06-01-2013, 04:26 PM
I write poetry to you, when we talk.
Why would I, if I did not care?
How could I, if I did not?
You tell me now!
What is next, you ask, I say:
Not yet written.
.
You can hurt me, but
you are the only one
allowed to
do so.
You should read some Heine:
He talks finely about love
and hurting.
.
On those rare vists to my mind
I question myself what I do.
I take a liking these gloomy days
in other people's love affairs
becauses it soothes me now.
You still have a life in front of you
to be filled with new love.
It is just around the corner.
You simply need to look up,
and that is all it takes,
to love life once bloody more.
Just know that I know what I am talking,
your mock huffy,
he says so:
Of course – to spread banalities:
It ain't over till it is
and that is exactly how it is now
with us.
You know, I think that's fine lyrics
for just another
to be put down into
living
song.
.
So let there be song:
You say we differ; I ask how.
Is it about the Emerson quotes
about friendship I quoted to you?
What is it about?
Friendship is about:
You don't have to return my favors,
but if you desire so:
Return them to make me return them to you.
.
I read your eyes that ask:
Can we have that
without sex? Really?
.
Get lucky with my shrugs.
.
I write poetry to you, when we talk.
Why would I do that,
if I did not care?
Vutiou believe it: I read you.
The message I can't send, it simply lies.
I can feel some other one's grief
completely.
I just love Italy
because on her coasts
I can feel the breeze,
touching the rumbling waves of the sea.
I can feel a free bird's song in the wind.
Too many unsweet attitudes
in peoples these days.
They lost our moon
from which to look down
upon us, them and me.
Once the moon lights up again
they surely will see
what they missed, I am talking
the richness of colorful life, the voice
is meant solely to please them
and ease their, our's, introduction
to death.
Jean Genet in Miracle de la Rose
with his friend facing the guillotine
played Boetius reborn in order to soothe.
In vain, in vain life and death, too.
In vain for all of us
it is to live.
Already covered by Beckett, of course
and may he be cursed because of that:
Leaving no options to choose from
for us to make a fine life,
but instead to sadly accept the fact that we'll die,
having been made so by our maker.
No praises to him from me for that.
That's our old existentialism Blues.
Enough of sweet talking maybe, for now?
Up to get into it, into the real?
Into what matters?
But see: you loose me here,
because nothing really does.
Pra quem não sabe amar
fica esperando*
Because they do not know love waits for them.
Senhor, piedade,
Lhes dê grandeza e um pouco de coragem *
Lord, have mercy
Give them, us, a bit of grandeur and courage!
.................................................
*from Cazuza's Blues da Piedade lyrics
Why would I, if I did not care?
How could I, if I did not?
You tell me now!
What is next, you ask, I say:
Not yet written.
.
You can hurt me, but
you are the only one
allowed to
do so.
You should read some Heine:
He talks finely about love
and hurting.
.
On those rare vists to my mind
I question myself what I do.
I take a liking these gloomy days
in other people's love affairs
becauses it soothes me now.
You still have a life in front of you
to be filled with new love.
It is just around the corner.
You simply need to look up,
and that is all it takes,
to love life once bloody more.
Just know that I know what I am talking,
your mock huffy,
he says so:
Of course – to spread banalities:
It ain't over till it is
and that is exactly how it is now
with us.
You know, I think that's fine lyrics
for just another
to be put down into
living
song.
.
So let there be song:
You say we differ; I ask how.
Is it about the Emerson quotes
about friendship I quoted to you?
What is it about?
Friendship is about:
You don't have to return my favors,
but if you desire so:
Return them to make me return them to you.
.
I read your eyes that ask:
Can we have that
without sex? Really?
.
Get lucky with my shrugs.
.
I write poetry to you, when we talk.
Why would I do that,
if I did not care?
Vutiou believe it: I read you.
The message I can't send, it simply lies.
I can feel some other one's grief
completely.
I just love Italy
because on her coasts
I can feel the breeze,
touching the rumbling waves of the sea.
I can feel a free bird's song in the wind.
Too many unsweet attitudes
in peoples these days.
They lost our moon
from which to look down
upon us, them and me.
Once the moon lights up again
they surely will see
what they missed, I am talking
the richness of colorful life, the voice
is meant solely to please them
and ease their, our's, introduction
to death.
Jean Genet in Miracle de la Rose
with his friend facing the guillotine
played Boetius reborn in order to soothe.
In vain, in vain life and death, too.
In vain for all of us
it is to live.
Already covered by Beckett, of course
and may he be cursed because of that:
Leaving no options to choose from
for us to make a fine life,
but instead to sadly accept the fact that we'll die,
having been made so by our maker.
No praises to him from me for that.
That's our old existentialism Blues.
Enough of sweet talking maybe, for now?
Up to get into it, into the real?
Into what matters?
But see: you loose me here,
because nothing really does.
Pra quem não sabe amar
fica esperando*
Because they do not know love waits for them.
Senhor, piedade,
Lhes dê grandeza e um pouco de coragem *
Lord, have mercy
Give them, us, a bit of grandeur and courage!
.................................................
*from Cazuza's Blues da Piedade lyrics
