Pure Promiscuity

Bodies touching, sliding,

Skins moist and glittery,

Exuding youth and reckless passion.

His arms are locked around her -

For the moment, the perfect embrace.

His lips are drinking hers,

Taking her in with hunger and abandon.

Their legs are intertwined,

Where one body ends and other begins is a blur.

His muscles are tense and firm,

She loses her senses to their raw charm.

Their bodies blend, time is stretched,

And nothing matters but the movement,

The maddening rhythm -

The vigour, force and liberty

Of the mutual attraction

That no reason and no caution can control.

Once,

Twice

Her body arches as the sensation

Cancels out the concept of a rational mind.

Dense pleasure, chaste promiscuity

In its highest form.

Pure feeling spills through her,

Leaves her breathless and in peace.

His body, wet and craving more,

Increases its pace until it molds

Into hers, its weight welcome.

With no start and no end,

There is no story. 

The exchange is bound by the moment,

Flawless in its infinite finality. 

The final dance

We have become a farce.
We say not what we mean,
And don't mean the words we say.
We are cowards, afraid to lift the veil,
And see the truth in each other's eyes.
From two bodies in sync,
Intent on reading each other's movements,
Together moving gracefully to the rhythm,
Correcting the occasional misstep,
We've degraded to stiff shuffles,
Awkward hands touching coolly,
Both lost in the once familiar moves.
Let's end this round -
Let's be brave enough
To admit the unsayable,
Face the unforeseeable,
Submit to the obvious.
Let's salvage at least the memory
Of what we used to be
Before this sad charade
Leaves us with a pungent aftertaste,
Aversion, loss of faith, and distrust
In the concept of love.



Nós nos tornamos uma farsa.
Nós dizemos não é o que queremos dizer,
E não acreditamos nas palavras que dizemos.
Somos covardes, com medo de levantar o véu,
E ver a verdade nos olhos do outro.
De dois corpos em sincronia,
Sempre prestos a ler os movimentos um do outro,
Juntos se movendo graciosamente ao ritmo,
Corrigindo o passo errado ocasional,
Temos degradado a baralhamentos embaraçosos.
Mãos inábeis tocando friamente,
Ambos perdidos nos movimentos uma vez familiares.
Vamos terminar esta rodada -
Vamos ter coragem o suficiente
Para admitir o indizível,
Enfrentar o imprevisível,
Submeter ao óbvio.
Vamos salvar pelo menos a memória
Do que costumavamos ser
Antes desta charada triste
Nos deixa com um sabor pungente,
Aversão, perda de fé, e desconfiança
No conceito de amor.

A receita

Assuma o papel de um criador.
Faça pão fresco, com uma crosta grossa
E centro saboroso e macio,
Saindo do forno de tijolo,
Com cheiro irresistível e forte.
Prepare o jantar -
A mesa gemendo sob o peso
Dos inúmeros pratos,
Frutos do mar, massas e legumes
Prontos para ser compartilhados
Com queridos amigos.
Sirva água e vinho
Com uma mão generosa,
Encha os copos e veja
Rostos sorridentes,
Braços gesticulando com animação.
Crie o amosphere
De harmonia e alegria.


Assuma o papel de um observador -
Perceba as criações.
Acorde cedo - ouça a música
Do primeiro pássaro.
Abra a janela para deixar o vento
Tocar seu rosto,
Levando suas preocupações,
E trazendo-lhe o cheiro
Do mar salgado.
Agradeça para o céu
Rico em tons de azul, vermelho e roxo,
Respire fundo, absorva o dia.

Foreigner

Tired of rules to obey.
Uncharted territory of a stranger.
Rebel! To hell with the stares,
Eyes following each move,
Tongues openly discussing every gesture.

A white crow, adapting to be black.
All I ask for is freedom -
Invisibility cloak that lets me do
What is in my nature.
Look and feel. Walk. Ponder.
Unhindered and not pestered.
I pay my dues - I speak the language,
And I know the town like the palm of my hand.
Have I not earned the right to be an insider?

Enough. I've gotten to the point
Where opinions and stares roll off of me
Like water off a goose.
Let them glare, comment, and whistle.
I shall not try to blend in -
Painting my feathers black
Will only make the paint run
With the first drops of rain.
I resign the role of a foreigner
Desperate to appear a local.
Let them stare, comment, judge.
It is a past-time that they will not forego.

I find my liberty in not caring.
My freedom is to be.
To cry in public. To dance on a street.
To sit on this ledge, feet hanging over the road,
Feeling the breeze and the stone,
Still warm after the day's heat.
Buses rumble underneath,
Pass, passengers not looking up
To see the soles of my shoes.
I am mischievously and blissfully unnoticed.

The clouds gather above,
Heavy layer on top of Santa Teresa.
It might start to rain.
In ceasing to struggle,
I find my peace,
And I wait for the first drops.

On Art, in all its forms

Your comfort's tangible - a sturdy staff
That a tired pilgrim leans on.

I come to you for my salvation
In moments when the path is lost.

When doubts creep in, and faith
In truthfulness of my course abates.
By choice I set out on this journey,
With constant turns, pebbles
That make me trip and stumble,
And ripples in the road
Testing the steadiness of my footing.
You are devoted and true,
A childhood friend that stays by my side.
An oasis where I can lay my head
And dip my hot face in the waters
Of a pristine lake.

If your power was obscure before,
Distant and uncertain,
A mirage that hungry eyes
Wished to will into existence,
Now, my gratitude is endless
For your selfless loyalty.
The generosity in giving me
Your soothing strength.

The Now

Whip me, chain me, keep me, restrict me,
Whether by force or trickery,
Don't let me be myself,
In the perpetual torment
Of running in circles,
Spinning aimlessly
In the mad rush,
The frenzied waltz of my overheated mind.
Bind me, ground me, hold me down,
Any means justifies the end,
I will take either pain or pleasure,
Any measure that will make me still.
Make me feel the present,
Raw, unexpected and unplanned.
Bitter or sweet - it doesn't matter,
Shackle me here,
Don't let me get away.
Ignore my struggle,
Don't listen to my pleas.
They are but voices
Of my vice to flutter
Between Hereafter and Before.
Don't let life dissipate,
Fade out like a final screen shot,
Unnoticed, while I make small talk.
Confine me here. In the Now.

Wondrous Wayfaring of a Wisent and a Walleye

a wizened 
wisent, 
wearing 
wafflestompers,
wrastled a wany walleye
who 
wrested and 
wricked - 
what a waggery!

Crumbling Fortress

Consumed. Shaken. Destroyed and rebuilt.

I close off, erecting strong fences.
Grand barricades of high walls,
Iron gates and secure drawbridges
That I detract at the first sign of danger.

Your presence I allow,
Exposing my Achilles' heel willingly.
Friend or foe, you blur the definitions.
The hot breath from your lips
Touches my neck -
Good judgement and all reason flee.
I'm left barred, at your mercy.
Elatedly, I submit.
Renewed and recreated after each charge.
I am a forest burned down to regrow.

Then you withdraw,
And I'm left stunned
At the breached defenses.
Considering to tear them down,
So that the next assault
Ends in your reign.

Sonnet to Togetherness

When I am quite content with my existence,
No longer anxious in pursuit of a magic spell,
I shall succumb to your delicate insistence
Feeling that in the end it'll turn out well.

It is unlikely that it'll be a perfect marriage
Of utter harmony and ceaseless mirth,
But like well-matched horses in a carriage,
We demonstrate each other's worth.

From broad-minded arguments we shall not shun
For frequently, Truth is in discussion born.
Affection will prove itself in the long run,
Esteem and adoration leave no room for scorn.

   Commitment is not a synonym for sacrifice,
   And happiness need not require compromise.

Another chance

His tie falls neatly on his broad chest
that's softer now, without its youthful definition.
He runs his hand through the receding hairline.
Briefcase is clenched in his strong hand.
Inside are contracts, folders and a stuffed giraffe
that he picked up for Jacob, his toddler
sleeping in the lap of his fresh-faced new wife
in a two-bedroom house in the suburbs.

The hand that wraps around the handle of the briefcase
used to land heavily across a face,
a face he loved but that could send him
into an angry frenzy until his hand became possessed,
making her body weightless, flying toward apartment walls.
Until her temple's contact with a protruding cupboard
ended the twisted courting dance.

After a few years in jail, he learned from his mistakes.
Took up yoga and cooking, following the counselor's advice
for new hobbies and calming activities.
Another city, another name, another chance.
He deserves it.
Everyone makes mistakes...

Metropolitan Sidewalk

Shuffle. Stride. Scuffle. Saunter. Strut. Stroll.
The constant current of human feet
On the wet pavement.
Their wordly possessions swung across the shoulders,
Secured on their backs - a snail army.
Steady. Unstoppable. Unpausing.
Shirts. Sweaters. Sarongs. Stilletos. Sandals. Stetsons.
A delirious kaleidoscope of colours and patterns.
Eyes glued to the ground. Eyebrows knitted.
Cellphones and coffee cups attached to the hand.
Unbroken concentration on some vague goal ahead.
Thousands of wet footprints disappear,
Washed away by the persistent drizzle.

Inside a formicarium

Sealed in her chambers,

The queen lays eggs.

That is her only task.

Revered isolation

Is her company.

Outside, the colony goes on

In its continuous flow.

Productive little workers

Are bustling about.

Some are carrying

Tiny bits of dirt,

Patiently, single-mindedly,

Unquestioningly.

They build chambers,

Passages and tunnels.

Using their saliva

To make the walls hard.

Thanks to them,

The ant hill is born.

Others tend to the young,

The recent output of the queen,

Grooming and feeding.

Most of the eggs

Will become part of the mass,

Obedient little workers,

Capable and efficient.

Food-gatherers wander around,

Tirelessly, for days, to scavenge

And collect, returning

With the spoils, sharing

All with their queens.

The soldiers gain in size,

Their task is to serve and protect.

Created for a single purpose,

They defend at any cost.

Through the thick glass,

The formicarium is laid out.

Activity doesn’t cease,

Even for a moment.

A mindless perfect

Mechanism.

A flawless order,

Eulogy to efficacy.

Choices

Each day is part of a web,

A network weaved of choices.

To stop on a rainy night on a bridge,

And jump-start a stalled Mazda,

Or to keep going, late for a new episode

Of your favourite sitcom.

To give your failed relationship another chance,

Or to cut off all communication, moving on.

To smile at a stranger in a coffee shop,

Thus possibly inviting a conversation,

Or to close off, protected by the screen

Of the i-phone, habitually resting in your hand.

To keep obsessing over the project plan

That you must force out of your exhausted mind,

Or to pull warm boots on, and go for a walk on the peer,

Steeped in soft glow emanating from the street lamps. 

On love

What is love?
Fulfilling a dream, created by ego and imagination?
Is love possession?
Is it finding a match to our check-lists?
A mutual decision to compromise?

Love is sharing silences, feeling understood
Without a need to explain - a look conveys
The urges of the soul.
Stimulation of the mind by a glance, a smile, a word.
Response of the body to the mere proximity.
It's the ability to let go.

"Everything interests me and nothing holds me" - Fernando Pessoa

Full of contradiction: wanting to be still in movement,
Laugh crying, embrace the world at a distance.
The mind races, full of images, tastes, sounds and ideas,
Unable to keep up with itself,
Becoming a balloon that fills itself up
Until it soars, pulling free of its string.
The hunger for more is never satisfied,
Exploration is a process and not a destination.
Fulfilled with freedom to experience all,
Without boundaries or expectations,
It's possible to share endlessly, without exhaustion.
Out of the freedom to create and liberty to feel
Is born the meaning of my existence.

"Tudo me interessa e nada me prende" - Fernando Pessoa

Cheia de contradição: querendo estar parada em movimento,
Rir chorando, abraçar o mundo à distância.
A mente dispara, cheia de imagens, sabores, sons e idéias,
Incapaz de manter-se com si mesma,
Tornando-se um balão que se enche
Até que ele suba, puxando livre da corda.
A fome de mais, nunca satisfeita -
A exploração é um processo e não um destino.
Cumprida com a liberdade de experimentar de tudo,
Sem limites ou expectativas,
É possível compartilhar indefinidamente, sem cansaço.
Da liberdade para criar e sentir
Nasce o sentido da minha existência.

When it ends

Alone, drifting away from the wreckage I created.

Familiar shapes are shambles now, rocking on the waves.

What I've grown to count on, my steady ground, is gone.

I broke my own raft, punched a hole

To test if I can make it on my own.

Just me against the waves. Stubbornly

I stay afloat – at their mercy, knowing

I will somehow make it.

I'm swimming to the shore, while my broken raft,

My refuge, is carried by away by the strong current.

It was my survival, that twirled me in the middle of the ocean,

Toying with my hope, but giving me support.

I paddle hard, all my strength channelled

Into the blind determination to make it to the shore

That I know exists.

Life is a pendulum, swinging between "I wish for" and "I want",

hiding away in peaceful solitude and contemplation,

then craving the spotlight, wondering why the world is passing by

without a second glance.

Seeking the universal truths, the point of contact,

the common ground that gives a meaning to the race.

Ode to Cachaça

Another sip. Fermented sugarcane juice enters the bloodstream.
Slowly the warmth spreads throughout the body,
Steady advance, a friendly take-over.
Eyes open wider, breathing slows down.
More attention is paid to the world around
That now moves at a comfortable crawl.
In this state of one-quarter drunk,
The tingling heat reaches the lower belly
And the desire to feel someone's wet mouth blocks other thoughts.
Fighting with the neediness for human touch,
Attention is redirected towards the music.
Strong constant beat of electonic tunes.
Six sips into the caipirinha, and all self-constructed inhibitions
Disappear - washed away by the tangy drink,
Allowing only the pure love of movement to remain.
The beat pulsates in the stomach, and the foot accompanies the rhythm.
Dance, just dance. Impatience blends in with appreciative apathy
As smoothly as the lime does with the sugar in the half-empty glass.
The waiter rushes over, obeying the slight wave of the hand,
The request for another is his command.
The first drink is finished with one gulp,
And the surrender to the drum beat is complete.

Passing moment

Two ships are sailing in the dusk.
The waves whisper of calamity.
The winds bring their wooden hulls closer,
Bounding them together in the growing tempest.
Together, the rough waters are surmountable,
The fear transforms into a lust for adventure.
The storm passes, dark clouds dissipate as quickly as they formed.
The vessels part, each adhering to its own course.


Dois barcos estão navegando no crepúsculo.
O murmúrio das ondas preve calamidade.
Os ventos trazem os cascos de madeira mais próximo,
Os vinculando juntos na crescente tempestade.
Juntos, as águas agitadas são superáveis,
O medo se transforma em um desejo de aventura.
A tempestade passa, as nuvens escuras dissipam tão rapidamente como se formaram.
Os barcos se partem, cada um aderindo a seu próprio curso.