Exército de Kamikazes

(Português) A neve não pára de cair. As nuvens não deixam de passar. Há um céu azul por todo o lado. Ursos brancos a rodopiar. Um ambiente espiritual de último grau. Uma cena de fim de tarde numa terra santa. Não se sabe se é um telefonema ou uma forma de pensar, de ligar à consciência. Que quer dizer a água em flocos, alguém consegue explicar? Um chamamento divino? Ou será apenas a bateria a ficar fraca?

Ode a tudo

I always remember you. Not only the tourniquets, pipettes or finger-stingers. But the whole. The overwhelming presence that protected us as an aura. It was ever there, even if from afar. I wrote you in a newspaper, while in the kitchen I cooked you a delicacy of your paradise. From a trip to the East.

Que fazer das chuvas e dos ventos?

The Captain doesn’t show any signs of softening up. He ordered us all to move into one of the ships and turned the others to flames. He himself set them alight. And, since he was further away, the Captain swam to the Manhattan set it on fire and crashed it against the Cobain turning the two vessels in a huge hellish burst of flame.

Say goodbye to the one who arms you

The rivers know about you, because I tell them your stories. Because whenever you write I throw them your letters. Sometimes making little boats. Waiting for the long course of the water to rebel and eats, all at once, the city that cries for you. Over here.

A Pact

As early as 1909, Ezra Pound knew the poetry of Walt Whitman and the Whitman myth; and he felt obliged to claim kinship with the older poet. At the outset of his career, he wrote of Whitman, “I honour him for he prophesied me while I can only recognize him as a forebear of whom I ought to be proud.”

Bom dia!

“Piece of Sheet”, assim mesmo, sem tradução para português, talvez um dia terá, mas não agora. Pedaço de folha? Sim, mas muito mais do que isso. Coisas implícitas. Coisas mal ditas. Coisas no fio da navalha. Atira-se ao ar e baralha-se de novo. Lê-se.