(ficção)

reds that burn blues that heal yellows that glow in ways you can feel but i look at myself and nothing stays every shade fades every hue strays i try them on like borrowed skin but they don’t settle they don’t sink in

I imagine free will the way I imagine fog thinking it invented the road. It moves forward, convinced the world is appearing because of it, unaware that the asphalt was always there, patient, waiting to be seen. Inside me, decisions don’t arrive as moments, they seep like mold in old walls, you only notice when something turns black. I say I chose, but what I mean is the accumulation finally tipped. The body already knew. The nerves had voted long before the mouth announced the result. ...

i forget what follows forgetting. the moment after the blank doesn’t announce itself; it just arrives already present, like a stranger who claims to have always lived in my house. when i forget, i do not lose. i become rearranged. the absence finds a shape inside me, and i walk around carrying it, heavy as silence, soft as moss. i forget what follows forgetting. maybe its remembering, but bent, distorted, growing sideways like a plant in a dark room. maybe its another forgetting, a chain of vanishings that pulls me further inward, until even the idea of “i” is another misplaced thing. ...

ontem queria desaparecer, hoje já não caibo no quarto estranho como o mesmo sonho consegue ser peso e amparo passei tanto tempo a olhar pela janela do autocarro que agora quando algo muda eu reparo no cenário já nem contos os dias, conto as versões minhas algumas morreram novas, outras ainda caminham às vezes escrevo uma linha e apago metade porque nem toda a verdade precisa de sair pela cidade

Sou um ruído sem nome, uma febre sem chão, um vulto que aprendeu a chamar-se “razão”. Trago a pele do ontem colada à de agora, e cada vez que me encontro, alguma coisa vai embora. Digo “eu”, mas quem fala quando a boca diz “eu?”? Que estranho proprietário é este corpo que me deu? Há mil vozes no peito, nenhuma sabe calar, todas dizem “sou tu”, e eu não sei qual escutar. ...

poemas sobre mussulinis, poemas sobre jardins, rimas tão forçadas que já nem têm fins. a mente está baralhada, a lógica emparelhada, mas a rima está perfeita, a mensagem é que não diz nada. continuo convencido, com o ego bem erguido, se o sentido foi embora, foi porque estava aborrecido. rimo sobre o vento, sobre o tempo e o sentimento, mesmo que não haja história nem qualquer desenvolvimento. começo a falar de flores, acabo a falar de dores, misturo assuntos ao calhas e chamo-lhes grandes valores. ...

vanilla is the garlic of baking, love is the malice of hating, truth is a promise worth making until someone proves they were faking. you knew every thought I kept buried, every truth I was too scared to carry. I gave you the parts I concealed, and you made me regret they were real. I hate that I still understand you, still search for excuses to hand you. I hate that I know you so well that i can write your defence myself. ...

I could make a cathedral out of sentences, teach the silence between my words to sing, let every syllable fall like heaven, let every metaphor grow wings. I could write a poem worthy of a Nobel, carve golden verses into the skin of time, make the world weep at the beauty of my language, make the stars believe that they were mine. I could give a thousand names to longing, describe the ocean without touching the sea, I could write a thousand versions of a person, each one more beautiful than me. ...