Friday, January 31, 2014

A moment for my own

Picture taken from a friend's Facebook!
I'd love to be able to explain what's burning within my soul today. I'd love to go further in the questions of my soul, but I have typed an entryin the other blog. It happens that one poem from my favorite poetess appeared in my mind (soul?) in the shape of a Fado. It happens that this poem speaks about verses writen for a love, that the love must rip them off and to forget about them. It happens that my love has too may poems directed t him, although he doesn't really knows about it. It happens that he appears from times to times and it seems that despite we don't really talk, he answers to my mental "callings". He appears and my core starts bursting. He appears and he reminds me why have I grown up this way and why I've chosen such path.
I regret nothing. I may suffer, but the more it hurts, the stronger I am: a wounded tiger is always more dangerous.
It happens that the rain falls outside and inside of my soul it's all dark: I have no good feelings left. I may even smile or laugh, but I am not OK. And I must be left on my own. Even if I am in a cafe full of people, I must be left in quiet and peace in my corner!

I am needing to go for a late walk in the streets: it doesn't really matters how afraid I am of any situation or how many known people I might find, I need to go for a nightwalk in my own. I might even need the late-night-coffee in the other gas station. I am needing of way too many things.

Peace and quiet and a moment of my own!

Friday, January 24, 2014

Thinking of you again

It bites!
In one of these lonely nights while I was writing a few poems, you came across my mind again - I've promised myself that I've left you go, that I wouldn't be writing to you again, about you ever again!
After this long morning and a night with a very short sleep, here I am at my aunt's house, listening to this song - somehow it reminds of you, although we've never been from each other! You're just a dream of mine, someone that I think that has been more present in my life than I could ever judge: before our conversations online with a web camera turned on and naked bodies, I believe that I have seen you in a train headed to the North of the country. One of my older paintings makes me think and believe that it's you. I've seen you two or more times in that train, when I was a regular costumer of the Northern line.
I have promised that I wouldn't leave you to disturb or annoy me ever again: your car has passed by me in one of these nights. It's hard not to look automatically to the car badges, after all the frights that I have got through your car and through the nights that you've haunted me with it in dark and desert streets!
You're my dream and my fantasy - I am a ghost of your past, the evidence of your "crimes" with no evidences at all.
Maybe you are the reason why love has become something so bitter for me - when I was younger, it seemed to be the reason why I lived for: to hase and to find it. I have believed that's what artists live for, to love and to be loved and then to portrait it in their art, it oesn't matter if it's painting / drawing or writing or even making music.
Here I am, thinking of you again!

Wednesday, January 08, 2014

Futuristic cities of my dreams

Somehow, this song makes me imagine a futuristic world, with flying cars, spaceships, spacetrips. Perhaps due to the sound itself, and not that much about the lyrics, since the lyrics speak about love and difference.

Friday, January 03, 2014


A bit before the dinner, I was about typing one entry. One entry about this and that... the kind of chitchat you make with people who don't know from nowhere, but that start speaking to you in the train or in the bus stations, in the cafe or in the supermarkets.
Christmas and the whole set of celebrations with the New Year are finally over. These days have been annoying me pretty much. I have been smoking quite a lot, because of the lack of mental peace. My mind never stops working, nit even when I am almost fainting after I have smoked a few joints. When I am too highed to even understand what people are saying to me, even then I am always thinking.
Since I was a very young child that I have always had this "tendence" of over-thinking. I remember of being a 3 or 4 years old child, walking the yard of the kindergarten where I was and thinking. When it was raining and we was inside, I was in my corner drawing, although I have always had the guts of interactong with other people. Melancholic states of mind are part of me. Longing thoughts are my fave "dish". 
Then again... I am listening to arab music. Years ago, when a brazilian opera soap woth a few actors playing the role of being a moroccan family, I've learned to enjoy the arabic music. The arabic culture, with a wide unknownside for me, got my respect. And while I am listening to the an arabic song. That same one that I am sharing.
I have thought about about learning to dance the belly dance style. There are men who dance it, there men willing to learn it and I am one of them. And while I am listening to this kind of music, my mind takes me somewhere else. I see one desert and the wind blowing. The sand flies and in the distant horizon, I can see a caravan passing. With another blow of the wind, I am millionaire who rules the caravan, with experient men guiding me and giving me advises. Some of these men, are the same men who put the tents up for the night and are also the me that I have bought for my very own and personal manly harem.
I am in many places. Not all at the same time, but I feel like visiting the arab world, always in an eternal quest. The quest of trying to find my soul and it still doesn't works. My soul can not be found there.
My soul is empty and still I have enough things to say in my poetry. It's all that I got left. I have stopped painting, because I believe that I would manage to straighten up my life and to return to study, that I could learn what was left for me to learn and then I could work without feeling bad for not knowing enough about the art itself and the techniques that I could use.
I doubt of the quality of my poems. I doubt of the quality of what I have to say. I try this and that, but when I get down one level of the language that I use, I always feel dirty. I feel low leveled, so I delete any other thing that I may write, because it hangs too close to the pornographic poetry, without a careful, eroticized language - it's straight to the point!
I am madened and  am smoking like one madened man!
I ammadened and smiling turns to be a difficult errand.
People ask me to play some cards with them and I say that I am not wanting to. And when I am not wanting to play, it's better that I am left alone. My gambling (without money involved) works much better when I start singing Fado or when I staring a dude's ass, but when I say that I am not in the mood, it happens tha my gambling won't work. And it ain't worked tonight!
I want to leave this wicked place.
I want to go to the desert of my dreams and fantasies.
I am not a millionaire. I can not order a caravan wth experient guides and I don't have money to bu the men for my manly harem, so all I got left are my dreams, my fantasies, my writings and a few files about self-publishing on to read. I should have read them before, but it ain't been the errand that I got done. I haven't done this yet. Of three files,  only read the first one and I got the second one to go through, after re-reading the first one. I also have a free e-book to download, which is the third file that I got to read.
I need to work on this. I need t fill my mind with this knowledge. And I also am in the need to search the web to get some help with the wicked poetry's structure, as I am someone who writes poetry as a "sport", without a true knowledge about it!
I need to improve my knowledge.
I need to improve my soul and my creative life!
I need to dream more and to let go of my fantasies in my writings. It'll be the best way to go through them.
A few months ago, I went back to the chat for gay men where I used to go. And tha Egyptian boy told me that my fantasies with him were like pieces of fairytales. So why not to write them down? Why not to unleash another genius in a rusty lamp or in a bottle of crystal? Why not to fly in a magical carpet, under the starry sky? The sand storms would mean nothing, as they were outside and I had a few male belly dancers within my palace. Rich and gay and bisexual men would come to see the dance shows of my dancers.
Sitting in an imposing chair, I would assist to the shows. I would see those rich men paying their bills to watch my men dancing and to listen to the musics that the composers woud compose for us.
Smoking my cigarettes, my joints or the shisha, those rich men, would try to delight me with other dancers. With their money, they would try to buy nights and nights with me. They would try delight and amuse me. I would get richer and richer. I would create a huge army. My army and I would cross the deserts.
And my never ending fantasies would be a real thing. And not even then I would feel less mad and less lonely.
And not even then, I would wish and desire and crave for anything greater!

Wednesday, January 01, 2014

A disturbed man

When my voice stops speaking,
When my heart stops beating,
When my soul stops feeling
And my hands stop writing, painting and working,
When my body is thrown and abandoned in the coffin,
When the ashes of sorrow and regret are traveling the world,
When this disturbia-paranoia is shut and locked in the personal hell,
When suicide is a prayer,
When it hurts... and hurts no longer
The voice of madness, the song of despair.
One disturbed soul shut and shot,
One glass of disturbed ashes down the throat of the liars.

It goes and flows.
Imperfect words.
Imperfect steps.
You know me, dearest, and I have draw you:
The image of that man in the train,
Your image, naked in front of me
Through the technology of days:
Both of you, a single one,
A single portrait.

Now the silence:
The broken glass rips the fragile skin
And the dark and bitter blood flows free.
In my dreams, you and I are hanging in the tree,
I am your lover, your perfect lover,
I am your kiss of despair,
And you're always the feeling of despair,
Dark cars passing by
Terrifying me in the dsrkest nights.

The black birds howl their songs of death,
The dead walk the streets,
And dance,
And sing,
And laugh,
And they call my name.

The black birds keep howling their song
That it seems they're calling my name!

New Year is here

Happy 2014, everyone! I tend not to celebrate Christmas, New Years and all the celebrations. Parties and celebrations have their somewhat of sad for me. I seem a joyful person, but when it comes to certain... erm, "things", like parties, celebrations... I am not that happy. But I got to wish you all a very happy New Year of 2014!
I have spent the last hour of 2013 listening to this amazing woman singing. Amália Rodrigues, the Portuguese fadista (fado singer), an amazing singer, an extraordinary human being and someone I miss to hear about in the tv and in the news. Someone who makes me feel terribly proud of being Portuguese, despite all the bad things that are related to Portugal at this moment!
I don't have much more to say... not now... not tonight...
Happy New Year!