segunda-feira, 15 de dezembro de 2014


Deslocamentos se aproximam
da escrita: são a mesma forma
de estar e não estar num lugar.
Sou agora um corpo escrito por
saudades de onde já passei
A viagem acaba
mas continua em mim
Assim como palavras guardadas
num diário de bordo.

As viagens que faço me escrevem


People whisper
Children cry
I write and that's fine
The empty bus station
In the way to Liverpool
has no end
We've watched móveis
Talked and fantasized
I wonder how I get to London.
I wonder when
I'll be back home.

An empty pub serves
invisibles stouts and ales.
A young black couple
eat hamburguers.

We acept in silence
the long hours that last
Perhaps, someone is
writing a poem.
The little city remains
Offices "to let"
No cars go
Green lights with
No one to go

It seems we're the only people
In the road
Maybe in the world
People here are quite
Locked and safe in their sleep

The neon barber shop
tells me this life
I cannot see is
about to wake up

Are we a dream that
the whole city is having?
Will I be real
when they wake up?

I turnê the lights down
And kept a journal
in the backpack
The bus got back to the road.
These tedious lines in the dark
that shake me like
A rocket chair
O pé direito alto
da biblioteca
É para os grandes balões
de pensamento que
saem das pessoas