tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59185697884978359662024-03-05T06:30:17.403-08:00New Weird WorldLong Haired Childhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07027621525765673890noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5918569788497835966.post-84470149335648742222008-12-07T09:54:00.001-08:002008-12-07T09:54:53.411-08:00Esse blog ta cada vez mais lerdo, mas sempre em frente, acho que preciso dse um dia pra ter TEMPOLong Haired Childhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07027621525765673890noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5918569788497835966.post-30164761612949514022008-11-27T19:19:00.001-08:002008-11-27T19:20:31.393-08:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifyt9rTzB4n-gyANbaV6t9_Ti_ajuZDDP-8ON4egkb8OFeLV-6kLoDV-HUO_0CpiRi3SDmWty1Qgy5EwPN3B5JJS5VjW1V0wt4wM55KZOOYn_EWXaSt2rfse-JQDJukG9xmqej1vV7wqs/s1600-h/DSC01882.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273543019317705506" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifyt9rTzB4n-gyANbaV6t9_Ti_ajuZDDP-8ON4egkb8OFeLV-6kLoDV-HUO_0CpiRi3SDmWty1Qgy5EwPN3B5JJS5VjW1V0wt4wM55KZOOYn_EWXaSt2rfse-JQDJukG9xmqej1vV7wqs/s320/DSC01882.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Vazio a ser preenchido</div>Long Haired Childhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07027621525765673890noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5918569788497835966.post-50066712603914178532008-10-01T20:34:00.000-07:002008-10-01T20:36:35.640-07:00Fome<br /><br />fome é ter os olhos por dentes<br />e ter os dentes por loucuras<br /><br />é ter um buraco aqui, embaixo<br />nas costelas, bem nelas, como se elas fossem pontes<br />fome parece decidir andar sem ter pra onde ir<br /><br />é ter o que ser mas não conseguir<br /><br />minha fomé é pra mim mais que o é pra todosLong Haired Childhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07027621525765673890noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5918569788497835966.post-57261334579962387212008-09-12T10:14:00.000-07:002008-09-12T10:16:16.462-07:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqm4ITCvOCrxUy-j-Wucxdxy0ydni7VORbfmMQea9O93IZmrxsMWGEFDK_UDHOILeuCKdGUgyCPv-qNDuqhy7EwsVuPwQubWxG_bcv282f3pU-pneg_dJ0xxmH6OAHfq-_TWjLgeXAKY4/s1600-h/DSC00389.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5245184749005233042" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqm4ITCvOCrxUy-j-Wucxdxy0ydni7VORbfmMQea9O93IZmrxsMWGEFDK_UDHOILeuCKdGUgyCPv-qNDuqhy7EwsVuPwQubWxG_bcv282f3pU-pneg_dJ0xxmH6OAHfq-_TWjLgeXAKY4/s320/DSC00389.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>"pra crescer precisamos matar e morrer"</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>estou começando a escrever uma peça</div><br /><div>"um Requiem para um parto"</div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>aos poucos aqui</div>Long Haired Childhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07027621525765673890noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5918569788497835966.post-32205422663364269052008-09-09T20:14:00.001-07:002008-09-09T20:19:14.638-07:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLRxXTZjO_WAgn9J1xcWCY8V4kSSHE9XXGZPTFQ7rR1NJ_7zRbvP8Yxu9m1CS5luN774XoS-WQsLoP77DrJF7B0H681woTmYltokH_ktgUzT-DSnAaFFIovXK_sxalReIKARDcOSKv0dI/s1600-h/DSC02819.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5244226248360124674" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLRxXTZjO_WAgn9J1xcWCY8V4kSSHE9XXGZPTFQ7rR1NJ_7zRbvP8Yxu9m1CS5luN774XoS-WQsLoP77DrJF7B0H681woTmYltokH_ktgUzT-DSnAaFFIovXK_sxalReIKARDcOSKv0dI/s320/DSC02819.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>te espero ali na esquina, sabe onde o morfeu toma uma cervejinha depois do espediente, te espero ali,<br /></div><br /><div>onde eros para pra olhar as moçaste espero naquele lugarzinho<br /></div><br /><div>onde apolo para pra olhar as estrelas,<br /></div><br /><div>onde atena se perde nas ideias,<br /></div><br /><div>ares tira a armadura,<br /></div><br /><div>e eu com asas nos pés emprestadas de hermes corri pra te esperar </div>Long Haired Childhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07027621525765673890noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5918569788497835966.post-57843166082787829052008-09-04T14:41:00.000-07:002008-09-04T14:54:50.007-07:00Ramadan<br /><br />jejum no islã<br />fome<br /><br />fome religiosa<br /><br />agora mesmo morremos de fome<br />morremos de fome de olhares cafés e estalares de dedos<br /><br />chovemos nossos sonhos em taças de palha de milho<br />palha dourada inscrita com o corão<br />a bíblia ou os nomes de nossos amantes<br /><br />na soleira da porta duas crianças descobrem o que é um beijo<br />e lá, saciam nossa fomeLong Haired Childhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07027621525765673890noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5918569788497835966.post-23707322723952841452008-09-04T14:21:00.000-07:002008-09-04T14:54:03.586-07:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8wCx0aJF9LpvK4n44gkBUKt8Plmf6_OyBQUfcpsNrGhUO_OHB43GN4F61cz-0UNDNrAPGsKnrwix25MRCREBqe9oWQ33zvZdBFzxoQjVxcgti4Oq7-VdgH9hB6QEwqRThETXg4ZRiZ_c/s1600-h/DSC00612.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242279463687105554" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8wCx0aJF9LpvK4n44gkBUKt8Plmf6_OyBQUfcpsNrGhUO_OHB43GN4F61cz-0UNDNrAPGsKnrwix25MRCREBqe9oWQ33zvZdBFzxoQjVxcgti4Oq7-VdgH9hB6QEwqRThETXg4ZRiZ_c/s320/DSC00612.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>olhando pra minha foto</div><div>verbo no presente continuo</div><div>confundindo gramatica portuguesa com inglesa</div><div></div><div>pensando por que raios minhas tintas correram</div><div>e pensando por que raios uma esfera caminha</div><div></div><div>de novo</div><div>lados paralelos de uma esfera</div><div>alcançando nada além de si mesmo</div><div></div><div>allez!!</div><div>je jeteé moi méme!</div><div></div><div>me jogo a mim mesmo!</div>Long Haired Childhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07027621525765673890noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5918569788497835966.post-66654514611111931722008-09-04T14:17:00.000-07:002008-09-04T14:54:36.188-07:00Ouvindo creedence, uma banda tipicamente americana, vestindo uma tipica calça jeans velha, e uma tipica camiseta branca<br />pensando num tipico pintor polones, relendo na cabeça um tipico escritor americano que morava em paris<br />com uma tipica barba, um tipico cabelo branco e uma nada tipica saudade<br /><br />eu usei ctrl-C ctrl-V pra escrever tipica tantas vezes<br />e no fim foi tão típico, que ficou atípico<br />tipititatumpaLong Haired Childhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07027621525765673890noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5918569788497835966.post-14356208129119607762008-08-25T20:10:00.000-07:002008-09-04T14:55:10.031-07:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhiZ72C8lPn_d8mf65sF5pZDSfozo1b_oKhXyKVrA7bJAebNx1Nm5IOnBXAs2_HQ4NT1qcGdDDlP-2TtDPzM1-FPfDkC2DkXAXmc7Z4Gu4GdTaBmgdDNgWxtiJXA8ocaPZ92uAW-wKHy4/s1600-h/DSC00440.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5238658521066357954" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhiZ72C8lPn_d8mf65sF5pZDSfozo1b_oKhXyKVrA7bJAebNx1Nm5IOnBXAs2_HQ4NT1qcGdDDlP-2TtDPzM1-FPfDkC2DkXAXmc7Z4Gu4GdTaBmgdDNgWxtiJXA8ocaPZ92uAW-wKHy4/s320/DSC00440.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>se meu olho molha meu cabelo seca</div><div>se meus cílios selam um olhar possivel</div><div>meu cílios cerram-se</div><div></div><div>se de olho vivo</div><div>de olho devo morrer</div>Long Haired Childhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07027621525765673890noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5918569788497835966.post-70937309865743315812008-08-25T20:07:00.000-07:002008-09-04T14:55:29.196-07:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL3qgwnNufEKO4yWCyFnvr-7Iy1htlu8rfug_2CoBs7ekLZC9H072B0OKFo02RUoUz_z6WaFdhI05JOrUm-Jrx10GJY5lGyXCCCWlVhMCyYX3mA8ZVpa9kz6m8pFMjpjxRysscFU_iUhQ/s1600-h/DSC00409.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5238658044976147970" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL3qgwnNufEKO4yWCyFnvr-7Iy1htlu8rfug_2CoBs7ekLZC9H072B0OKFo02RUoUz_z6WaFdhI05JOrUm-Jrx10GJY5lGyXCCCWlVhMCyYX3mA8ZVpa9kz6m8pFMjpjxRysscFU_iUhQ/s320/DSC00409.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Epa babá</div><div></div><div>opa</div><div></div><div>encontrei-me queimei-me</div><div>bebê</div><div></div><div></div>Long Haired Childhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07027621525765673890noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5918569788497835966.post-32637149949323606392008-07-12T13:00:00.000-07:002008-09-04T14:55:59.181-07:00Se Sounum sei se faz sentido pra você<br />pra mim faz<br />pra mim tem um sentido imaterial e cristalino<br />envolto em felpa vegetal quente e macia<br /><br />num sei se pra vc aparece<br />pra mim parece que sim<br />parece uqe está lá<br />entre todas as brumas<br /><br />algo que resplandece<br />entre todos os tijolos esfarelados<br />entre todas as incapacidades<br />e inaptidoes<br />tem um que assobia<br />como um bem-te-vi<br /><br />bem te vi<br />bem te vejo<br />bem me vejo<br />bem<br /><br />meu bem<br /><br />aparento estar vazio<br />porém estou cheio de ruinas<br />não ruinas, mais precisamente cheio de materia prima<br /><br />o caos não é ordem<br />e a ordem não existia<br />a ordem da inexistencia de agora é a unica que conheço<br />e me perco nela<br /><br />se um gaucho anda a cavalo nos pampas<br />se um ogun salva almas ignorantes<br />se um pescador conta a seus filhos que viu uma sereia<br />se eu sei pegar um lapis e traçar uma linha reta<br /><br />que me corte os cilios antes de entrar nas minhas pupilas<br />que me extenda até o infinito e me contenha no tudo que sou<br />se eu sei atirar uma flecha<br /><br />não atinjo nada, além de mim<br />meus ultimos demonios são eu mesmo<br />e eu não os conheço até o fim<br /><br />traço a linha como quem anda<br />como quem fala<br />como quem diz<br />eu te amo<br /><br />traço o eu<br />em você<br />e sem imagens e somente de sentimentos pinto<br />pinto o nós<br /><br />pois sentimentos são tudo que sou agora<br />e até eles serem mais, e se embasarem no eu firme como arvore<br />até lá sou eu<br />até lá sou meu pé e meus cigarros<br /><br />e até lá te tenho ao lado<br />até lá os tenho ao lado<br /><br />se um menino anda pela rua segurando um galho de mangueira<br />se esse menino nunca jogou bola<br />se nunca jogaria<br /><br />se eu fosse passaro<br />se eu sou homem<br /><br />se eu condiciono o ser ao ser<br />sou homem<br />sou passaro<br />sou flecha e linha<br />sou tinta, pé e cigarros<br />sou pois fui e serei<br /><br />sou euLong Haired Childhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07027621525765673890noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5918569788497835966.post-15622381994382980922008-04-25T10:21:00.001-07:002008-09-04T14:56:29.949-07:00Tod’s a mute, it doesn’t matter why. It doesn’t matter why, but Tod’s a mute. He sometimes wants the world to spin so fast that he’s on the other side and he’s singing, he’s singing so loud that the crows in the rooftops stop their noise because there isn’t any point because no-one’s listening, because they’re all listening to Tod. God stops to hear Tod sing. But Tod can’t sing, not at the rate this world spins. He can’t sing.Tod starts to paint. Starts in his room at the sound of the door, but the sound’s only so loud because it never comes from his mouth the way we sometimes surprise ourselves with words we never planned. Starts to paint with his right hand and learns to spoon chicken noodles into his mouth with his left, and Tod paints around a plate and stares at the daubed red sun that’s hollow and always mouthing Oh.When the couple across the street walk out of their front door a few mornings later they’re on their way to work and on their car (it is red) is written: Go To Sleep. And they’re so angry, they walk across the street because they’ve seen that little mute boy painting red wherever he can, but never on cars before now. He paints round red ‘Oh’s on sheets of paper torn from one long roll his father gave to him and the sound the paper makes when the brush hits it is Oh, it’s an explosion, it’s a fire starting. They knock on the door, three times, they’re so angry, and Tod answers the door and he shakes his head No when they ask him did he paint the Go To Sleep on their car? And he shakes his head No. When the girl with white shoes and white teeth crosses the road she sees written next to the white lines in the road in red paint a perfect line of words that read: Go To Sleep Suburbia. And she tells her friend who says Oh.All night Tod paints, Go To Sleep, Go To Sleep, on fences and roadsigns and sometimes on cars (but only red cars), Go To Sleep Suburbia. On churches and walls, Go To Sleep. There’s a man at the window tonight, and he sees Tod paint the perfect red line of the words that read so: Go To Sleep. And he mouths and he shouts through the double glazed window but Tod cannot hear and even so, he’s not afraid, so he stays, and he paints the curvature of the O, and begins again. The man comes out and says, “Please, tell me, what does it mean? Are you mocking the listlessness with which we face certain global crises, the issues we spurn in favour of watching our blue-green TVs? Is it a satire on sleepy community? I find it so fascinating!” And Tod turns slowly around, and he smiles, but he cannot tell. He waggles his silent tongue inside his mouth and walks back home.Go To Sleep Suburbia, sings the boy at the gate, empty of all but desire.Long Haired Childhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07027621525765673890noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5918569788497835966.post-78959192001588876382008-02-19T16:34:00.000-08:002008-09-04T15:00:29.456-07:00TermochemistryBubbling under a surface<br />Freezing on a gaze<br /><br />The carnea feels like present tense<br />The lent feels like sacifice, at last<br />The days slither around like creepy snails<br />Carrying clocks on their backs<br /><br />Riding a horse, a rider chops down roofs and tops<br />Coming from a small forest the foreboding winds of winter chant<br /><br />Winter is coming<br />CO2 fills the air<br />SO2H2 drills holes in the shields<br />Things drip like melting<br /><br />Winter is comming<br />H2O filling every pore, and falling out of cracks in the middle of the hair<br />COH sits looking back at me and waves a gentle hand<br /><br />Names look at me and turn away<br />The white of the paper refuses my pen<br />The fabric of a canvas evades the brush<br /><br />The mind, the my-nd, the body, bod-you, strugle<br />Barbed wire, scapulae, cranium<br />Guanine<br />Timine<br />Uracile<br />Cistosine<br /><br />Skid off the way<br />Eyes wide shut<br />Hair pulled back and locked out of sightLong Haired Childhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07027621525765673890noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5918569788497835966.post-50112693219731254782008-02-12T15:27:00.000-08:002008-09-04T15:02:02.543-07:00Chuva<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHqkGnexyPvI-MD-mNBj2nr1GBEdqdUMOHUg9hjOgYTDMTEfIFF5sMNgg8LzIayi-1U57nV2Zjr2K5zldeV3Yo3fo7HM59vhW2MXdXPSiKXpz_Py8jET40rY4FZI-F0nKDBpP4oBqZHLA/s1600-h/DSC03985.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5166242596781060370" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHqkGnexyPvI-MD-mNBj2nr1GBEdqdUMOHUg9hjOgYTDMTEfIFF5sMNgg8LzIayi-1U57nV2Zjr2K5zldeV3Yo3fo7HM59vhW2MXdXPSiKXpz_Py8jET40rY4FZI-F0nKDBpP4oBqZHLA/s320/DSC03985.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>o ceu ta chorando</div><br /><div>o ceu ta berrando com força</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>o ceu se abre e todo mundo chora pra ele</div><br /><div>mas é hora dele devolver o que lhe foi confiado</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>e desvirginar um ar sujo e estagnado</div><br /><div>de tirar o veu velho e colocar um veu novo nos nossos olhos</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>trazer por alamedas por penas de passaros</div><br /><div>e por cabelos e por olhos</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>trazer o que lhe foi deixado</div><br /><div>e sem mais nada, sem pedir nada em troca</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>sem exigir de nos retribuição</div><br /><div>ou taxa ou pagamento ou palavra criada por homem</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>deixamos nosas roupas na soleira da porta</div><br /><div>corremos nus por uma floresta de caules interminaveis e translucidos</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>deixamos nossos olhos onde eles se abraçam</div><br /><div>deixamos nossas bocas onde elas ficaram</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>deixamos afinal tudo quanto não somos pra tras</div><br /><div>e deixamos tudo que somos onde lhe cabem seus lugares</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>seus lugares onde seus braços enlaçam a agua que me beija</div><br /><div>seus ombros onde a agua encontra seu lugar adequado</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>um cavalo nos guia por asfalto esfarelado</div><br /><div>seu pelo se mistura ao cinza da chuva citadina</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>o reino alagado de rios novos criados por homens</div><br /><div>some junto com nossas roupas</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>some junto com o resto</div><br /><div>que é so o que restava</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>e que agora não passa de nada</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>o nada na chuva</div><div></div><div></div><div></div>Long Haired Childhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07027621525765673890noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5918569788497835966.post-49691474913748784632008-02-03T22:21:00.000-08:002008-09-04T15:04:59.610-07:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMY4PPCiHatBbIyTYq54SEPV3Cmc1bqt5OFkvykXn-UCWbfRLmOyZfUXd7OU1NY6h1HbFv8eCOOl3O4lqeM2kUcjzVbIBbxIdIy7aw5MstWNQ6gwdGn4MHpwJH9P8QNOvw0ZS6aUc6wFQ/s1600-h/ATgAAAAx6W9DePhHqYN1cRj2V3hKAKlyMfNUAdN1Q16_4s0jPZgnh8T45sU9dB0ltJA18cF-kmaD1LsirleiNcxt3J1wAJtU9VB74RjeMwguMGhEaWQH4PjviUwc2w.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5163006895222151970" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMY4PPCiHatBbIyTYq54SEPV3Cmc1bqt5OFkvykXn-UCWbfRLmOyZfUXd7OU1NY6h1HbFv8eCOOl3O4lqeM2kUcjzVbIBbxIdIy7aw5MstWNQ6gwdGn4MHpwJH9P8QNOvw0ZS6aUc6wFQ/s320/ATgAAAAx6W9DePhHqYN1cRj2V3hKAKlyMfNUAdN1Q16_4s0jPZgnh8T45sU9dB0ltJA18cF-kmaD1LsirleiNcxt3J1wAJtU9VB74RjeMwguMGhEaWQH4PjviUwc2w.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>"Cautelosamente a princípio, com indiferença depois, com desespero no fim, errei por escadas e pavimentos do inextricável palácio. (Depois averigüei que eram inconstantes a extensçao e a altura dos degraus, fato quem me fez compreender a singular fadiga que me infundiram.) "Este palácio é obra dos deuses", pensei primeiramente. Explorei os inabitados recintos e corrigi: "Os deuses que o edificaram estavam loucos"."</div><div></div><div>(Borges)</div><div></div><div> </div><div>os intrincados espaços da mente se enchem de agua</div><div>a agua expulsa a bruma</div><div>a bruma leva os sonhos</div><div>os sonhos se esvaem em lagrimas</div><div></div><div> </div><div>e novamente a agua toma conta de algo que antes era permanente</div><div></div><div>talismãs contra caes de guarda</div><div>feixes de palha secos e mortos de fome</div><div>tudo escorre atravez dos riscos feitos nas costas das mãos</div><div></div><div> </div><div>folhas de papel manchadas de tinta escorrendo como suor</div><div>trechos de estradas trincadas e rachadas</div><div></div><div>doces invasões em terras antes conhecidas</div><div> </div><div>agora modificadas</div><div></div><div>doses de intromissoes feitas em novas colheitas</div><div>agora revividas</div><div></div><div>doces doces invasoes barbaras</div><div>invalidando invalidez</div><div>invalidando barbarismos</div><div></div><div> </div><div>velhas vilas italianas banhadas de sol e ruinas</div><div>pedras sabão e marmore rosa</div><div></div><div>trilhas atravez de relva</div><div>forçando trincos de escotilhas</div><div></div><div> </div><div>estourando barragens</div><div>soltando peixes, aves e barcos</div><div></div><div>pro mar </div><div>pra serem invadidos novamente</div><div></div><div>pela agua</div><div>por si mesmos</div><div></div><div></div><div></div>Long Haired Childhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07027621525765673890noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5918569788497835966.post-53975725216495488982008-01-28T04:24:00.001-08:002008-09-04T14:58:56.742-07:00facing the shooting squad<em><strong>confessions bellow:</strong></em><br /><em><strong></strong></em><br /><em><strong>28, janeiro, 2008.<br />End of Small Sanctuary<br /><br /></strong></em>What exactly are my values?<br />And what exactly do i want to accomplish here?<br /><br />To do his bidding?<br />Probably...<br />To make him proud?<br />Probably...<br /><br />But in fact i want to show that i can be all he wants...<br />But why?<br />Because i want to prove him right?<br />Or wrong?<br /><br />No, i believe that what he says is a good path, actually is a very good path.<br />But to walk down that path wich he built all through his life, wich far surpasses mine in both experiences and time, i need to build my own path, and thus i need to have experiences wich can be strong enough to create stone by stone a path that can compare to his...<br /><br />Why compare?<br />Because i can`t just buy a path out of nowere, i can`t just sprout a path out of my mouth and start walking down it.<br /><br />I don`t even know wich stones to choose, or wich stones there are around!<br />And worse than that, i chose some rough and weak stones to set down, up until now.<br /><br />I can`t defend my path, i don`t like it<br />I don`t believe in it<br />And so i can`t see wich are the bad stones<br />I can only hope that the little i can percieve of his path, i can trail one similar to it.<br />But his path seems far away<br />Seems distant and omnipresent, like a second horizon set against the sky<br /><br />His path is sepparated from mine by thousands of miles of rough jungles, of past years and past experiences, jungles filed with snakes and wild beasts.<br /><br />And so is nearly impossible for me to reach his path.<br />I can only imagine what to do, and so i repeatedly mistake his good stones in the distance for broken pieces of gravel at my feet.<br /><br />From now on the image of his path will be my inspiration, no longer a guide.<br />My own path made by stones chosen with his help<br />But those stones will forever be different from his.<br />And that i can`t change<br /><br />My path shall be a shining new one, built out of my dreams and actions<br />My path shall be a simple one<br />My path shall be that of a mortal man.<br />It will be that wich i can build, with all my strenght.<br /><br />I can do it<br /><br />And shame shall fade<br />And loss of faith shall fade<br />And weakness shall fade<br /><br /><br />But should i do it for miself, or for others?<br />Can i be able to do it at the same time for me and others?<br />Can i?<br /><br />This mourning`s vice will become the fuel to ignite my work<br /><br />I will not continue being selfish, i will not continue being lame, i will not continue being lazy, my life will change, with help of all my friends, all my relations<br /><br />It will<br />It will become a shining new life<br /><br /><br /><br />I will leave this bad dreams behind<br />And wake up to a new kind of day<br /><br /><br />The sun will be my guide<br />Into the light<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Feeling newborn and grasping for breathLong Haired Childhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07027621525765673890noreply@blogger.com0