terça-feira, 15 de novembro de 2016

BONELESS POEMS

João Ayres



say whatever you want,
but do not get shocked at the words that come and go
so frail they are banging their heads against the noun door
that stands out there facing days and nights
opening and closing books and diaries and even small talk
eyes and years in the land of nowhere.

say whatever you want,
since you seem to be paving the word to immortality,
by taking off you shoes breathing in and out,
Immersed in your toughts which will cease to exist.
BONELESS POEMS

João Ayres



say whatever you want,
but do not get shocked at the words that come and go,
so frail they are banging their heads against the noun door,
that stands out there facing days and nights
opening and closing books and diaries and even small talk
eyes and years in the land of nowhere.

say whatever you want,
since you seem to be paving the word to immortality,
by taking off you shoes breathing in and out,
Immersed in your toughts which will cease to exist.


BONELESS POEMS

João Ayres

It seems so hard to recognize my face in the mirror,
to find whatever can´t be found as I plunge into the dark,
as the wind blows in the opposite direction,
so close to this passive voice as in:
that soul is being taken away by that bloody moon at a given time.

It seems so hard to slit my own throat with the noun chiv,
since life has been invigorated by those menacious clouds,
so I close my eyes to strive for the infinite,
lured by that candle light that is flickering at a distance.


domingo, 21 de agosto de 2016

POEMAS CORROMPIDOS DE VÉSPERA

JOÃO AYRES

2 Então tudo desvanece
ao som inaudível do silêncio
em doses letais de qualquer conhaque benfazejo
uma ou duas horas após o jantar.


São flores mortas
no interior do substantivo defunto
vicejando no abandono de toda e qualquer vala
habitada por demônios sem cor.


1 uma história sem dono
corre lado a lado com o substantivo cão
latindo ladeira abaixo
na chuva que devassa as vísceras dos loucos.

basta ranger como as correntes da alma
sem nascimento ou morte em elas sempre foram
no lúgubre espaço das celas frias
batendo a cabeça contra a grade.


3 sou desrazoável e insano.
escorrem em mim coisas turvas e circenses.

estou gota de qualquer líquido ingerido por descuido
habito agora o estômago de um homem assassinado à queima-roupa.

minha alma regurgita
o descaso da hora quando faz as vezes dos mortos.

sou desrazoável e insano.
escorre em mim o abandono de ruas vazias.

sábado, 26 de março de 2016