Metaphorland

One

2009-08-05T09:20:00.001-07:00

I wanted to hold me in an indefinite fruit,
Catch your flavor in my salivary glands;
But I don’t have black wings for my suit
And my flight is inappropriate in lands…

Eu's

2009-07-17T12:47:00.000-07:00

O sino dourado tocou seu berro,
Em desespero os pombos voaram;
A praça vazia só tinha um enterro,
Dos eu’s meus que juntos fugiram.

Desmonte de cicatrizes incuráveis,
Remontam um oco incansável;
Todos os ares são intragáveis,
Minha poesia uma mutação viável.

O astro bebeu a cicuta do copo,
No palco não mais celebrou vida;
Nas horas violentadas sem fogo,
Atuou como uma boneca sentida.

Sua primeira face dizia feliz!
Enganava e se maquiava...

Sua segunda face se dizia triste!
Vagava e se maquiava...

A terceira já dizia as outras perdidas,
As primeiras faces são atuantes;
Estão pálidas como vocês feridas,
Estão mortas em parto de errantes.

Sorrisos plastificados permitidos,
Ao som e cenário em metade inventado;
Em trajes surrados sistematizados,
Suados borrados afagam o encantado.

A música se inicia e a luz marca,
As lágrimas veladas pela língua;
E ao coração que se parta,
No teatro da solitária sina.

As cordas o seguram e não cai,
Assim pendurado espantalho se faz;
Assim assustado na chuva esvai,
Seus sonhos estrangulados no sagaz.

Sua primeira face dizia sorria!
Perdida e maquiada...

Sua segunda face dizia chore!
Perdida e maquiada...

Nestas barrentas águas há sangue!
Não beba destas gotas,
É contaminada e é um câncer;
Crescente dói e não há semblante;
Ai, reunidas infinitas mágoas,
Compactuam; a matéria do ser.

Cadê a terceira face? Escondida!
Coitada não suporta tamanha desilusão,
O mundo é inapropriado aos sensíveis;
Esta se diz em noite tão aterrorizada;
Nem piada se torna uma canção,
Aos seus ouvidos invisíveis.

Os Eu’s tão cansados e maquiados!
Procuram a passagem pela luz universal
E o sino dourado continua nos dedos
Berrando pelos seres tão celestial.

The golden bell rang his roar,
In desperation the pigeons flew;
The plaza was empty just had a funeral,
Of my I's that fled together.

Where the third face? Hidden!
She doesn't support such disappointment,
The world is inappropriate to the sensitive;
She said so terrified at night;
and the joke not convert a song,
To the yours invisible ears.

(will be a hard translate =O so wait a minute)

The I's so tired and makeup!
Seeking passage by universal light
And the golden bell continue in the fingers
Yelling by it beings so heavenly.

Kau Metaphorland 2003

Pre-exist

2009-07-13T16:22:00.001-07:00

I penetrated my indelicate nail in the rough skin,
I believe pre-exist in the land
in the feet that I feel the ground...
I pinched the superior of my hand
In the strange attempt of in this feel some life...

I closed the opening of the eye,
The evil in this way is offered;
Plagues thus are incorporated...
And following was my nail the tongue
To the way if to only make real...
Pulling out without interrupt the coats,
You will notice a standardized stability;
When the age incorporates the wire of the hair,
A white if makes there and shine the look...
If white was my eyeball,
would have something to restitute...
While we must believe in the pinching,
We have accident to real objects...
I believe pre-exist in the land
for feeling in the empty room
The enough filled in the closer of my eyes.

Kau Metaphorland 2007

Infinite Dawn (part 2)

2009-07-13T11:42:00.000-07:00

(A dark forest inside of the mind)

A dream from of me, see the specters like a soldiers of the master of the inanimate world for there, mute beings marching and putting the little rats, cats, wolfs in a jail with clouds wheels. Nothing is permanent here, the planets are joints in a universal park of diversion, it gives me an empty of the life; is a clock tick tack; the empty of the death, is a clock tick tack; the empty of my mind in many creations, imaginations, beings… I ate the sheets sitting down far of the lake. The hour not exists in my veins, the anguish grows up in my heart, destroy me, kick me, the muddy ate my right foot… none house here, none real people, none books in the gray table, only many glass with eyes in formaldehyde… what forest is this? They were although, time to back to close of the lake, a exhibit start in the sky…The moon dance on the salon full of comets, the fog opens something, an extension of the sands and rocks or a bridge of wood; I feel the lake talking strange words, my ear try to discover one by one, but I cannot listen better; they caught my vertebra and turn you in a doll, so many patches… come here, come here doll of cloth…

Want one piece, the master want you, not go to out…

“That serves to slow motion,
Inside of my red focused tears…
The dead soul so lost by emotion,
Inside of my green fears…”

- Microbrain, come see, the moon got the souls…
got the wind…

- I like a lot of the manipulation of the souls,
monsters and ghosts…

- Why? Not you they control them…
- Because they dance together with the moon…worm…
- Say for us…

“The whispers call me by dawn for days,
Crying like an old portrait in forgotten;
Pull out the flesh satisfied for days,
Not has mercy before and nor then…”

- Not has mercy… before and then… why?
- You saw humans? I saw, but you really saw?

Someone try to catch your one, someone try to catch your one…

You saw? A carnivorous fishes inside of water, they have elongated teeth, green light in eyes, a giant spider on your back like a soldier or it is the cook spider… The stars fades out in a far of my brain, the neurons die on my yellow hand, I want cook this ingredient of fable with pepper, a plate of monster fish with one black spider; someone want prove an exotic dinner; but, and the fire? Well...Catch the legs, beat it and walking in a disabilities like a sickness that contaminated your members, articulations on poor moves transform your body in a snake and you crawl with foots dermatological untested in this sand; without your typical shoes to go up in flames or your magic socks…One transparent shove fast and violent scared me, the death pull out my clothes again and want to work in your being: turn now, turn now… and open my left eye with one silver needle like a hospital without pain, a oil inside of my eyeball turn all in a green vision and it close one of my eyes with line. In this dark forest full of fliers threatening my escape… I saw one body inside, you saw? It seems call me… I scream: not run! But, you never hear me!

They never hear you, only us, they never touch you, only us…

“I walk lonely sleeping in my private cemetery,
Always trying to find your far soul to my bed…
In the hysteria my body shrinks in nervy
And you run always so far and petrified…”

Whom? Not and never! You’re my property… I cannot talk without you…

Infinite Dawn

2009-07-11T13:40:00.000-07:00

(A dark forest inside of the mind)

One transparent rock in the middle of the way, jumped high to hurt my mouth, including the sand around and pasted in my face like a jelly as a play of kids, suffocate me like a plastic around my head some seconds, I feel like the life is going to float, my nose try to find one air in a great hope and all the flowers were hiding in a place that I cannot see because I not have your body still. The dawn arrived in this place; the lights wake up a little dejected, I’m listening screams and high laughs by the darkness of the forest and my hair to fall in a doubt; this is a land of death or a forgotten life? A mystery of the nowhere to go, but you want go for this forest and try to find the animals, the plants or hiding civilizations dead by red sky.

Come to see seven moons in a dancing, an empery of souls and one strange form that appear one time in the curve of the mirror like a insolent phantom and maybe is only you in a disorientation and this hypnotize you, pull you to the tales within of the forest. How much of this is true? A complex game of the mind and it a psychology around of some thinking. They call by others names, others dates and has others delights. One transparent diamond was caught in my throat, it scratching my entrails and with less air I run by the sheets, crows and brilliants teeth behind of the bushes. I cannot stop my head now and many blows give me words…

“I walk digging all the holes of the cemetery,
Always trying to find your white cadaver;
The shadows told me like a smoke mystery
That the shots that could be a fever…

“For my laugh where the presence hug me,
Disappearing in pieces of scriptures…
For my cold where the shine death call me,
Floating in blood with hot bubbles…”

- Where are you going? What are you want with this look?
- She wants to find the master?
- Maybe they call her again for a convention…

- What are you doing here?
- Why you not call me little bastard?
- Be silent microbrain, she told to us words…
- I listened, worm…

Shocked fingers… disturbs in… reveal to… some fact…

I found the silent lake with purple smoke on the surface; you not saw this in the last dream? I transformed myself in a part of one fabulous fable and the lake seems like a great door calling with slow whispers and step by step in front of one hole, you curve the body, touch with the finger the crystal water, a oil that hold your nail and show fishes with giant eyes looking to your head on moves, to a side and to the other side. How much you touch the lake, more your body curve in fall and at the moment when the fall is so eminent, someone pull your hair fast and violent; you scream and this is a mute trying, because not has voice here, is a telepathy time… who’s there? Who touch my skin? You not have face? Not have one light? A dragonfly flew in my direction, a skull appeared, a hallucination in your velocity to bite my lips and someone cry out of the forest, very high and I whispered: not cry in the earth, this is so sad; come for these place without fearless my dear… I protect you of the humans…

We cannot believe, what you say to us? You not live… and you not a ghost…

- Come for here, the night is a dangerous place…has spells…
- They arrive, none dates, none names,
and they want your veins…

- You need run for out of this side of the forest…

“I leave the ghost hold me,
Static on a chair of sadness;
The strange cat scared me,
Losing the fingers in madness…
What want the spirits with me?
I go for there…and this is a mess…”

- Have a cavern for behind of this king tree…
- Hide your you there your you there, to hide your mind…

Eat after midnight; eat before your death…

And I fall to the back side; cut my arm with desiccated branches that were not there before… Ah! The pain is not the same and is a freak sees this inside of my arm, tearing the flesh; the blood flow like a river to nowhere, a madness float in cups of this wine; poison for every paper, I will tarnish your vanity like a festivity of purification…you cannot believe in the first book that you read and you have infinites choice to live… The objects are a fantasy and a decoration of rooms by representations of some history, a reflection, an extension of soul, your tastes, and your choices. The faith that you need has inside of your mind and this is not material, not palpable… And then, close my eyes and pull out the branch, that you did me put on your chest, this is a tear; I’m once more, trying to catch your special organ to my home. The creature in my mind back after some years, to put all in a old house and your smile is insane with serpents: - Hey you, little piece of grave, not run away of me, I told you always in your cemetery, I’m your shadow and you never leave me, talk one more time my companion… A bastard creature that not stop of speak other language… and I cannot back for the past because I not want be in this way never more… I woke with ants!

More close and never try to escape… you see me?

- The phantom one is a monster with colorful tentacles…
- The phantom two is a girl with jealous…

“They think like a worm my enjoyable,
Hide the minds in graves with diamonds…
Extracted of the faces on the gray table
To nobody sees your souls in tombs…
I not want to leave sadness in this fable,
I not want to leave my wombs! ”

You want transform the fable in reality…

I’m running above of the holes, of the rocks, cutting all my body in the way, disgust, distracted, weak eyes open in a deep scared, a deep uncertain; but, a simple sure I have, I need run… run with me my little humans, you not understand what they want? You not saw the brilliants eyes? This cavern is a darkness conscience with compartments, the subconscious live more within where the water fall in drops… some bats inside talk, some bites in my head, someone to fly around and I hide me behind… My darling companion beaten the feeling now, give your hand now, not go absent because I not have anyone that I love in this way to hug my bones… I cannot feel my yellow skin; the middle of my stomach not have hungry and anyone saw the master for here. And how I can go to out of this forest? How you can go to out of this forest? I knew… it give me a reformatory… but I knew and I wanted see the crag of this eyes… a problems floating in a liquid that fell inside and out of you, it drowning of the windows to flee… you not have choice, wake up cadaver, walk for there, some wind blow in this trees so strong like a fury of the dragon burning the castle… A mystery of the nowhere to go, but you want go for this forest and sometimes a fun madness make your mind laugh lonely or with some ghosts swinging on the branches so elevated, making noises and stop, back and go far, slow and nothing more…

“The eyes cannot be eaten by soil,
I cannot lost your eyes so shine,
I cannot leave this unique time;
I’m infected by one polish oil…”

“The star swallows all this,
And explode playing all this…”

- Hey there hey here…
- You cannot stop your words?
- One time to them not find you?
- Hey there hey here human…
- Stay here more minutes… more seconds… more dead…

You need branchia… within of the mother uterus…

Kau Metapholand (On 15 pages of tale and have more, close your eyes and dream)
I ll translate to Portuguese! Estudando Inglês, então erros, perdoem me!

The wolf

2009-07-10T20:28:00.000-07:00

Your insinuated eyes hypnotize in portrait,
As a black and pretty snake ready to bite;
And your eyeballs it crawls as a fantasy trait,
When tense, in beats three hours to incite…

Your sarcastic soul pulls the other side,
Your torpid body with clothes of ancestral;
So the stranger ghosts cry out and inside,
It walks in forgotten ruins as a monarchal…

The king of venerable death, smile dry fit,
When your voice is listened for many stones
And your language it is respected for sleepy,
He lives the shake in the hilarious bones…

When tired, excited four hours to incite,
He remembers a wolf ready for dance!
It strains its sly look and arduous to invite,
More forms to suck the delicious essence…

Maybe you see the darkness burnt in skin,
And your face to has funny scar to enclose;
Your white hands touch the dark bed in sin,
The wolf perceives that the light disclose…

When in fever, five hours to dispute in cult,
Your hot blood in veins explodes the artery.
One thing to make and your mouth to insult,
To lick the neck, prolong the teeth for mercy…

Are six hours and static the sun invade,
The curtains close for a moment of sigh.
Now, this is time to deposit your shade,
The wolf walks in dirty city as the night.

Kau Metaphorland

The Famished Alien

2009-07-10T18:55:00.000-07:00

(One by one arrive in the earth)

I couldn’t see anything so deep hole like this mass,
I couldn’t look - One disproportional complex of face…
Look to me many moments for only one surpass,
I cannot to leave - my phantom in this cold place…
They put needles on the ear - put germ on the hair,
Travel in the universal and never found life there…
Back to the earth for catch some brains in the fair,
Eat the veins like a dinner and your deform sphere…
I cannot see - Is a strange three fingers in my head,
Oppression to possession my corpse and more ever…
I couldn’t run in this fear – they were dead!
You not saw but it floats on us forever!

You couldn’t see anything so damn and insane,
You couldn’t look – Two cables in the chest…
Dirty teeth open the space of inanimate fame;
Back to the second victim – you’re the next…
They put yellow lights to bizarre constructions,
They put you in capsule to see other supplements…
I want go out – this new war have great destructions,
They compress us in packet and sell in market bents…
Of the minds - Of the sides!
You cannot see the power? The crush on…
Of the stars – of the times!
You cannot feel the energy? The kill on…

Kau Metaphorland 2008
Fun fiction (for now, only english)

O café

2009-07-10T17:40:00.000-07:00

Sala sem som,
Em quadro de distúrbio...
Palavra no tom,
De um pensamento dúbio....

Sentado neste local,
Dia após dia a lembrar,
Das imagens no varal,
Num corredor a gritar...

Teia de aranha no copo,
Tudo gira distorcido...
Café quente no copo,
Num passado perdido...

Você estava ali,
Eu afogado no lago...
A foto ficou aqui,
Só vi, quando entrei no quarto...

Desligo a televisão,
Num ato de fim...
Durmo no chão,
Está tudo em mim.

The coffee

Room without sound,
In framework of disorder...
Word in the tone,
A dubious thought...

Sitting in this place,
Day after day to remember,
Of the images in the clothesline,
In a corridor shouting ...

Spiderweb in the cup,
Everything revolves distorted...
Hot coffee in the cup,
In a lost past...

You were there,
I drowned in the lake...
The picture was here,
I only saw when entered
in the room...

Off the TV,
In an act of finish...
I sleep on the floor,
Is everything in me.

Kau Metaphorland 1998
(Old simple thing, one sorry I think, I was drowned in me)

Modelado

2009-07-10T15:23:00.000-07:00

Era dente de plástico,
Era ponta de lâmina afiada;
Que suportava o peso drástico,
E tentava furar a bolha velada...
Quem diria ter força o suficiente,
Para fugir do lugar sem chorar;
Trancando portas da mente,
Em chave de ouro a venerar...
Era mão com luvas transparentes,
Eram unhas pretas encantadas;
Esbarrando em descontentes,
Na parede invisível agarradas...
Quem diria ser tão alto,
Quem diria ter audácia;
A tanto para engolir um palco,
A tanto para morder ávida.

Mold

And was plastic tooth,
And was top of sharp blade;
That sustain the dramatically weight,
And trying to pierce the veiled bubble...
Who would have strength enough,
To escape the place without crying;
Locking doors of the mind,
In the golden key to venerate...

And was hand with transparent gloves,
And was enchanted black nails;
Collides with unhappy,
In the invisible wall stuck on...
Who would be so high,
Who would have audacity;
So much, to swallow a stage,
So much, to eager to bite.

Kau Metaphorland 2005

In – inverno

2009-07-10T14:01:00.000-07:00

Pousei minha tristeza no lilás,
Da borboleta parida em pele;
Vaguei descoberta atrás,
Com asas cobertas de neve...

Põe-se a tremer no inverno,
No perdido delírio de meu olhar;
Das sobras ao chão do outono,
No casulo o meu torturar...

Solitário caminho dos galhos,
No distúrbio subo e desço;
Ferindo-se por estes tão secos,
Não sei o que mereço...

Sem corpo nem alma do alguém,
Gelo em frio na morte da esperança;
Não há árvore frondosa e nada vem,
A esquentar no fogo da bonança...

Borboleta sem ter um simples par,
Voa perdida ferida na lágrima;
Sem no inverno ter o que amar,
É face entalhada pálida.

In - winter

I put my sadness in purple,
The birth of the butterfly in skin;
I flew discovery ago in solitude,
With the wings covered of snow...

Get up to shake in the subtle winter,
Lost in the delirium of my eye;
The leftovers to the ground of the Autumn,
In the cocoon, my purple torture...

Lonely path of the branches,
Raise me and go down on disorder;
Injuring themselves for it so dried,
I do not know what I deserve...

Without body or soul of someone,
I frozen in the death of the hope;
Not have leafy tree, and nothing comes,
To heat in the fire of bonanza...

Butterfly without taking a single pair,
Fly lost in the tear wound;
Without in the winter have which love,
she are notched face in pale.

Kau Metaphorland 2002
(The translate is a little different)

Daltônica

2009-07-09T16:56:00.000-07:00

Travei num sei lá o que e montei um conjunto de cores embaçadas, para descolorir num filme antigo. Saturou-se a visão, preto e branco formaram uma beleza própria e única. Nem sei quanto tempo fico assim, nem percebo as coisas ou não coisas que passam por aqui...

Shhhh! Silêncio! É filme. Olha só, somente só; aparece uma cor de rosa ali no papel ou será lilás? Intervalo, não, não; problemas na projeção. Veja, é verde, verde na tinta da caneta azul, será azul? Senta aí, oh, escuta com atenção: - Estou num devaneio, devaneio!

Travei, não tomei nada, apenas falha no sistema; loucura sabe, viajou na corrente sanguínea, pulsa constantemente enquanto escrevo neste papel. Mas, quanto ao filme, não é preto e branco? Nem sei, disse ser, não disse descolorir; a imaginação.

Olha só, é amarelo no livro ou laranja? Confusão pode ser, é convencional. Perde as cores, renova as cores, são tantas; nem percebemos todas, nem ao menos suas particularidades, sua origem. Destravei!

Daltonien

I caught there in the nothing and mount a set of fuzzy colors to discolor in an old movie. Saturated the vision, black and white formed a beautiful proper and unique. I don’t know how long time I stay in this way, I not distinguish the things or not things on this place...

Shhhh! Silence! Movie! Look, just lonely, show one color of pink there in the paper or will be purple? Interval… no, no, problems in the projection. See, it is green, green on blue ink of the pen, will be blue? Sit down, oh, listen carefully - I'm in a daydream, daydream!

Caught, I not swallow anything, only mistake in the system; madness you know, traveled in the bloodstream, pulsates constantly while I writing this paper. But, and the movie, is not black and white? I don’t know, told yes, not told discolor, imagination.

Look, the book is yellow or orange? Confusion may be, is conventional. Lose the color, renewing the colors, are many, we not see all, and neither their features, their origin. Unlock!

Daydream.. daydream...

Kau Metaphorland 2003

(weird, but have one problem of Semantics,
the study #ffffff my brain)

Som

2009-07-09T16:05:00.000-07:00

As piruetas das notas do violão invadem o espaço sem cor, irresistível arranca o primeiro dedo para impedir o toque; o sangue esvai na escrivaninha e se nota o decaído renegado frio, azulado como pedra mármore.

Ah! A dor no corte e a mesma vem acompanhada da voz singela, um cantor rouco invade também o meu espaço ditando minhas linhas, diz os sentimentos sem dó das almas. Rígida, uma estátua seca na poltrona; imponho-me a dizer a você, estou presente agora; estou exalando meu cheiro no recinto, meu sofrimento na escuridão e fechando meus olhos lacrimosos.

Entorto um, dois e corto o segundo dedo; impeça-o de tocar as cordas! Nobres tentativas imaginárias de eliminar a falta.

The sound

The pirouettes of the notes of the guitar invade the space without color, irresistible pull out the first finger to prevent the touch, the blood away in the desk and if notice the renegade fallen cold, blue like marble.

Ah! The pain in the cut and the same came accompanied of the single voice, a husky singer invades my space dictating my lines, says the feelings without pity of the souls. Rigid, a dry statue in the seat; requires me to tell you, I am now, I am exhaled my smell in the place, my suffering in the darkness and closing my watery eyes.

A curl one, two and cut the second finger; preventing him of touch the strings! Imaginary noble attempts of eliminate the fault.

Kau Metaphorland 2005
(the sound one time crazy me and the silent was a master)

A ausência

2009-07-09T10:06:00.000-07:00

Certa noite acordo desnorteada com zumbidos pertos de meu crânio e sinto todo meu corpo se retrair fugindo ao inconsciente. Como se a muito me chamassem, você escuta ela te rodear? Cercar teus pensamentos, devorando teus neurônios como um alimento para mantê-la viva... meus pés começam a gelar descobertos, vulneráveis, escuto as guias caminharem os passos da leveza, o ofuscado da janela e uma luz meio quarto. Talvez não seja noite, a cabeça confusa, ainda em estado sonolento e neste momento percebo a ausência delas, pois não me consigo por de joelhos.

Não consigo levantar, minhas pernas estão ausentes, caio, vou rastejando até a porta na tentativa de sair, escuto alguém me chamar, bater na porta; mas eu por mais rápida que fosse não sentia minhas pernas... você pensa, mas não existe explicação, estão te sugando enquanto dormes, estão te vigiando, pegam tua energia, jogam lama na tua sorte... Mas por que nos esperam? Serão apenas pesadelos como dizem... me deixem, não posso ver novamente, não quero ouvir seus sussurros nem seus toques... me deixem, malditos insetos que esperam o dia de comermos... Você poderia se sentir uma larva? Lentamente penso na possibilidade de não mais andar... apenas rastejar!

Podemos ser larvas, pequenos comedores de vegetais e carne, quem sabe o caixão nosso casulo... larvas modernas, larvas infectadas, rastejando com nossas pernas pelo asfalto; quais conseguem a mutação? Tenho minhas dúvidas e os gritos ainda do outro lado da porta, mas a fechadura é alta, numa proporção em que talvez meu braço deva esticar mais para girar a chave... me encostei à porta tão certa de que não era real, bati nas pernas, mas nem um formigamento, nem um circular de veias...

Nenhuma palavra sai de minha boca, como se a língua estivesse travada num sono infindo, tentei falar, mas minha voz saia tão baixa, mal se podia escutar-me; como sempre, mal me escutam; há muito tempo que já repito em quais pedras deves pular, não te deposites em falso; a água derrete a pele. Estiquei meu braço dolorido, não estava desperta, transição de mundos e virei à chave, abri a porta... Ceguei-me na luz, num ato desesperado meus olhos se encolhem e os gritos num tipo de desprezo, cessaram.

Deixaram-me em paz na ausência e o pesadelo não passava de uma dormência.

The abscence

Certain night I woke perplexed with humming’s close of my skull and I feel my body all if to retract running away to the unconscious. How if many time they called me, you listening it to surround you? To surround your thoughts, devouring your neurons as a food to keep it alive… my feet start to freeze discovered, vulnerable, listen to the guides walk the steps of the slightness, the dimmed of the window and a half light on room. Perhaps it is not night, the confused head, still in sleepy state and at this moment I perceive the absence of them, therefore I cannot put me of knees.

I do cannot to raise me, my legs are absent, I fall, I go crawling until the door in the attempt to go out, I listen to somebody call me, beat in the door; but for more faster than I was, I cannot feel my legs… you thinks, but it does not exist explanation, are sucking you while you sleep, they are watching you, they catch your energy, they play mud in your luck… But why they wait us? They will be only nightmares as they say; leave me, I cannot see again, I do not want to hear its whispers nor its touch’s… leave me, cursed insects that wait the day to eat us… You could feel itself as a larva? Slowly I think about the possibility not walk… only to crawl!

We can be larvae, small eaters of vegetable and meat, who knows the coffin our cocoon… modern larvae, infected larvae, crawling with our legs for asphalt; which obtain the mutation? I still have my doubts and the shouts of the other side of the door, but the lock is high, in a proportion where my arm perhaps must stretch more to turn the key…I was leaned against the door so certain of that were not real, I beat in the legs, but neither one weird sensation move my legs, and neither circulate of veins…

No word out of my mouth, as if the tongue were locked in a deep sleep, tried to speak but my voice comes out so low, you could barely hear me, as always, I hardly listen; so much time that I repeat in which stones you should to jump, not depositing you on pseudo, the water melts the skin. Stretch my hurt arm, I not awakening, transition of worlds and turned the key, opened the door ... blind me in the light, in a desperate act my eyes shrink and the screams in a kind of disdain, deaths.

Kau Metaphorland 2006
( A true story, I woke and my legs not move, my Mom beat in the door, I crawl, I try speak and nothing, after 1 hour I open the door and walk, sleep very bad ah?)

As palavras

2009-07-08T20:41:00.000-07:00

A maleabilidade da palavra, seu tom tateável, seu cheiro vadio e proveniente de bocas nuas, hálitos em cigarros amarelos e alcoólicas vidas em gramas alaranjadas. Fui assim encaixando meus calcanhares em formigueiros destas tão pequenas valiosas salivas e como me picavam apavoradas, não me escreva indolente, não te pertenço, não me conjugue desta forma a qual não me reconheço; és infame ao usar palavras em frases desconectas. Mas a fome era contínua em tinta, papel e teclados; sempre brotando em pólen nas pontas dos dedos machucados, apagados por insuficiência pública, seguia mesmo assim insistentes a plantar palavras no jardim esverdeado.

Toda fartura mental escorregava num impedimento, num muro de ferro posto na fronte como um desafio; porém meus caros toda escalada deve ser árdua, planejada com armas e escudos prateados ou talvez em um atual titânio negro. Fui assim pegando minha língua serpentina e esticando quilômetros num sonho apropriado, como um tapete vermelho evidenciando meus miolos numa feira de histórias para vocês. As palavras se mexem dançantes, se insinuam hesitantes por não saber em qual estrofe incorporarei a desventura sem noção. Qual tabuleiro ou jogatina eu terei armado para capturá-las e escrevê-las eu meu conjunto de horrores.

A impermeabilidade em bolha circula meu cérebro e placas repetem aos intrusos que talvez você precise ser mais insano para adentrar num jogo de tamanha flutuação literária. Num segundo aviso as palavras vestidas em alertas vermelhos, seus olhos sacudidos com borrachas sendo oferecidas como salvação... Acredite na revelação inadequada em mãos estendidas; pouco te direi, pouco te guiará e uma confusão plantarei em meio a linha cerebral que corta os hemisférios. Quem sabe apanhe na mão um bisturi radiante nascido num papel rabiscado, abra uma fissura no dicionário de meus caros amados, apenas para derramar minhas sementes imaginárias numa tentativa descontrolada de vos fazer compreender meu microcosmo.

The words

The malleability of the word, his palpable tone, your loafer smell and beginning of naked mouths, breathe in yellow cigarette and alcoholic lives on orange grams. I was so well joint my heels on small ants of this so valuable saliva and how bite me so scared, not to write me indolent, I do not belong you, not combine in this way which does not recognize me, you are mistaken using words in disconnect sentences. But the hunger was continuous on ink, paper and keyboards; always spilling into pollen in the fingertips, erased for failure public, follow even so insistent to plant words in the green garden.

All plenty mental slip in an impediment, in a wall of iron put on the forehead as a challenge, but my dears, all escalation must be hard, planned with silver weapons and silver shields or maybe in actually black titanium. I was getting my coil tongue and stretching kilometers in an appropriate dream, like a red carpet showing my brains in a fair of story to you. The words are dancing move, is hesitant to suggest not know in what verse I incorporate the theory without loss. What board or game I will have armed have to capture them and write them in my set of horrors.

The impermeability in bubble moves my brain and plates repeat to the intruders that you may have to be more insane to enter a game of such literary fluctuation. In a second notice the words dressed in red alert, his eyes shaken like rubber and offered as salvation... Believe in the inappropriate revelation on extended hands, little I will told you, little will guide you and a confusion I will plant in the middle of the line cerebral that bisects the hemispheres. Maybe take in the hand one radiating scalpel born on scribbling paper, open a fissure in the dictionary of my dear beloved, only to spill my imaginary seed in an uncontrolled attempt to make you understand my microcosm.

(Tomorrow I correct it better)
Cláudia Bispo or Kau Metaphorland 2007

O pássaro das terras baixas

2009-07-08T13:34:00.000-07:00

Um pequeno pássaro caiu na divagação das estrelas
comungandoao universo
qual a proporção de sua fé,
com quantas penas este poderia ter a garrafa da viagem
a terra sem nome
ou se seu bico tem tamanho suficiente para se alimentar neste jardim
com flores desprovidas de raízes,
substâncias ao um crescimento viável
e esperando um sol mais atordoado
como os fins de tarde o qual você senta na varanda...
Desestruturando as horas apenas decompondo
todos os átomos em volta da cabeça.
É o contemplar deste ninho no alto de uma árvore frondosa
como um ser que perdeu a força
para subir tanto ou por medo do ar sufocar
seu minúsculo pulmão sutil, calmo,
simples como quem sonha em nada mais além
do que repousar neste ninho de prata.
O percurso gera tantos atritos,
espinhos povoam o tronco
numa extensa muralha.

The bird of the lowlands

A small bird fell in the digression of the stars
shared the universe
what proportion of their faith,
with how much feather him could have the bottle's journey
to earth without a name
or if his beak is large enough to feed in this garden
with flowers without roots,
substances to a viable growth and hoping
the sun more stunned
as the end of the afternoon
where you sit at the balcony...
Destroyed the hours just decompounds
all atoms around the head.
It is the contemplation of this nest on top of a leafy tree
as a being that lost the strength to climb so much
or for fear of the air suffocates their tiny lung, quiet,
simple how who dreams on nothing more than
to rest in this nest of silver.
The route leads many frictions;
thorns inhabit the trunk
in a large wall.

Cláudia Bispo or Kau Metaphorland 2008

Imaterial

2009-07-01T16:11:00.000-07:00

Na imaterialidade procuro o singular das coisas, um simples resvalar do órgão, um ponto culminante de tua mão invisível em minha artéria aorta. Um pulo pulsado, tensionado, esticado ao além numa tentativa asca de segurar o inanimado das pessoas. Cavaria o mais obscuro dentro de ti, apenas para eliminar o inapropriado, observando as agulhas mentais tão bem encaixadas em teu crânio; pois quis eu investigar o mais amado em meu ocular. Rastejando por um fantasma silencioso, um relógio em falso e um pedaço de unha estranhamente roída; ou algo já impulsionado a um possível afeto em sangue fervido.

Na invisibilidade das coisas vejo todo o branco de teu ocular saltado e penso em enfiar um tubo de 7 mm meramente imaginável, para sugar todas as partículas sonhadoras que bóiam na tua magnífica pupila. Portanto, assim conectá-lo a um vasto mundo de possibilidades fervorosas; enquanto um vulto passageiro nos toca e reclama toda a falta de retorno, enquanto nos bebem em sonhos desgastantes e nos sugam a energia. Assim pairando em nossas cabeças limitadas nasce um silêncio terrificado que repousa nos móveis de nossas casas; as respirações próximas e ofegantes, murmúrios e uma tensão apropriada ao que não se pode ver nem tocar... Exato seria dizer, como um gemido ou visões inquietas de um desejo ávido.

Quem pudera termos serventia em todos os dedos quando tão longe nos reconhecemos e ainda tão pálidos no semblante, sucumbiríamos os ossos só para poder flutuar e assim minha orelha em teu peito descansar, escutando todas as palpitações nervosas e todos os arrepios dedicados a uma sensação mesclada. Serventia daria a um caixão, após todo um cultivo corporal já visto em brancos fios, após tatear toda tua dor com plugues fantasmagóricos... Enfim faminta, mapear seus átomos para por em minha pequena boca e saborear o metálico provindo de suas entranhas quentes...

Perdidamente minha perna desencontra a carne, meu braço não se acomoda neste caixão único no qual só cabe um corpo e meu olho apagado num tom consumível não te vê como deveria... Enquanto sofro esta mágoa de ser um simples ser fronte a vida ainda em território inútil, sinto os espíritos me cutucarem com seus trapos indefinidos, feições nada conjugáveis, borrando toda minha visão esquizofrênica... Estes pregaram todas as saídas que poderiam me distanciar de teu olho desafiador, uma insanidade beira mental em minhas múltiplas ilusões, a dissociação da realidade em meio a um cemitério de almas terrestres e foi que neste momento desapeguei da carne em sintonia.

Assusto-me pelos cômodos antigos, machuco minhas partes soltas, desenvoltas e articuladas em portas, cadeiras e camas fora do lugar em uma escassez de organização humana. Alguém me perseguia, soltava palavras incompreensíveis em minha mente, num volume baixo, sussurros cujo minha audição não captava nas antenas; num momento estático, petrificado, escutei a respiração e estranhamente me curvei à procura do inanimado mundo das coisas.

Na cegueira posta a nós como um prato limpo e numa alimentação inapropriada ao paladar, os vermes me perguntam se ei de comê-los cedo ou tarde... Já eu finco meus dentes na mesa, rente ao prato, arregalando meu olhar, reviro e digo... Ainda terás de comer apenas a terra, pois meu ato não teve fim, ainda terás de comer corpos não degustáveis, pois o meu ainda não se encaixou no esqueleto amado. Este tem um par inigualável de pupilas que me assombram durante meu passeio, uma pele branca na qual passaria horas deslizando e um terror nas olheiras nas quais eu beijaria até num túmulo cultivado por sua mente.

Envolvê-lo-ia numa membrana verde, num ectoplasma encandeado por luz vermelha, numa indefinida prisão da qual jamais este desejará sair. Quando altivo e indiferente ele caminha distante, meu fantasma vaga numa insônia suave, num pesadelo infernal, numa sensação de mãos cortadas e um deslizar constante de sangue purificado escorre-me a face. Sentando-me dia após dia em minha conexão enterrada a alguns palmos na terra, admirando o inalcançável ser, espantada com semelhanças bizarras na lente e tateando a fuga física deste fétido lugar já não mais considerado lar.

Na circulação sanguínea do pulmão, soprei letras poéticas a fim de encantar o que não se pode encantar... numa árdua maneira de todo escritor de cultuar o impossível, de venerar o intocável, a sua maneira estranha de alimentar uma corrente elétrica no cérebro, sempre olhando o mais distante fantasma que ele poder enxergar. Quando a inexatidão presenteia o coração e o enche estranhamente com seus tentáculos longos de dúvidas, sonhos e incertezas curvadas; você já me olha na penúria de uma loucura ainda não própria em meu ser. Talvez seja por grande parte devido a um papel do poeta de manter-se colocado já no fim.

Immaterial

In the immateriality I try to find the singular of the things, a simple slipping of the organ, a point culminant of your invisible hand in my aorta artery. A pulsed, tensioned jump, stretched to beyond in a dirty attempt to handle the inanimate of people. I would cave the most obscure within, merely to eliminate the inappropriate, watching the mental needles so well embedded in your skull, because I wanted to investigate the most loved in my eye. Crawling for a silent ghost, a clock in false and a piece of strangely chewing fingernail; or something already driven to a possible affection on boiled blood.

In the invisibility of the things I see all the white of your leaped eye and I think to thread a tube of 7 mm merely imaginable, to suck all the particles dreamers that float in your great pupil. Therefore, connect you to a wide world of devoted possibilities; while a specter passenger touchs us and complain all the lacks of return, while drink us in stressful dreams and suck our energy. Thus hovering in our limited heads born a terrified silence that rests in the furniture of our homes, the next and panting breaths, murmurs and an appropriate voltage to what you cannot see nor touch... Exact it would say, as a groan or worried visions of an eager desire.

Who could have supply in all fingers when consequently far we recognize us and still so pale in semblance, we would succumb the bones just to be able to float and then my ear can rest on your chest, listening all nervous palpitations and all chills dedicated to a merged feeling. Usefulness would have a coffin, after an entire body growing already saw in white yarn, after fell all your pain with phantasmagoric plugs... Finally hungrier, to map your atoms to put in my small mouth and to taste the metallic come into their hot entrails...

Lost my leg failures to meet the meat, my arm doesn´t accommodate in this single coffin which fits only a body and my eye lackluster in a consummated in a tone doesn´t see you how it should see... While I suffer this sorrow of be a simple being face to life still on inadequate territory, I feel the spirits prod me with their unspecific rags, any conjugate features, blurring all my schizophrenic vision... These nailed all exits that could distance me from your challenging eye, a mental insanity verges in my multiple illusions, a dissociation of the reality in the midst of a graveyard of earth souls, in a moment in that detached from the meat in tuning, in a strange desire to pull out your heart and to put in a glass of laboratory…

I scare myself in the old rooms; I hurt my loose parts, nonchalant and articulated in doors, chairs and beds out of place in a shortage of human organization. Someone was chasing me, dropped incomprehensible words in my mind, in a low volume, whispers which my hearing didn’t captive in antennas, in a static moment, petrified, I listened the breath and strangely I curved me looking for inanimate world of the things.

In blindness put to us as a clean plate and in an inappropriated feeding to the taste, the worms ask me if I will eat them, sooner or later... Now I plant my teeth on the table, close to the plate, widening my eyes, I overset and say... Although you will have to eat only the earth, because my act wasn´t have an end, you will still have to eat not degusted bodies because mine didn’t embed in the loved skeleton yet. This has an unmatched pair of pupils that haunt me during my tour, a white skin which I would spend hours slipping and a sliding terror in the dark rings under one's eyes where I would kiss until in a tomb cultivated in your mind.

I would involve it in a green membrane, an ectoplasm brighted by red light, in an indefinite prison which it will never want to leave. When majestic and indifferent he walks away, my ghost waves in a gentle insomnia, in a hellish nightmare, in a feeling of cut off hands and a constant slide of purified blood flows me the face. I am sitting day after day on my buried connection few palms of the earth, admiring the unattainable being, amazed with bizarre similarities in the lens and feeling the physical flight of this fetid place isn’t considered home anymore.

In the circulation bloody of the lung, I blew poetic letters in order to delight what you cannot delight... In an arduous way of all writer to adore the impossible, to venerate the untouchable, in his own strange way of feeding an electric current in the brain, always looking the most distant ghost he could see. When the inaccuracy gives a present to the heart and fills it strangely with its long tentacles of doubts, dreams and bent uncertainties; you already look me in the shortage of a madness not yet belonging to my own. Perhaps, it be in large part due to a role of the poet to keep yourself already placed at the end.

Cláudia Bispo and Kau Metaphorland