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.”

dusk (english poetry)

DUSK I haven’t been writing poetry quite as much, often opting instead for prose or even the marvelous lassitude of notes and aphorisms, and that is mostly due to this strange bout of ineffective thought. I contain the outlines, the emboss and image of a poem, but my mind is rather accelerated and disperse thereafter,Continue reading “dusk (english poetry)”

(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) – 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”

reticulated (english poetry)

My mother worries about me, as one tends to. I can’t really write much to soothe her (and I have tried), so I wrote this one, quite a while ago, to soothe myself. It was translated from Portuguese, and it is quite old, but I have some strange affection for it. It truly does sootheContinue reading “reticulated (english poetry)”

(Droplet) – poetry in memory

The voices of the world becoming quieter and fewer. Kafka, October 21 of 1917 – “In Sunshine”, The Third Octavo Notebook. Every action of scrawling begins with fossicking old dusts in search of eventful shapes, harnessing memory as a mass of particles brought alight; cold fountains dance, pellucid, in a constellation of footfalls, and aContinue reading “(Droplet) – poetry in memory”

(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)”

(Droplet) – lurid rags of silk

Saint-Saëns — my father still says — was garniture for fatuous men and their gold-laden alcoves, veiled by a cordon of ludic dins; Milosz was flour of similar grain, a bargainer of truisms, a mute chaff coated by wooden beads. I liked them, I liked their touch, their texture, I see it as the textureContinue reading “(Droplet) – lurid rags of silk”

(Memnos II) – A Silence In Which No One Sings

        I’d like to think that, if you made it to this point, you hold the glory that my poem holds not, as you withstood it. I don’t particularly like anything I produce these days, but this one was a delicate endeavor to iron-out. Written over nearly two months, revised hundreds of times, wholesomely deletedContinue reading “(Memnos II) – A Silence In Which No One Sings”