From Cowboy Mouth

I mean I can't be the saint people dream of now.

People want a street angel.

They want a saint but with a cowboy mouth.

Somebody to get off on

when they can't get off on themselves.

The Genius of Kander & Ebb

I don't care much, go or stay, I don't care very much

Either way.

Hearts grow hard on a windy street, lips grow cold

with the rent to meet. So if you kiss me, if we touch,

Warning's fair, I don't care very much.

I don't care much, go or stay, I don't care very much

Either way.

Words sound false when your coat's too thin

feet don't waltz when the roof caves in.

So if you kiss me, if we touch, I don't care very much.

I don't care.

In a small town

Numbed by reaction

Stripped of the trust

A young heart is broken

Not aware that it is just

A family tradition.

What's right and what's wrong

Is in the back of a hand

While girls turn into women

And a boy to a man

The things start to surface

But he'll never know

Still they do linger

With nowhere to stand

Um outro verão sueco

Na minha Suécia os nomes da lista
não são de lugares são nomes químicos,
ou de pássaros, nomes delicados como os ossos
do corpo, escritos em letra de forma
a grafia do diabo. Todos os nomes próprios
estão deitados num lugar chamado Náströnd
(o único lugar que parece ter nome)
onde são lentamente envenenados.
O sangue é túrgido e os coágulos, dourados

Mon Jane B.

swimming with shark

dragging dead dear up

a hill licking off wounds

cracking skulls open on

sidewalk near my house

your car âge entre trente

et trente-un or unknown

unimaginable and chestnut

brown high school days

dull (as window pane with mist)

disparue ce matin a cinq heures

moins vingt you sleep on

the wheel (fast car and slender toy)

and I chez mes parents

In the end

Allow me to see what it's all coming to

Crumbs on the table and mud on his shoes

Dreading someone I can see where we've been

Drugs on a trail and nails digging in

Some hands will whop you and some hands will dig

Some say they'll stay 'till my last dying day

But if actions can speak and words cannot do

Ten thousand armies can't even fight through

Who's to say it's all for the best in the end?

[c.g.]

Summer in Sweden

light infuriating the room / distorted guitars and black metal / cold boy with american heart / spat in thousand faces and mine / diavolo and skean dhu / scotching I, and Then / rökning dödar is such sweet serenade / I drown and band did not make it / museet and monotype modern / or handwritten wall text / lumberjacks with axes to grind / masking tape for cracks / a demon in my hand.

On a neck, on a spit

My messenger in disguise

makes up for short goodbyes

You can't come home again

Each time is different

And the yards around your feet

fall away while you're asleep

Each day, spend it with me now,

All my time, spend it with me, but

each day I spend with you now

all my time I spend with you, but

out here no one can hear me.

[g.b.]

Their routine endlessly repeating

mimicking the impression of familiarity

ultimately he requests only that he should

be allowed to "my arms red as i write this" leave

in modern life finding meaningful escape can be hard

Dictum

Art and Action are contradictory elements

which can only converge in death

Beauty and Sadness go together

like beard and vest

Grapefruit

Grapefruit armpit's tart

gain momentum in mouth

over tongue so silent and

whiskers crushed under

cowboy hat in cowboy cot

cuspid bicuspid yellow scimitars

en garde as cold night falls

like the smell of festering leather.

I have slept in hotel rooms before.

Letter to George Lutz when I'm 28

I know everything about Jan. 14

The day you left the house in mourn

same day I came down as axe in mother's

sex and brother's navel and dad's...

Mishima's birth dreamt of seppuku.

He was Shi o Kaku Shônen like me,

"the boy who wrote poetry" and Tabako

Oh, the elegance and brutality of 28 days/years

Lewis Carroll died that same day

gone was also his love of Alice Liddell

the rowing boat in which it dwelt

and Anais Nin becoming June

George, you have no idea why

I write this letter to you. Me neither

We never met and never will except

for the brief hello we exchanged on television

You left the house the day I entered

mine. Your horror is somehow mine.

Your 28 days in dutch-colonial are

my axe-like life never fully rendered

I have marked the date on my calendar,

we won't forget for different reasons

(a weird coincidence of it being half of 28)

a weird day to be marked as my birthdate.

Corn

There were these two boys, brothers

known as Gimp and Stripling

One of them was actually crippled

you can guess who and the other

was really not that young and

they lived together in a house

a small house on the corner of Main

and Willow Creek then one night

tired of being mocked by Stripling

Gimp shot him in the head while

Stripling was popping corn so that

the neighbors wouldn't hear a gunshot he thought

the sheriff found Gimp by his brother's body

head blown, pool of blood and all, eating

a big bowl of freshly popped popcorn and 

that was that. Not far from their house

lived another boy, went by the name Capote

I'm guessing not because of the writer and

coincidence or not this boy was a sissy and

somewhat retarded, maladjusted, maladroit

died of pneumonia past winter and the town

folks thought weird of the boy's passing

and dumped his body by a corn field

Sick

A fumaça levanta de cada xícara

em cada mesa, ao mesmo tempo.

Coisas acontecem o tempo todo,

coisas acontecem a todo minuto

coisas que não tem nada a ver conosco

Laocoon warns his fellow Trojans

Do not trust the Horse,

Trojans, whatever it is I fear

the Greeks even bearing gifts

[ ... ]

At the same time

he stretched forth to tear the knots

with his hands, his fillets soaked

with saliva and black venom,

at the same time.

Morning plea

Bird, I choke on you

violent beak like mother

feeding worm to mouth

Subdued, seduced. My head

on your bare chest rests

my flesh for carrion flower.

Yellowthroat and Trachea

deities of air and breath

try and show me your face

strip off your black mask

What hatred, what halter

how naked and crushed

Cater to me, I'm tethered

my travelling paths unaltered

Scene

Cup rests over saucer:

"Our nights are dire", then I mute.

"Swans are waltzing over this dark lake"

Cup rests over saucer.

On a field, looking away from stables:

"Heard a gunshot", then it echoes

"Had a broken leg, couldn't run"

On a field, looking away from stables.

Front porch, clinging to bottle:

"And that was that", then it slips

"Watch out for broken glass"

Front porch.

Se houvesse um livro sobre este corredor

Começaria assim: há uma estrada dentro da casa

com rodapés de pinho nas esquinas

e lâmpadas na parede que conferem ao caminho

uma certa infinitude, a noite

Lembro do dia em que deixei o carteiro esperando no corredor

no meu quarto, desenhei sua "cara de maçã" enquanto esperava

na sombra

Não importa o quão desimportante, é uma cena da história

uma história no livro

Será que os sonhos se passam em corredores porque a perspectiva é estranha?

ou porque são são grandes palcos, sem uso, dentro de casa?

O corredor era o leito seco de um rio, sonhei uma noite

Uma estrada indígena, noutra noite

(e pode mesmo ter sido um dos dois antes da casa estar lá)

E nunca ouvi o carteiro indo embora, mas vi que havia ido

quando saí do quarto para pendurar o desenho na parede

Ventos azedos de lustra-móveis circulam pelo corredor

Antes pinheiros, em lugar das portas

Se Cristo houvesse morrido em um corredor, talvez rezássemos em corredores

Ou usariamos pequenos corredores dourados em volta do pescoço

Como pode continuar tão frio depois de tantas passadas?

Um fora que, de alguma maneira, é dentro.

Fool's gold

Pirate on fire struck against this flinty skin

flickers, coruscates and then glimmers

just like all the rest and what's left

for good, for laughs, in cavities on

the living room widower's mouth is

a moth waltzing the air and this light

skull shaped thorax for mast lacking

the crossbones in your nightly banner

Chi é e non é

... someone once told me that explaining is an admission of failure

I'm sure you remember, I was on the phone with you, sweetheart.

Invece da spiegare chi é e non é, non voglio svegliare me e ne pensare a te.