Metamorphosis.

The Bloody Chamber and Other Stories

(...)

 

He dragged himself closer and closer to me, until I felt the harsh velvet of his head against my hand, then a tongue, abrasive as sandpaper.

'He will lick the skin off me!'

And each stroke of his tongue ripped off skin after successive skin, all the skins of a life in the world, and left behind a nascent patina of shining hairs. My earrings turned back to water and trickled down my shoulders; I shrugged the drops off my beautiful fur.

- Angela Carter

Pen.

XXV

my mind is
a big hunk of irrevocable nothing which touch and taste and smell
and hearing and sight keep hitting and chipping with sharp fatal
tools
in an agony of sensual chisels i perform squirms of chrome and execute
strides of cobalt
nevertheless i
feel that i cleverly am being altered that i slightly am becoming
something a little different,in fact
myself
Hereupon helpless i utter lilac shreiks of scarlet bellowings.

- e. e. cummings

Old room.

Gráfico de Vendas com Orquídea

Nós, em postos
de salvamento e de destruição,
individuais e colectivos,
em gerências de economias
e de conhecimentos,
terrivelmente sujeitos a
armadilhas e fragilidades,
somos os relógios da
memória. Vamos no tempo
e nele nos perdemos.
Somos letras de palavras
possíveis em vastos livros,
páginas brancas e luz cega,
corda partida, nó feito,
nascimentos e funerais,
e nascimentos, infinitos,
imparáveis; pó bíblico,
humano, enigmático.

- Dinis Machado

More.

Post Office

It began as a mistake.

- Charles Bukowski

Early.

 

iv, unto thee i

unto thee i
burn incense
the bowl crackles
upon the gloom arise purple pencils
 
fluent spires of fragrance
the bowl
seethes
aflutter of stars
 
a turbulence of forms
delightful with indefinable flowering,
the air is
deep with desirable flowers
 
i think
thou lovest incense
for in the ambiguous faint aspirings 
the indolent frail ascensions,
 
of thy smile rises the immaculate
sorrow
of thy low
hair flutter the level litanies
 
unto thee i burn
incense,over the dim smoke
straining my lips are vague with
ecstasy my palpitating breasts inhale the
 
slow
supple
flower
of thy beauty,my heart discovers thee
 
unto
whom i
burn
olbanum

- e. e. cummings

Closed.

Serena, II

(...)

this clonic earth

see-saw she is blurred in sleep
she is fat half dead the rest is free-wheeling
part the black shag the pelt
is ashen woad
snarl and howl in the wood wake all the birds
hound the harlots out of the ferns
this damfool twilight threshing in the brake
bleating to be bloodied
this crapulent hush
tear its heart out

in her dreams she trembles again
way back in the dark old days panting
in the claws of the Pins in the stress of her hour
the bag writhes she thinks she is dying
the light fails it is time to lie down
Clew Bay vat of xanthic flowers
Croagh Patrick waned Hindu to spite a pilgrim
she is ready she has lain down above all the islands of glory
straining now this Sabbath evening of garlands
with a yo-heave-ho of able-bodied swans
out from the doomed land their reefs of tresses
in a hag she drops her young
the whales in Blacksod Bay are dancing
the asphodels come running the flags after
she thinks she is dying she is ashamed

she took me up on to a watershed
whence like the rubrics of a childhood
behold Meath shining through a chink in the hills

(...)

- Samuel Beckett

Wd.

The Conspiracy

You send me your poems,
I'll send you mine.

Things tend to awaken
even through random communication

Let us suddenly
proclaim spring. And jeer

at the others,
all the others.

I will send a picture too
if you will send me one of you.

- Robert Creeley

Superman.

II, Crucifix in a Deathland

(...)

the dark is empty;
most of our heroes have been
wrong

(...)

- Charles Bukowski

And.

Fools Die

(...)

I want to tell you a story, I have no other vanity. I don’t desire success or fame or money. But that’s easy, most men, most women don’t, not really. Even better, I don’t want love.When I wasyoung, some women told me they loved me for my long eyelashes. I accepted. Later it was for my wit. Then for my power and money. Then for my talent. Then for my mind — deep. Ok, I can handle all of it. The only woman who scares me is the one who loves me for myself alone. I have plans for her. I have poisons and daggers and darkgravesin caves to hide her head. She can’t be allowed to live. Especially if she is sexually faithful and never lies and always puts me ahead of everything and everyone.

(...)

- Mario Puzo

Furnished room.

Steppenwolf

"For Madmen Only"

(...)

He who has known the other days, the angry ones of gout attacks, or those with that wicked headache rooted behind the eyeballs that casts a spell on every nerve of eye and ear with a fiendish delight in torture, or soul-destroying, evil days of inward vacancy and despair, when, on this distracted earth, sucked dry by the vampires of finance, the world of men and of so-called culture grins back at us with the lying, vulgar, brazen glamor of a Fair and dogs us with the persistence of an emetic, and when all is concentrated and focused to the last pitch of the intolerable upon your own sick self--he who has known these days of hell may be content indeed with normal half-and-half days like today.

Thankfully you sit by the warm stove, thankfully you assure yourself as you read your morning paper that another day has come and no war broken out, no new dictatorship has been set up, no particularly disgusting scandal been unveiled in the worlds of politics or finance. Thankfully you tune the strings of your moldering lyre to a moderated, to a passably joyful, nay, to an even delighted psalm of thanksgiving and with it bore your quiet, flabby and slightly stupefied half-and-half god of contentment; and in the thick warm air of a contented boredom and very welcome painlessness the nodding mandarin of a half-and-half god and the nodding middle-aged gentleman who sings his muffled psalm look as like each other as two peas.

(...)

- Hermann Hesse

Pack.

Orlanda Blues

3RD Chorus

This book is too nice for me
They made Clay Felker editor
of Esquire
Or Rust Hills one
and what ever happened to glass
and the joke about the Lord.

The Lord is my Agent.

My message is blah blah blah

My yort tackalitwingingly
  pasta vala tt, yea, p,
  my reurnent gollagigle
  dil plat most-rat, my
    erneealieing cralmaa
    tooth, ant, mop, sh,
  my devoid less 2 immensity
  secret muzning midnight,
  my whatzit
            you wanta
                  know
                       Whatzit!

       Joy    Look out!

- Jack Kerouac

Flame.

Casabianca *

Love's the boy stood on the burning deck

trying to recite "The boy stood on

the burning deck." Love's the son

        stood stammering elocution

        while the poor ship in flames went down.

Love's the obstinate boy, the ship,

even the swimming sailors, who

would like a schoolroom platform, too,

        or an excuse to stay

        on deck. And love's the burning boy.

* (...) The boy had remained on the burning ship during the 1798 Battle of the Nile (a decisive defeat for Napoleon), thinking that his father, the admiral, had not released him from duty.

- Elizabeth Bishop

Specs.

As being is to begin.

Laid down among the signs a self assigned. Decided it was only ever

upward unto nothing, grass and wildfl owers, each stem the very thread

of trembling, as little weight as color on the eye. Th ere was an order you

could choose to enter, another, in doing so, to leave. You were, as before

a river or tree decides to branch.

- Brian Teare

Pictionary.

The motivation of the poem must be derived from the implicit emotional dynamics of the materials used, and the terms of the expression employed are often selected less for their logical (literal) significance  than for their associational meanings.

- Hart Crane