Excerpt from A Deep Cosmic Calenture

Thoughts are a strong passion a kind of telescope that filter what my eyes kept in my memory,
I remember everything since 1975, when my parents went away and let me alone with my
grand-mother, I was 4 years old. My father is fighting the Portuguese colonial war for about 40
years in silence, my mother and me , just doesn’t work, I try to avoid a perfect wish to find new
people but seek and seek, for a safe shore, where the dock is the doorway to adventure, and
the wonders are my walks where I can fit with the life energy and by people I have knowledge
of what makes this statement a natural response to my instinct that cares to recover my
joiedevivre.
And yes I love the love, but put out of him for reasons that escape from dreams and they just
wax and wane on my journey to where the wind blows on my face and there is no absurd by
the need to be loved, my main concern nowadays, I am a human, I have the right to it.
The tears from the world injustices mean nothing for the steamy spokesman of the tricky part
where a symbolic Judas in the shadow, attacked me and still survived to think, which is my
natural resource on my ballad of the skeleton.
Hope you can cope with the stones in your heads (the aggressions from day to day life) and
think to rise and vaporise into the sky, where we get life energy and we can live there, when
the eyes are twin mosaics, like freedom and rain,
Turn blue, my friend, there is more than being silent with the world, even if the fun is also
blue, and the blues know where to carry the tunes and spread the pure element of the spirit.
The siren lengthens her tender light when the world tends to ignore the true love story tellers
but even if they flow in a logical way, they can embrace the face of Anne Sophie whom I
missed so much and she so tender or the bright speech of the gallery girl so close on her look
at my work, then across the strangers who talk about nothing and me I tend to be curious for
sunset and silhouettes, looking for not only the sunny side of the street cause she is the only
one I got and easy streets are not for me and coffee comes into the taste of 10 years of
isolation and Chomsky recognized how touching a poem of mine, at the time after her wife
passed away. Now I give information like thick beats with details in my memory and the drums
may sound speedy but the eyes will be good for the ringing sounds of the international
conspiracy of not want to know what is unknown like pleasure is found in the outskirts if this
answer is out of the touch, so my avenue has a picnic near the small river where I wait in my
sanctuary called thinking and yes you can find me and the rest is the best…
Under the orange sky and the silver word bought into the day as he takes his electric thoughts
charges into the vacuum and we humans in soul ask for silence as the body for a delicate
whisper when the nest where we grow gets sweet lessons on a little way, the one that brings
truth for the eyes and overseas when reaching the shore for the anti world new order ad and
the moon is a precious weapon to seed light to the anti touristic nomads which build dreams
and also seed maybe in Dax where I saw a woman dressed in black and as you know the black
runs deep, but the woman felt observed by me but kept safe and proud of her beauty, and me I
was writing furiously for the journey from Düsseldorf where Mr. Matos gave me cigarettes and
the German old man hug me, the Italian told that his girlfriend was the sky and with the smoke
I could see Almeria once again as poetry and like Greenpeace they don’t save the world but
keep the shining freedom alive, so alive, my beautiful friend, best friend in the world, then
comes summer and you swim in the sea or inside me…
While summer and the bass lines marry younger than private thoughts which again have
chosen to feel rather to consume so please don’t complain when you met me cause I held your
hands and both of us in this silver worded spring when life is deeper than absurd if you think of
course why people die in their living rooms talking about gossips and my jokes are quiet funny
and nothing can take me from my choice to be free on my independent thinker condition even
if the seventh dream of a teenage heaven has open holes in your feelings, yeah we meant
what you were and I’m in touch with my moon’s nest which is the true spirit of my ego, my
generous heart and a screaming soul, yes Sophie, I am a fighter, said the soldier to the mean
emperor who learn how to make the good with the teachings/examples of an humble man, in
my words made of stardust remedy.
I am looking for a way around in a divine measure so I can bang and hanging on the hangar
with my breathing condition straighten for the Pedro Miguel Pauleta kick and I could yes I
know I could defend from his mighty kick and take his eyes where my hands turn the rust from
the fire when the organic measure of daddy who is all alone in Brazil and baby tell me what
should do with your white soul where like Camus felt when he was a goal keeper and you at
night tell me stories about things that I have never heard and you cool my desire of blasting
the defamation of my existence which I shall fight with all my strengths so the wind, the snow,
the cold temperament of the Portuguese will be out of existence and again quitting when they
look in emptiness for my twin eyes and please my job is to make people think and not to drive
a Porche so stay away cause I am a friend… compañero, dear beloved Peter Falk (shaking
hands) and the times oh The Times, I have no time for Times and the tiger in Argentina keeps
fighting and the band played Waltzing Matilda… and where do the children go?
Picture this rusty scratching in force under the blankets filling the skin and following a walk in
the sun, ready to rebuild reality by the maestro performance with empty pockets and a gentle
heart into this prophecy oh the hair and skin, cause they might feel the coiffeur or the palm of
time in the magic hall somewhere in our lives which are on the edge of something dear Sophie
and so to all the women I have seen, like Fred Astaire when he danced it seemed like paradise
and your not here, you smile in funny little ways oh Shane that shot by your poems just like the
first folk sound accepting the fireworks of the castle cards once fallen and yes shot but
Comanche was there and the hero wound failed to comply to look the calm spirit on his soul as
white as snow, or the perfect kiss somewhere in this invisible touch cause I am just looking for
hope when the hope is me.
My anxious eyes and serious thoughts turn rhetoric into the use of every personal dream for
an almighty crying word spellbound and your face seems so happy, oh the waiting, yes the
waiting and my lungs generate precious beats at the time of our refrain so frankly speaking, I
do care for wisdom and not the material use of my rhetoric words which composes sweet
souvenirs when you try to sleep and dear friends, I watch the world tumbling down but I watch
like the duel between the giant butterfly session and my condition of staying when I want to
leave Portugal and I talk to the filth and not the aggressive fist fury that my search patrol has
to go for, with sugar and cigarettes, while far from here it seems so much more to be back to
the new dawn fate, very close to the somehow hardest way of tasting the academic life of me
and she with her switchblade and her speed, calls me, yes I hear her calling, following polish
silver poetry by my first time married with hell, which has become the biscuit baked on my
basis, which is my personal heaven, which fights war and not wars with thoughts.
Death of an author, an interesting comic story from the 80’s where a man looks for an author
already dead and finds him alive and dies with him, both were authors… The memory grows by
events and the glory called the center of the woman, so the wanting of love became an
addiction, being inside the living story which answers by voice and untied tongues on every
edge of a little devil, going deeper and wondering why we are similar when we break the car
for the insects to pass and in Liverpool, Ian Rush scored Manuel Galrinho Bento, and my cousin
said we lost and so his English team is Liverpool, cause only a giant team could win Benfica and
the light focusing the eyes of Bento were fatal to us. Now comes erogenous feelings thinking of
Zofia while Louise Brooks appears to explain Zofia my relation with muses, they were Laura in
1987, Lígia Soares in 1997, Patrícia Guerreiro in 1999 and Mafalda Nascimento in 2002, so my
poems stopped in 2005 so that I could write as an author whos life is not taken seriously and
the cuts turn the wounds licking into an journey inside for heart to prepare his delicate senses
and the writing as I understand writing as the beating of a rhythm so potent as giving birth to
the light that allows Bento to be reborn into life for my delight as a child and all the stars
replace his courage and turn the Stadium of the Light one dangerous creation, called hell but
still it’s a long way with deaths and births and these “saudades” that swim so far away from
me and all I can do is to wait and listen to the silence, dear author.
To the legacy of who knows the visit of our own signs that walk in time and the lives are
moving as I could count cats or clouds and to the green eyes as they see and amused with the
peaceful microsphere around the body of this place and for the pearl dew drop for tomorrow
and for now it is still time to go further on our nakedness in every calm valley seen by the
train’s window and the guitars balanced into the surface of the sand where after the highway
of your dress, I rise and shiver with a psycho doorway to think of the welcome place of your
heart and now there is space and time to think over and our dances don’t forget what was the
spirit of love after a decade of being in touch and just like the first time I was inside you and
far, far from this logical routine when we were this little tune played with my favorite world of
independent vision is perfect to feel with you.
Today I follow my windy skull into the reliable pirate’s rebellion for other world that twists and
spins like being the only of many world’s and my German glasses needed this May fire for the
wonderland of what she prays while she sleeps with a little sonata on every rain street she has
passed and if I should fall from grace with god, then the carrying of the piano into the woods, a
kind of innocence kept alive among little creatures and we all have our day and then we pay
and pay, like a dog kicked for being silent in his primitive scream so not reachable for human
sensibility and yes dogs can keep secrets like all flashes in the night where you run for cover
and on the meadow where the angels will receive me as a poet creature with flowers and my
blood makes noise but we belong to freedom, we should go and follow our skull for the land
where our nature can breathe like every living song and rocking upon the waves (don’t worry
son I am here)…
It went smoothly that heart on the meadow when the rabbit looked at me, the colors had a
road and for us a certain fun, we were crossing the excitement, me and the skinny blonde girl. I
told her jokes, she drove me in the van, I bought her chocolate, she smiled and wave a
goodbye for that road and stood in the street telling me secrets with a cigarette and my calm
way of talking to her and to whom I told stories of the unknown and there was no fall but a
rising life, up on the lips, up on her hairs then clumsily the cigarette fell down on her bra and
she opened it to my delight and we touched in the eye by those little tender breasts where the
erected nipples were in my lips and nowhere could we go again than inside of our bodies with
the rain and some tasty scent in locomotive motion of the mystery gathered in green eyes and
a slow motion of the tenderness. Near the botanical garden we continued with the flowers
inside our scent, a blonde silvered hair with a chemical kissing and in touch with the release
from the electric charge on the excitement of a day gone by were a kind of fire by the desire
blowing substance of both.
For the love you must junk the junk and let run the elements of sexuality in a good shape by
walking hand in hand with the aim of trust and hold pleasure so that the open faith in the
kindness takes place in our egos and above the spoken tradition time after time. To meet
people who you recognize power and independent soul as vulnerability and health problems,
young or old, the cradle is the same when we meet them inside us and far from common
sense, cause what it was good before, now is not anymore but some things are, so the learning
by patient research of what brings something to the world. For example, going to the cinema,
reading novels, newspapers, watching TV, culture events, all of these don’t bring nothing cause
the passive consequence of the spectator is the egoistic happiness from those who fill their
pockets with money from institutions and so the concept of artist is not valid cause it junks the
love and it sucks the crowd into a controlled behavior and this puppet show is dangerous for
those who gave their blood for what is valid and consequent, who cared for the outsiders and
with a careful hand, support them with will power and united by the flames of all wideness
present in the eyes of our horizon and you may want to feel more and you can, cause every
person shines in their best deepness. Hidden empires lived for centuries and the breaking act
with that comes from the dancing kisses, the naked visibility of our paradises that are our
natural resources like to travel 3000km and help 4 or 5 people, this I have made, cause the
mind works spontaneous when sees the invisible eyes on the hidden curves of the spine, it
goes directly into the arms of the rolling will of giving and this moment is the love as the race
has tempo to play the attention in the calendar of the free days in the successful magic of
ruling the close trust, share, feel, taste, act, spread and going where no one has gone before,
that is to choose more than we know rather than to repeat, this is my concept of the
independent.
The spirit’s struggle for an equal health between the legacy of history and the seeding of
ideas, in order to attend peace like the quiet lake waters are felt in the body as integration into
the nature. To discuss about relations in a neutral way by following an open desire for truth
that the result gives humankind a new measure of social organization in open societies that
would live longer in their structures while organized with a responsible stream of knowledge
among all the generations. Attending all that is lived and felt, to care by analysis of the events
in order to clear more the organization of the fed spirit and the nature by a good honored
heart. Think of the body as an electric pulsating energy and to certify that the aim is to seek for
the natural laws of life, the origins of every thought, instinct, to talk without fear coming from
authoritarian structures, cause a well being body spirit, fights and cares for the all and the
bright side of the character when he smiles in every human discharge of his primitive truth. All
the energy floats and nature can be grateful to the effort of men, women and children united
for this neutral reunion for future and to unblock the rigid tendencies in the world of ideas and
stop in time to gather the world’s infancy on the new age of this calm and peaceful shape of
the living body spirit between humans among nature and the universe. The world stops and
then after all discussions without money structures, humans can relax for the healthy fitness of
the independent society and celebration would have a real meaning out of the organized
festivities. Like spontaneity and sexual feelings they are to be lived without the idea of
possessing someone or something. These struggles take much courage, and the engine of this
statement is a pure demand for a generous opening for the future, to find peace and joy
where there was emptiness, then life would be of our own responsibility in the understanding
towards love that is in a free and respectful way of feeling intimacy in every life sign.
I was in a small river covered with a little forest and crossed a little wooden bridge, I felt so
delicate in that moment, like a virgin boy who lived in a secret world to everybody, my hands
were calm, my eyes were involved in the trees and in the shadows. Like the prince from a story
from Dostoievski. In 1997 I was in Galicia and played with the children for a while in a small
village.
Today I discovered what it means for me to be free, it’s my way of perceiving life in a secret
and solitaire discoveries of what I am going trough. It’s a very sensitive nature and like the
Unicorns I also in my writings like to feel aesthetically beautiful and to work under this
appearance and of course out from being alone, I seek for people and I had intense stories as
sad stories and now I trace them to order my present life.
So free as receiving rain under a black umbrella as today’s day of Lisbon, the population act
irrational for the benefit of social control and youth is the hands of the government list and
these people younger or older gather together to combine their psycho empty lives as a result
of the tragic fantasy ideas of being like brave navigators but the truth is nowadays that
Portugal lives with the dilemma of being isolated from every free spirit because they by any
means don’t want to understand the historical reasons of the hard social conflicts which are
not comfortable to deal with, so they drink, they get drunk, then fall down, no problem for
who laughs in their political arm chair.
Tourism is a social plague, cause by serving capitalism and spreading a private dominium of an
illusion of power where should be an interracial sharing of the world social worries for future,
as all governments want to destroy and to kill people and nature, so tourists of the world
please try not to travel outside from what it kills humans and animals and find yourself inside
your inner life and fight back your childish behavior or the mother of stupidity that is the worst
role of your not ashamed behavior game and would be much more natural to interact by free
choice and not organized trips by institutions or travel agencies, cause the sense of adventure
is like freedom, so it’s up to you, not to me or the Washington Bullets on your TV and the
minutes are strong if forwarded into songs of freedom and not by a sick commercial sexual
emancipation, so stand aside into the part of dignity cause is what it rests from values on some
humans and think, cause
you can stop your tempo and write, seed, create.
She’s been working for the genitals dancing original statement and following people on their
honey behaving and inviting them to be caught for the master chemical love tenderness. To go
into a higher ground where trunks and ideas rise as we hide an egg in the land for a thousand
years. The eyes of a storm on every soluble conflict by being a distinct person on every orange
word compelled to set free what is the mighty nudity of the mind.
All nights where the lights show the Mongolian attitudes and give back to the holly nature, the
culture of a calm desire musically going further on the territory of falling in love, because
emptiness lives on boredom coming from capitalism. To exist in a free land is so obvious that
humans come to see what exists on your bank account, so they can have the shit they get
through enlarging their disability to pop on truth and I rely on a laugh to shake my way of
taking aggressions in a lucidity just before my last number on someone’s chest is my
warmness. And the future would have existed in Portugal if the agriculture spell bound existed
to save the egg from being found on the producing of loving without the fascists everywhere
out of your mind control, but I had given my love and attended many souls as starving and
helpless people, so my work here is far from a lot, so the corn field is like a song, so bye and
pack this sick language from her stinky emotional condition in the dark suburbs of my archery
eyes who watch for the real effect on a new spiritual appetite, so in the name of a reasonably
celebration goodbye, is to have experienced what this little rectangle world called Portugal, in
my case, has faced with my poetic acts. It was the negation, so death tears us apart from life.
The way you figure my fly up in the kingdom of melodies where for fun we get stoned with
songs from the inside and you know where loving goes dear crystal when you drove all trough
the beginning of a candy biscuit by the side of the road in which we sat inside a shack for the
avenue of speaking tongues that could play their best and it would be like to know what we
endured for safety modes of coping with codes and emotions somehow new on our middle
age bodies that crossed desert and dry rain and now they add into the map a new condition of
curled steamy hair, cause skulls think aside the docks and the doorway to the best sense for
novelties is to keep seeking and evolving in between the grow and even flying we go slow as
fast we could dance and nights of white bodies in sexuality made of marble and my stone
keeps the country side condition alive in my veins as I am on her veins and stones and flowers
they show genetic commutations but the fertile area is kept open like our minds and we
decided to have the challenge so that the weather can report our moods and take heaven into
the house where the snail mail was built is now physically true and the brilliant courageous
shape in real time is the venture in all rhymes and to clap for a soft aim that heats the brave
justice in women and men, on the this night of thinking with music in the work of future for to
save everyone from irrational smiles loading emptiness when the green fields are a shelter for
the waiting in the luxury scent of nature, so much deeper than cars and easy streets and I
could recall the phone call in which we laughed for the mystery tale we created for our own
love entertainment and spiritual rebirth to attend this lure and the ocean has deepness like
stormy and wild figures so true as winter ice and the pink panther sleeps to find the parking
place after the crew acted free.
The property of creation is the free original freedom across everything that exists as a living
creature and to be engaged with time and work with a well to do future where the life
structures are based on the substance of free love choice in accepting any teachings or cases
we pass for and the lapidated function of thinking which is the role I attend to call out to the
political and social awareness of an human dignity achieved within our idiosyncrasy.
The directions of creation attract a reflex in a variety of memories as a result of the initial birth
test in adults effects on their rigid ageism and where humans cannot due to morality to
interact freely with others and these global tumors provide a permanent sick dream so alive as
the paradox of himself not to be known, we can see the atmosphere of thinking or feeling her
in a way that to walk and travel without prejudice of our inner aesthetics by communicating
the strong voice that often are moving life stories with no bureau to understand them neither
in the streets, so this attack on freedom bans a true exchange of feelings, left alone in the
vacuum and people suffer from this criminal content of the creative act coming from the
principle element of the invisible inside that are the infinite ways to understand why history on
memory is kept in danger from reality and verified in every day dialog out from what you see
as normal and to be in other danger when I tell about my nature and I am attacked with the
irrational troops of frozen minds because the thinking time is not allowed in the rush for
nothing but nothing could be something if the feelings were taken seriously as the discharge of
what we created. Therefore I defend myself as heritage of all life manifestations, I defend my
love wills, I defend all love free wills and attack who denies them and even in ourselves and
keep my voice somewhere alive on my own vision of the origin of LIFE, LOVE, THINKING.
If I give away from criticizing the thousand tears from the denying of life in modern literature
that is like an immediate fuck rape into the highest star and if I should think for you, then
everything and everybody works like an automatic pain from whom I cannot make an one to
one approach but to let written my right to accept what comes from the inside as a living thing
and to fight against those who let themselves fall in the media market fantasies trap or to be
independent, the choice is yours, the sin is yours not mine, so crucify yourselves and let me
produce my human feelings that don’t need more junk if real love could speak louder than
bombs, chose and take the world on my honey trip, it’s good so I will be back for you Jack
(Kerouac) and then to climb up on the mountains, to breathe and start moving on till I have my
fun, cause she and me we are mystery and we kill surf city as you kill the poor, the knife is on
both hands, I am ready to listen and to destroy commercial literature like an incinerator that
my bullshit detector allows to set and I will sail away from the Portuguese ape act, the shit
they get and I get high in a libido state of my bungalow body, for you to hold and I am holding
you, precious language of creating life
A magnetic paradox flash for who dares wins, so why are we brought into trial?