(Droplet) spume.

The word, defining, muzzles; the drawn lineOusts mistier peers and thrives, murderous,In establishments which imagined lines Can only haunt.  Sturdy as potatoes,Stones, without conscience, word and line endure,Given an inch.  Not that they’re gross (although Afterthought often would have them alterTo delicacy, to poise) but that theyShortchange me continuously:  whether More or other, they still dissatisfy.Unpoemed, unpictured, theContinue reading “(Droplet) spume.”

(Droplet) jorge

At the precise moment in which the irreducible tongue of the sun recoiled and became an irregular line trodden by the tremulant eucalyptus leaves, Jorge Guerra first felt the dense phenomenon of solitude so characteristic of birth. His father, António Medes Guerra, was a reputed dipsomaniac of jagged features, of which his black beard wasContinue reading “(Droplet) jorge”

on Van Gogh

Father scuffled with the taste of saltpetre still sticking unstintingly to his tongue, and the lustre of a candle which, already nearly drowned by its own wax, sobbed intermittently, enervating his eyes. Here, an horizon. There, an horizon; tessellating the sides of a glass as the canary-green flood subsided, in altisonant tongues of water slappingContinue reading “on Van Gogh”

(Droplet) a basket of sun, a wicker of fear.

The beach of my choosing was Rocha, which was besprent with caverns, alcoves and grottos, some due to decades of construction atop the promontories inevitably causing fall-ins, others were formations of erosion that, so careful was the fashion of their forms, one would be tempted to believe that the sea sculpted them in its ownContinue reading “(Droplet) a basket of sun, a wicker of fear.”

maundering relics #2

Little exists in record regarding Telémaco Augusto Santana. From some spotted newspaper publications regarding his work, to some handful of poultry donations made to the parish he inhabited, his name seems almost like a dent in an ancient structure; part of a gestalt of ages, another function of the uniformity of time. A texture, almost,Continue reading “maundering relics #2”

maundering relics #1

Before the world spun suddenly into this crucible of fear and solitude we identify today, I had plans of collecting forgotten relics of the Portuguese written arts. Lisbon is thronged with “alfarrabistas“, stores with the unique purpose of selling rare and used books, many of them bought in bulk from personal libraries found by folksContinue reading “maundering relics #1”

(Droplet) vesaas.

The house slopes down from the holt, pieces of wenge sorted among lithe vertical panes, casting licks of sun upon the floors. The back-porch hung above the echo of a stream; it no longer ran even a hair of water. Standing purposefully near a dammed lake, during early mornings, one couldn’t detect the house fromContinue reading “(Droplet) vesaas.”

(Droplet) jupiter, the loneliest planet.

We become inured to the tragedies of our miracles. I see now a Europe leeched dry of its fortitude; Lisbon is empty, and it seems that I plash about inside indifferent space. It feels colder, now, but only because it feels the same. The old gypsy moth flaps its thin veil of dust just theContinue reading “(Droplet) jupiter, the loneliest planet.”

(Droplet) no peace at all.

Children picking up our bonesWill never know that these were once   As quick as foxes on the hill; And that in autumn, when the grapes   Made sharp air sharper by their smell   These had a being, breathing frost; And least will guess that with our bones   We left much more, left what still is   The look of things, left whatContinue reading “(Droplet) no peace at all.”

(Droplet) the diminishing of writing.

Approach, there are voices, a finished star. We select a stick and twist the algae, what does it contain now? At once, everything, all colour and light any eye is to receive; stringy life in vertical lifelessness, and there are systems as hyaline as emotions, finished stars, beginning stars, some are turtles and some, smallContinue reading “(Droplet) the diminishing of writing.”

Happy Together (1997)

In spirit of support for Hong Kong’s recent and on-going social struggle, I decided to review one Cantonese work that had the vastest artistic influence over myself and my own creative method, and that work is, without an inkling of doubt, Wong Kar Wai’s Happy Together, made in 1997. This film proved to be theContinue reading “Happy Together (1997)”

(Droplet) making life, or not quite that.

I tend to write too much. Recently, I’ve perscrutated some of my older documents, hundreds of pages of unfinished poems and texts, unnamed corpses with maggots glowing with auroral colours, some contained beautiful ideas done poorly, others were armed with beautiful constructions enveloping poor ideas, and I only gained a real sense of how muchContinue reading “(Droplet) making life, or not quite that.”

(Droplet) the waves of creation.

«‘But Bernard goes on talking. Up they bubble — images. “Like a camel,” . . . “a vulture.” The camel is a vulture; the vulture a camel; for Bernard is a dangling wire, loose, but seductive. Yes, for when he talks, when he makes his foolish comparisons, a lightness comes over one. One floats, too,Continue reading “(Droplet) the waves of creation.”

unfading Suzanne.

With some obliquitous regularity, any graphomaniac, any dilettante under the school of words, is bound to think about which space within that school lies vacant for occupancy; what position can we inhabit in order to be visible — not just to others — but also visible to ourselves. When I think of WordPress and howContinue reading “unfading Suzanne.”

(Droplet) shortsock.

I have few conversations which lay vivid in my mind, very few, in fact. I’m one for the dead particulates of experience, objects that don’t move nor breathe, still things, oblivious details, a sort of hyperesthesia which only serves to coif the saturnine adepts of purple prose. And my predilection for «things» is not givenContinue reading “(Droplet) shortsock.”

(Droplet) neuro-dialectics (english|português)

While tinkering with some experimental forms in a poetic manuscript in Portuguese and listening to Henosis by Joep Beving (which is a terrific album for writing), I came across his track “Noumenon“, which involves a rather minimalist piano piece, some synthetic organ elements, and the voice of a man in the background with drowned speechContinue reading “(Droplet) neuro-dialectics (english|português)”

(Droplet) home. (english|português)

An author is a company to the nothingness, indigent because it is company to nothing, and possesses that nothingness, imperious, impermissible, obedient to the reasons of things, bled-out in the salts of colours while assuming itself king and progenitor of them. It is a whimsy, being an author, authorise the creation of nothingness and giftContinue reading “(Droplet) home. (english|português)”

(Droplet) languorous pools

Monte Alerta (Monsaraz), at youngest night, a meticulously woven veil of darkness was cast upon those arid hills; Occupancy was scarce, and I’d taken a chance to flee my parents as they engaged in a fruitful political quarrel with our nearest tenants. I knew not the ways of the small garden, but I knew itContinue reading “(Droplet) languorous pools”

(Droplet) – al berto

the days without anyoneimpish notes scrawled quicklycrumpled in our fingers the honeysuckle was beautifulrising through the night of forsaken residence exact stones scented dustsfireflies napping in the flexibility of claysands covered of insects bones and teethand the river hauling weary nights luminous inflorescence acid moons crumblingfissures of earth coastline cities birdsfragile paths in open flightduringContinue reading “(Droplet) – al berto”

(Droplet) – mozambique – (English | Português)

A toy © Gökhan Kayal in Clam Collectors of Maputo Luís Carlos Patraquim lives, but I read him as if he never lived. When I cogitate of his life, I sight odd coppery faces and calcined terrains, the hollowing of plasters in the decrepit walls and fences of Lourenço Marques, a sublimation spawning the vividnessContinue reading “(Droplet) – mozambique – (English | Português)”