Keatsisms

The Haunting Void

2011-01-19T14:34:00.000-08:00

that keeps gnawing at my liver, depleting me
of whatever thoughts and sparks and sprouts
should spring from within.

that knocks at the hollow rib-cage, taunting
a shadow of freedom to my voice, jingling its keys
to the prisoner.

that.

Magnet-de-natising Charisma

2010-11-10T06:52:00.000-08:00

The comfort that is found upon beholding
mountain ranges and abysses of indifference,
processions of holier-than-thou, fear-thy-ground
furies unbridled but voiceless thoughtlessly
Pilling up dilligently upon prey me, pray you?
Conforming to an existence of checklists,
Will you? Did you? Could you? Have you?

Con mitted fully to the dictates and commanding con
Con queror will you be, crowned and renowned cries con
Con't you see how the fire in your vir-pyre rages con
Con Stern, a nation will rise, with your con fab inaction
And all shall con gratulate con firm what has always been,
Cum laude, a stream of words and burps and shrieks demanding
Change that is strangely akin to some bw picture
blended in with the ash.

Yet still, the scent lingers despicably in the clothes
in your hair, on your tongue, an urge to develop it
into something intelligible de moving desperately
Out of this centre and navel, you are debating on
words that still remain meaningless after so much
repeating and babbling and mumbling.

one multi-faceted free-styling snowflake of existence is what you are, ever graciously
falling down onto uniformity, the desecrating desintegrating
EveryManhood

Make sure It is branded with your singularity of all your elements
One final debauchery before the Melt_

By the Shore

2010-01-29T02:55:00.000-08:00

I sit by the shore, awaiting
the Flood to overcome,
reign over me.

One deep blue sea that lies so many a league
ahead,
its low ebb never seems to end.

Beneath the flesh and my mammal facade,
the nature of my origins claw at my soul,
a marine yearning for the touch of blue,
for the being blue itself,
without a thought,
without time,
without gravity and footing.

And then She comes,
She storms upon Her bed in Majestic Attire,
Rising regally an indomitable regina is to
Crash upon the rock, fuel the land in me,
Fill the crevasses and valleys
Till I overflow,

and there is no more need for words.

Night Reigns Over Moscow

2010-01-12T14:54:00.000-08:00

Moon Gazing

2010-01-12T14:48:00.000-08:00

One gaze sweeping through the snow filled fields, aiming at this
Majestic moon, there she stands queenly drawing the magnets
in me, up up and away. Starry silvery celebristie subjects all about
Abound with gleaming shiny pearl dust, gems simple fillings of
A shawl, a cape, a veil over her ivory skin, and I,

a barefoot, hole-in-pocket wandering bundle of mortal memories,
a wisp of smoke rising in this ethereal arctic air, already fading and aging,
fumbling through the rags for a word key to my tied tongue,
ecstasy. incensed thoughts burnt in a glimpse of your Eyes,

Blues jazzing what's become of my limbs and hips. Yes,
the closer I get, the further you are, playfully withdrawing,
Joyfully receding laughter in them in your lips and hands too,
throwing me off balance, in this one space, tearing our one into 2,

Until you come down on me as gravity as a blessed thirsty Fury
Showering my land with fiery sparks of red burgundy lava
you supernova, you revolutizia, you eva.

Parting

2010-01-12T14:45:00.000-08:00

As I leave you, as I part from you,
The living gossamer thread inside is torn
Apart. One kaleidoscopic network of semi solidified words diluted in the wind,
Unsaid, unwritten, undone.

For they could never have been uttered from lips in sheer satisfaction,
Inside our whole universe of milky skins,clasped palms,yinyang bodies,
a touch is a word, a look a sentence, a kiss a verb.

Instead these words hung around me, almost ready to be used, making me a throne, bringing the sugar to the tip
of the tongue
that you savoured so fiercely,took in as its new fiery and soothing home.

Again am I faced
with the fact that wordless and
speechless I lie before your feet,
now outcast, now snowbound,
ready for the inevitable fall
into not this World of Ours,
but a world of hours.

God

2009-10-30T07:59:00.000-07:00

God of my fathers, God of my seeds,

Grant me Light.

Giver of All. Life. Guide. On High.

Give me Insight

Beacon to the depths of the Abyss

In Me.

God Greater than the Galls

and Gulfs,

God filling in the Gaps between

Heaven and Earth.

God Good

Governor God

of Virtue and Evil,

When shall I see?

One wishes togetherness with You All

You All Venerable Elohim on High.

All in one.

One in all.

Allinone!

My Fate is proclaimed in Freedom

From Beginning to End.

You win

2009-10-30T07:58:00.000-07:00

Fight me for a word,

and lose me completely.

Throw your darts at the

Bull's eye of your argument

To miss me fully.

Incensed I feel, vapoured

and steamed, finite,

and still bound, still captive

in my room,

not willing to step out, yet

Again, cold winds for a hand;

Clouds and myst for a kiss;

The hand offered a hissing fist,

Ready for a finishing rant.

Thus I retreat and fall back

To a silent corner where

I might harden myself

And brandish my armour

and Coat of Arms

Clad in the purest Ice.

Muscovite Dogs

2009-10-30T07:57:00.000-07:00

Strangely large and human looking

Are the mongrels and mutts wandering

Aimlessly down Gogolevski Boulevard.

For in their stride lies a pride

and defiance, as if suddenly a

Feline turned fiercely dog-like.

They smell ahead, ready for a kill.

For in their abandonment there is

the solace of lordship,

over their exquisite manes

over the mud and the frost

over the tracks fresh and long gone.

Revolutionary and bohemian

barks & licks & night watches;

Once friends, now patient observers

of Those Who Work Like Men.

Diabetic Rose

2009-10-30T07:54:00.000-07:00

One white rose

(lies in a glass,)

Given as a mute

Token of meaning,

Words crystalised actions

Actions concrete feeling

(not glass lies).

From supreme

Insignificance

She sprang before my eyes.

From sweet blissful

Ignorance

She unfolded the narcotic

Scent of Life.

Standing alone passively

Day in, night out

I bloom and she withers;

She talks and I fall silent

As someone beholding a mirror.

Like myself, cut off from its roots;

Like myself, sucking desperately

Sugared water;

Like myself, maimed and crippled,

Blossoming bursting petals

In a slow drift into Existence.

Man of the future

2009-10-04T12:22:00.000-07:00

The way ahead is spelled backwards
And in order to get to the end
I have at last reached my beginnings.

Name at least one way to tame
the upsurges of tiresome suns,
All of them in my control, though
the uncontrollable in me is the same.

Endless flow of answers fleeting fiercely
stuck in this still pond of the mind,
Cathedrals and skyscrapers in sight, towering high
Up where I am supposed to belong,
still so low, still a crow

croaking the never-ending cycle of life
which i observant go past and beyond
shedding my blood for marble and gold
till the process is complete and I am loaded

to the database of essence.

New sprouts rising from the broken stem.

2009-08-25T12:59:00.000-07:00

Winter... a dreary, sulky weather where we all sit and lie, hibernating on the inside, expecting a sun beam to pierce through the ever-hanging clouds and shine upon us.

Winter... fog and myst, hindering the way ahead. Put your lights on, son. Once again we fight the white cold flame licking at our ankles and neck with socks, scarves, coats, ear muffs, gloves, vests, lipsticks. Fighting fire with fire... we will face our very own loneliness and pettiness before Nature by blending hands and lips with some significant other, so the fire inside does not die. Yet the land lies ready.

Winter... a grown, wrinkled man groping for his glasses amidst the darkness. It broods in, he can hardly gasp for air as all his leaves have fallen to the ground, the time has come and he is not ready, one is never ready for that final stroke, for the end of the road, the plunge into the deep. Yet he encloses the seed inside himself..

Winter is when we win, despite the freezing wind. The Sun soon is to shine upon the seeded earth, and our new self is freed to roam upon it, rejoicing the spring of the New that's come knocking at our door.

New Land In Sight

2009-08-03T20:09:00.000-07:00

Is there anything more meaningful than moving to a place where the idea of revolution still hangs in the air? The sense of subversion, breaking on through?

Well, it is happening to me. I am a month and a half away from a turning point in my life, the beginning of a journey where I will most definitely redefine, reshape and recreate myself as some of you know it.

Not only should you say that I will become more reddish than I am already, you need to look me in the eye and behold the turbulent merging of the old and the new in the Muscovite air, the violent surge of ancient modernised feelings, the struggle of the will, the repression of the collective and the common sense. Superstitions, arrogant Ferraris leaving a trail of opulence, a folk song in a crescendo of sound and fury, scientific minds, tea, the red flag of Komunista!, orthodox icons, the hammer, the politburo, the numbed press, the throngs of a starving, maddened crowd, a Farbeget egg, a Matryoska.

By floating eagerly at a mer du noms, a sea of words, strangely shaped and scented of musical tones, I most certainly make what makes me inferior my superiority, what seemed to be the weakest link a super power. Russians have achieved great things from their inferiority complex, something that we still have not been able to cope with properly. They have paid a price, and yet, they have become respected, recognised, even feared, as a most convenient demon for the Western Capitalist Civilisation. Most importantly, they have got a memory of who they were, and who they want to be.

Boiling red as the blood shed over decades and decades for something (immaterial to us) called "the Motherland".

Blue as the presumptions of the ever-decaying aristocracy and the newly-risen "new money", spilling litres of petrol over a restaurant bill in "Red" London.

White as the plains of an element that may freeze and burn, expand or melt, harden or soften to touch... it all comes down to how you will approach them.

That is a fair share to me. Dostoievski is by my side, smiling grimly.

Curtain call!

Back to the desk

2009-05-03T15:22:00.000-07:00

Sunday, 3 May, 2009. 7:25pm. Once again, I am faced with my curse, which is to write. about? who knows? some kind of confidence or confession? an ellaboration of a political theory which is going to save the world? conspiracy theories? Maybe not.

Botafogo has lost another chance to prove that they are the best team in Rio de Janeiro. Yet again.

The streets will be packed and stuffed with frantic fans revelling and grovelling in the dirt, democracy is won, the people's champion comes back home again with its prize and laurels. The gates to the city are opened, dancers voluptously semi-naked will spring forth and surround their heroes, clouds of smoke and fireworks, the drums beat to the one heartbeat of the throbbing crowd, silencing the slightest thought to bear and stand.

The defeated are dragged to the main square for public mockery, being spat and pissed upon. No quarter for the down beat.

No such thing as second best or runner - up. Why keep running for it anyway?
Winning - at all cost, by all means. Winning, and sticking the sword down the foe's throat... howl fiercely at the sight of blood, tear the no-man's heart out and watch it beat warmly and gradually gradually wane into ash.

Ash and dust. Memories of the beginning and the end. I cover myself with coal and ash, these have always been my colours, I mourn the gone days and sit by the door, expecting the lights to go out - they always will - and shiver in the cold air, night will bring me power, night will bring me justice, dignity.

High hopes and expectations for the upcoming months

2008-07-09T12:01:00.000-07:00

WAGNER MOURA PLAYING HAMLET

I have been waiting eagerly for a decent staging of Hamlet and it seems that the time for it has come at last.

Moura had always looked to me like a younger version of Cassiano Gabus Mendes until I saw him act in the (bootlegged, of course) copy of Elite Squad. His massive presence and intensity makes a square-looking character as Capt. Nascimento a real person, who we can all identify ourselves with. There is nothing like the real thing, and when we put together a real play (Hamlet), actually the real play - there is nothing as edgy beyond its borders - and a real actor, someone who could play the most remarkable tree ever, then we have something to cherish and savour for the rest of our lives.

You may find Paulo Henrique Amorim's review on the play at http://www.paulohenriqueamorim.com.br/forum/Post.aspx?id=320.

HEATH LEDGER, CHRISTIAN BALE DIRECTED BY CRISTOPHER NOLAN IN FRANK MILLER'S DARK KNIGHT

You might have Batman I and II as your favourites, but I will have to disregard any attempt to picture Batman at his rawest, most essential prior to Batman Begins. Director Chris Nolan was really smart in thinking the name up - Batman REALLY begins at that film. No Michael Keaton, Clooney or Val Kilmer could actually live up to our expectations of what a haunted hero like Batman should be like. Nolan excels at bringing all the subtleties of his psyche ... the mind of a man who has given in to an obsession, and by repeatedly avenging their parents, rises to cleanse a world which is too hopelessly dark and lost and corrupted.

Sorry, Jack. But I can't wait to see how Heath Ledger has outperformed you, not much as a result of his talent, but actually as the late actor had such a better material to deal with. Ledger's Joker really sounds as a clear threat to Batman's power and his turf. We also have outstanding Michael Caine back as Alfred, and I tell you, that's the kind of butler I would like to have by my side, someone bright enough to show me other paths to be taken, but never blunt, always charmingly wise.

Recent Poems - II

2008-06-30T19:02:00.000-07:00

How to ...

You know, how can I er, you know what

I mean, there's these bits these

What's - their - name shards I'm

kind of like,

Putting it (them?) together -
Subject verbs objects. Objects subject
verb. Verb objects subjects,

the world eyes on I, as I
eye on the world, ever objectively
subjective, ever subjectively objective.

How to translate this torrent

of er, I'ded thirst?

This meaningful ellipse of wordlessness?

This silent boom where it all begins

and finds its end?

Recent Poems in English - I

2008-06-30T18:58:00.000-07:00

Through the daze and the trance
We trudged upon the moss and mould
of misshaped thoughts and intentions.

Will you not transcend
This scent of sullen paralysis
This cuff and this collar
tightening round necks and
wrists and deathly starved lips?

My rings and chains easily come off
loose.

My strained burdened arms
still manage to open wide
despite the numbness.

Tribute to Hugh Laurie

2008-06-30T18:21:00.000-07:00

Enjoy this clip where Hugh Laurie sings a wholehearted love song to his muse, Steffie
Graf.

There is more to Hugh than just his House.

Back to the desk

2008-06-30T12:58:00.000-07:00

There are some things that will eat you up inside if you do not let them out. This is how I feel about writing in general.

I have been taking, inhaling, absorbing the air about me for too long, I am afraid. And it certainly is high time I should detox myself by leaving these words on the screen.

Definitely tired of the nihilistic paths to be taken by those who feel much. I have cried, laughed, brooded and sulked. I have bled but its traces are not to be found by those who keep searching and probing me on the outside. Savoured wine... the blessing kept millenially to help us usher in the dance of Dionisius, the bacchan urge to soar above the obvious vulgar usual words that fill up the weary mind, poor mind traveller. Oceans of drooling, seas of dull, please do not let me drown. Once I step out there is no turning back and I hope that by falling I will rise again.

blessed old apollo bring me light grand charioteer.

as the dawn approaches i will be made new to shine throughout the starving night again and it will flow freely foams shower me to my core. shake me back to life dizzyingly storm to explode and expand me to the shape I need to the frame I cherish mold, mold.

Don't worry

2008-06-27T07:26:00.000-07:00

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