire, hard, taut. My short contractions. Life throbbing, wanting to implode, or seep out. Go away. That small fire inside the knife wound, pulsating and jerking, wets my mouth, pressed against the kitchen floor.