We Left

We let the house all pitch Black, the rooms smelling like fresh sushi and steel

Of our hearts and knives. She had a mane of fiery red hair and marks of past battles all over her face, maps of beauty and oddness that normal people call freckles.

We left by morning, glorious as an autumn apple, by a road unknown to the cold wilderness, as siblings or acolytes of the Mass guided by our hearts, top trees and hazes waving over black glasses and hazel eyes.

She was my cup of coffee, sweetening my lips every cold and bitter morning.

I remember to cook for her, feasts of bread and chocolates, bloody beers and calf tongues, gave her my fingers in papillote and my lips as cherry bonbons. Electronically enlighten  was her skin, pale and marked by the freckles and bite marks, she used to hang her rings on my antlers, this was a long time ago, I remember the sand, thin and crusty, under our bare feet, telling us story of the loves passed over it.

And the buried bodies by murderers and psychopaths.

We let the kitchen with the scent of lemon pepper, she butted me and thrust me with a knife, low and precise, and I felt my blood turning to roses on the woodsy floor, I bit her hard on the hand, spilling after eights over our bodies drenched in bloody rosy color, pallets of life flowing over my antlers and her wings.

We left our bodies under the moon, and our blood looked really black in the moonlight, listened to Love Crime in and endless repeat, two sides of the coin loving and killing each other throughout the times.

Because true love is never sunny, it has to have that drop of grey, burned film and stained lens, grained picture of indie movies and scary paintings.

She let me play her thigh like a harpsichord; I had blown inside her mouth like a bagpipe.

The kiss that emanated from her lips was an art form, deep and dark, like those paintings sick and beautiful by Nicoletta Ceccoli.

We left the November in a train, roaring over iron and wood, through deep and forests, were fairies blessed us, angels of summer we were, made of flesh, blood, music and light.

And every time I watch the moon above, I remember your big and red heart, once know as my abode. 

We left out petty lives when our hearts, once tangled, were separated by time, but I know we’ll meet each other again and again, because I’ll recognize you by the will to drink your blood and play your thighs as harpsichords again. People like us, underwanted wild ones will always scent each other and live the lives we’ve got, because we are flesh and proud of that. 

Together as one, against all others. 

We left for sure, but we’ll come back.

Big Guns Inside Small Guitar Cases

The road under our tires was burnt, once was frosted.

I’ve got a strong taste of pepsi cola on my lips

Cola and coal, calm waters of the bay

High towers and girls by a long and white beach.

Can you notice, in the blackest days and deepest nights

How those dark romantic European ways match

With the most beautiful American birds.

My efforts to win your heart, Little Bird, extensive, expensive

Mix tapes, handwritten notes, stuffed animals, killed your mother

With my locked up and licked up love letters. I imagined how it felt

My sharp and shiny horns, entering her belly, so soft, blood

So beautiful under a pale moonlight

Reflecting on waves

Your sensual smile never could grow old, Little Bird

As Hollywood stars never fades

Along the ride, painted by beautiful red and purple twilight landscapes

Little Bird drinks pepsi cola, and smirks to me, peering to my long horns

Over her heart shaped sunglasses

Our car, an old but shiny Del Rey

Roaring through a dusty plain of red sunshine

I feel her hands over my Tesla Coil skin

A body electric

Pants tight and sharp teeth, my eyes, sick and black

Watch the poisonous azure from the back of the sky

And see

Big birds and helicopters, fight over the clouds and blue

Jesus pray his prays for our devilish hearts

My antlers are sharp, you saw the shine, Little Bird

While I ate your open mouth

Smell of Friday night, her mouth so soft

As soft ice cream is

We run for this Little Bird

For seconds of disclosure

Those when we become one

Your long nails ripping out my back

As if you wanted to enter inside me

Nor the policeman

Or the Cosa Nostra tuxedo folks

Are after us here at our little paradise

A paradise decorated with hell flames

But a paradise still

Summer warm, sweet sweat of your nubile arms

Come with me Little Bird

I know your daddy and he wouldn’t mind

Bishop's Lane

I kissed her closed lips in the middle of Longis Land

Where the wilderness captured my eyes

And the lakes slept with the white sand

There’s always beauty in those patches of

Odd colors that fills youthful twilights

Abraços cheios de areia

De praias intocadas

Por velhos que nem chegaram a nascer

Cyclical bands of gypsies and orchestras

Roaming through my heart as you eyes

Black as coal with eyelids blue as sky

Hypnotized me, led me to what I am now

I am a Pilgrim on a Long Journey

Through the temples I walked

And through cities that looked like hell as well

Wind always was my friend

Telling secrets and tales

That I’ve never knew if were true

I’ve found you sometimes

Behind the curtains of my own youth

And the thick layer of my glasses

Bag of bones I’d carried

The lament of sea wind in my hair

Led me to the middle of Longis Land

And to your lips again

What kind of bird are you

Little Bird?

They always told me that love have to be sunny

After all these years

I strongly disagree

It needs that drop of grey

Burned film

Vintage pictures and blurred effects

The taste of tutti frutti toothpaste under your tongue

Soft blue was your skin, under that odd sky

Odd as us

Let the perfection for lies

And see through the veil of reality that screens hide from you

Meet me at Longis Land

And we can see

Life itself roaming in the night

In cellars and seas

Ravens and swans

Big wolves and Little Birds

Open your eyes

Wherever you are

And watch

Love appears

Under the light of a glorious Moonrise.

Patches of Vert

 Yesterday I saw a girl

She reminded me of you

Those lone movements, dancing in the afternoon wind

I’d fell in cold water once

Looking at her I felt the same way

The cold  licking my guts and carbonic heart

Your battery acid kisses

Left a stain in my eyes

Both of ‘em, drop rain or waterfalls

Ideas without arms or legs

But they still roam throughout my brain

Eat me, they come, insidious

And bite my heart as I sleep

Your lackluster fragrance 

Painting stunning frescoes in the walls of my mind

Like a unknown artist

Working in the still of the night

My vision’s blurred

Filled with Patches of Vert

Bold and beautiful

I remember you always

My lips on your cheek

As I eat a peach or apple

Silk skin, my heart over a crane

Hanged

I’ve loved one time

When I was really young

And in dry, spellbound nights like this one

It hurts at the back of my heart

She drinks from my cup

Milk or latte, juice of juicy fruits

Tears with martini

In some undisclosed future

Lost in the harmonic sounds of Leonard Cohen’s songs.

In those times we were immortal

And could see the gleams of days and smell of daisies

Crush flowers and bugs with our feet

You had to take a dive in that river

And lost your breath for the beauty beneath

Now you can hear my call?

And pretend this longing is new

Your heart is my secret garden still

Knife sharp to carve our bloodline in trees

Old and wise, firm and marooned

Little girl, scooping balls of ice cream

And laughing

But we are grow up now Baby Girl

And I grew worse than you 

Coeur de Pirate

 Deixei um saco de ossos na porta de Cemetery Miles, antes de caminhar ao lado das águas calmas da baía, e enquanto caminhava, o cheiro da pele dela vinha do mar revolto ou do céu cinzento, eu não sabia, não sei até hoje.

Andava como um cão cansado, no meu ritmo ciclotímico.

“Venha sentar-se à mesa” os camponeses me disseram, mas neguei, passaria a tarde olhando o mar, bravo, batendo contra as rochas de Bishop’s Lane. O mundo se move tão devagar, eu suponho, as estrelas que giram sobre a minha cabeça pontuam cada estada com um diamante, e o sino da igreja toca sete vezes, em estranha harmonia com as ondas do mar.

E andando pelos campos e mares, conversando com os faunos e dríades e coisas que não devo e nem posso lembrar, descobri que o mausoléu está dentro do coração do homem.

Mas minha irmã me chamava de Coeur de Pirate.

Viva o amor, eu dizia, e os danos irreversíveis que ele deixa, mas os camponeses insistiram para que eu sentasse com eles, e nada pude fazer a não ser tirar o robe de chambre e oferecer minha cartola ao vento. Nos barcos os marinheiros cantavam sobre deus e sobre tempestades.

Oh forasteiro, eles diziam, se você não comer quem vai comê-lo é o mar.

E sentei com eles, pensando em pegar a corrente sul pela manhã até encontrar o gelo, e deleitar-me com a aurora que nem de longe era tão brilhante como os olhos dela, ele, o mar, se lançava nas rochas, escavando-as, destruindo-as, e eu bebia o cointreau debaixo da triste luz do farol, ao meu lado os caçadores do Transvaal negociavam peles, eu negociava meu coração, nem caro, nem barato, apenas o suficiente.

Quanto você dá por um Coração de Pirata?

Como se chama forasteiro? Perguntou Lady Cashmere.

Coeur de Pirate eu respondi, sorrimos enquanto o peixe fresco vinha a mesa, exalando fumaça como a das trincheiras na guerra em que lutei no Monte Wroclai, e as espadas e baionetas retiniram no campo. Eu me lembro do capitão contando histórias.

“As trincheiras são tão feias a luz da manhã, mas com meus irmãos de armas, nunca me senti tão bem” Ele costumava gritar, antes do exército inimigo nos massacrar pelos campos de Anzio nos seus trilhos Intercontinentais.

Enquanto o tempo passava eu dormi em estâncias camponesas, levei em meus lábios os beijos de Lady Cashmere e minha espada tirou sangue de diversos homens bravos, mas eu sempre seguia um curso do som ou luz filtrada pela manhã ou fim de tarde. Então conheci em Nantes uma grande orquestra onde eles tocavam o que eu queria escutar, mas ainda não havia encontrado-a, nem nas noites de Bishop’s Lane, ou nos dias enevoados de Nantes.

 Ela apareceu uma vez, quando eu voltava para o Monte Wroclai e tentava conviver com as lembranças da guerra e das trincheiras, de como as rodas dos tanques pareciam-se rodas gigantes, ela apareceu na janela de um trem, lábios vermelhos no rosto pálido, tão lindo quanto a Transiberiana pela qual viajaria.

E meu Coração de Pirata derreteu em meu peito.

Eu me pergunto agora onde eu estaria se houvesse segurado a sua mão, meus lábios nem teriam reminiscência de sabor dos de Lady Cashmere, ou passado noites com a prostituta de Marselha. Adiante na trilha eu descobria as pequenas passagens dela pelo mundo sépia e cinzento de portos e estações de trens do Leste Europeu, entre os rostos sisudos das romenas e das noites de sexo quente com as húngaras eu pensava em como poderia recuperar meu Coração de Pirata.

Uma vez um homem me fez beber sangue em uma madrugada em Canterbury, um tal de Lancaster Kronberg.

Lutei com um homem chamado Santiago e ele me venceu, beijei os olhos verdes de sua filha e ela me beijou os lábios, um louco chamado Redrin tentou me matar, mas sobrevivi, e agora somos amigos, e ele me disse que conhecia um caminho para um Coração de Pirata, mas eu teria que ir para o distante Norte onde as almas dançam no céu, e eu voltei sozinho pelo mar amargando noites escuras com estrelas reluzentes, mas as estrelas não eram companhia e estava indiferentes.

Quando cheguei em Bishop’s Lane não havia nem vila, nem mesa ou comida, nem Lady Cashmere e nem a prostituta de Marselha, havia apenas o saco de ossos, e ela contava um por um, suas pequenas mãos brincavam com as costelas e o esterno, dele ela fez flautas que embalaram nossas noites. Sangrei onde Santiago me cortou, e onde Redrin bateu em mim, a pele ficou roxa, meus lábios ficaram quentes.

Ela deixou um saco de ossos na porta de Cemetery Miles e pegou minhas mãos, meus olhos cascateavam sob a luz das estrelas.

Coeur de Pirate

Ela disse, e no corte da espada eu tirei meu coração e a dei.

E agora navego para sempre pelo caminho entre praia e mar, até encontrar meu Coração de Pirata outra vez

Uma vez minha irmã disse para mim:

Nós somos peregrinos em uma longa jornada.

Eu acho que ela estava certa. 

Railroad

   The barman served me a drink, smooth and cold Martini, olives, bitter as her lips. The barman is one of those men who can see and read your pattern, reconstruct your sadness, and find the reasons why I’m here drinking cold beverages if out there the cold howls and bites the yellow taxis and streets.

It’s getting late, the Barman said…

Well, there’s always a story to tell.

  The sips are not a constant, only happen in those days, balmy and dismal, if this is possible, when the route seems to double in size and close in width and your feet loose the ground beneath and you may ask yourself:

What Lies Beneath?

She asked me this one question one morning, glorious as an autumn apple, she stared at me, channel hair, heart-shaped glasses, a long time ago before our air got dryer and our sunsets looked like worked steel on the ironsmith store.

Nice Horns the barman said, looking at the antlers on my head. Thanks, I said.

How d’you get those, boy, he asked.

Well, I answered, I helped a little girl to bury her mamma and dadda, and that’s just what I remember, Barman.  

  Barman is a good friend, serves me now juice, I’m not a drinker so I like the things soft, he reads me and knows, I drink memories so the relation has to be made or no deal, baby. Nostalgia is a bitter sucré, girl, and a candy that I always suck, cringing on my teeth, orgasmic under my tongue.

O casal ao meu lado divide o mesmo rum e os seus goles e brindes são a sinfonia cálida da minha noite, junto com o suspiro dos abstêmios e o silêncio da voz dela no coro da cidade.

  Candy Apple is my favorite color girl, the same of your coat and I remember very well, my first kiss was on a empty and abandoned factory, charcoal and the smell of the lamp, soft childish lips on mines, oh wait, there’s the bitter sucré again. My shirt was so long over her body, and the clouds in that day we’re cotton candy, air was nice and wet, sweet, kaleidoscopic vision of her smile. And the barman snapped his fingers and took me out of my daydream in the middle of the night.

Crossed long legs covered with a dismal light, chiaroscuro over the cheek bones, so lovely and chemical, my heart melted in hot copper and  sulfur, chemical flows while she kissed me, Mex Cow licked my forehead and said:

Lorelei is waiting on the Railroad follows these rails and hugs her, but tell her to take care with yer antlers.

  I’ve wonder for so many places and I still want to go yonder, just to find that purity, over the hills maybe or inside a Submarine. Piledriver sounds over the city, full of halos and lights, the molecules burning on windows while my dreams are diluted on the streams of acid rain on waves of plumbic clouds. Up there only the toughest Little Birds can survive.

Yonder she goes, but I cannot track or discover who. And I don’t understand those people in waves, well if I ever treated you bad; just remember how bad you treated this world before.

  Feet on the railroad, loves stay behind ‘cause I’d never really felt them. Dimes on the tracks hoping the train came and make them flat, maybe truth lies in the silver lining that covers the azure. Shadows dance in time while I go further on the railroad, crushing daisies with my boots, further on to where my horns lead.

And if you ever find yourself clueless, remember that maybe the barman have a few. 

Exhbition Number:?

    I’ve layed my eager eyes upon her limbs. That kind of sad beauty, natural grace.

Reading a book under the rain and thunders of gods, pagan and dark.

 Lovers as we are just acolytes.

  When the dusk was taking this land, lovely twilight, purple as her eyes, gloomy and big, seductive.

NympHic. Could turn my quiet day in a balmy day.

 Dark blUe in the sky, her brown scent in and around my nose.

 Most loves are born under the sun, some are born when the day and night Meets at the horizon, I’d tryied to hide my anklers, my bubble of hot poison, the fire that ablaze my heart and my loins.

But I could not.

  The time of my heart Beats does not follow any measure though, so how I could know that she was the one in the middle of the beats.

Sin, soul, any difference that you can spot with your greedy eyes?

Ennio Morricone is playing somewhere, and the dark blue is still here, sweEt piano chords and violins, smooth as virgin kisses and they have the flavours of her.

FlavouRs of fruit vert.

 I had felt the heaT of the dirty under my bare feet and she sure felt it too, a nymph, with those clothes that remember wings. A bird, a very bird.

Answer me, how a man could fell in love so madly for stardust?

That’s what we all are, ain’t that the bitter truth?

We can find our brothers and sisters, our lovers and sinners in dust, stardust that surrounds us and she, was made of the most beautiful dead stars.

She layed her eyes upon me, black clothes and anklers.

Maybe Little Bird knew me from other time, or our souls are the same up there, oh Lord, I could eat those scarlet lips, scarlet as licked strawberry candy. Starlet eyes and moving legs, rich brown hair oh, so different of mine, that black ripple of darkness and bones, my horns could not touch her flesh.

 And she took a sit by my side and said:

–There’s stardust on my eyes, everywhere, look Horned Man.

  

  And I had looked, azure sky or dark blue eyes, I do not know, stardust know so little these days.

Oh, that nature I could not said precisely what was, but I am sure it was not all human, maybe demoniac, but definitely not human, the beat of my heart and the pump sound of my veins blended with her voice. Maybe she was a Little Ghost, protected by our wildlife. Could we run thoghout the wilderness and deserts, or maybe, if you like, travel to USA roads, motel to motel, brothel to brothel, and lose our souls into the HAZE of a field. Come now, just 25 steps to my old car and we can set our demons free. We have time, but first we have to have the conscience that one day, well be ghosts of dead leaves of what we are now, our long ago is now when our bodies were close to become Stardust.

If we die of hate or remorse, at least something we did Little Bird.

 She kissed me, wrapped her legs around me and I melted in the sun.

Feather lips and just came to my mind those lines, of the European poet, the handsome one, know who is it?

 He said that the last long lap is the hardest, and the rest is rust... and Stardust. And now I complete, ‘cause I understand him, rust and Stardust in symphony, up there in the Dark Blue.