segunda-feira, 30 de novembro de 2015


There are snowflakes on my tongue I want to melt on your inner thigh.
There’s a man in the moon I still call Jesus some nights.
My body is a temple where I have burned so many scriptures
I see smoke everytime I look in the mirror.

Kiss me where the flames turn blue.
Tell me there are places on my skin that look exactly like the sky
And your heart is a jet plane heavy with the weight of businessmen and crying babies
But you’re done running for the exit row ‘cause god knows
we have smoked the stars.
Made wishes on falling ashes.
Something’s gotta give.
It may as well be our fingers.
Touch me
Till my ribs become piano keys
Till there is sheet music scrolled across the inside of my lungs
‘Cause I’m breakin old patterns.
For anyone else I would rhyme and end this line with Saturn.
But you are not the type to wear rings
And I’m not the type to wanna celebrate forever
When right now is forever
Walking down the isle unnoticed
Hold me

Sing me lullabies at dawn when I’ve been up all night painting the wind
To remind myself that things are moving.
We were talking mountains and snowboards when you said,
“I’ll teach you how to fall”
I said, “I bet you will”

But my bruises will be half moons hanging above cornfields that yield only crop circles.
You are a mystery I promise I will never try to solve.
What science calls science I have always called miracle.
And since we met there have been days when I have said thank you so many times I could watch all my broken pieces curling into seeds to plant themselves in the bellies of saxophones on street corners in New Orleans.
You can find music in places where you cannot find air.

So when you say you are homesick for my skin
my body sends you postcards from all its darkest corners and prays you can still see the sun climbing my bones like octaves ‘cause baby
there were nights when my pulse did not win.
Nights when my heartbeat stained the kitchen floor bright red.

But you once told me
we are most alive in that split second before death.
So I call ugly a four letter word
And tell you I am tired of hearing myself swear.

Is in the eye of the beholder
You hold me so well that I am almost convinced
that smoke in the mirror might one day

Andrea Gibson / Stay

domingo, 29 de novembro de 2015

Atrás do horizonte, um novo dia

Joel Robison

É tarde e o dia, já frágil, começa a arrefecer. Tenho as pernas entorpecidas de estar sentada no degrau de madeira que desce até à praia, mas não me importo. À minha volta, tudo é silêncio. Só resta o lago grande do mar e a efervescência da sua espuma que me tira o fôlego. Com o cair da noite, o horizonte abre-se num brilho melancólico. Um estremecimento de passos atinge-me subitamente como uma dor. Alguém sobe desajeitadamente as escadas, como se fosse um elefante louco. Sinto um vidro a estilhaçar-se dentro de mim. Atordoada pelo susto, aguardo a chegada da presença que se impõe. Uma serpente exuberante, erguida em espiral num tronco nu, surge, ameaçadora. Só depois vejo o homem – um rosto vermelho-vivo, como sangue. Nos seus olhos leio o fulgor fluorescente do triunfo por me ter assustado, enquanto eu me sinto macia e vulnerável dentro da minha própria pele. Levanto-me e sacudo os restos de sol. Não gosto de ser despertada assim. Gosto quando o peso das minhas mãos me devolve ao presente.