Nighthawks

Este quadro do Hopper dá-me vontade de escrever. Escrever um argumento sobre aquelas personagens. Aquela noite. Aquela hora. Aquele lugar. Sempre quis saber quem eram e a razão de me sentir tão próximo de tudo aquilo. Daquele momento de definição do mistério da condição humana. Então, como o voyeur no escuro da rua, limitei-me a acender um cigarro e a inventar as suas histórias.

Nighthawks

She's almost young,
limping on beautiful
(with one's intoxication),
a parenthesis hanging
somehow on a jolted wink,
as if when you savor
her vanilla layer
flesh would peal off.

Like an old docked "Liberty Ship"
excavating through excrements
to reach something
that barely resembles divinity.

It's chess but no check, mate
in the space between our stare
this is nobody/that is my whore.

She knows what i'm thinking,
she has seen it previously,
So she knows yes she knows
that i rather raise a brawl
than steal her kisses,
that my gallon drunk haze,
tilting on a fjord
of a Viking smile [an attempt],
too distorted to be real,
is past due to knit
a cozy libido.

Chipped nails to mirror
the heart's scatology,
the heart that recoils
into shell,
"turtle strategy too crude for chess."
[Sun Tzu knows the Heart of War]

All we are is post-after-past-something
on a Edward Hopper painting,
A lonesome lonely loneliness
And a yellow cat light,
lazily humming to clothe
wooden edges, chrome chins
And the smell of after-hours
Stale boredom.