London Calling

Estou em Londres a escrever num teclado QWERTY. Estes malditos anglo-saxonicos esconderam-me os sinais e agora escrevo com sabor a cozinha inglesa, quase sem tempero. Aqui num dia faz sol e esta calor, no outro chove. Ando sem mochila e nao falo "brazilian" para nao haver azares. Esta vista de St. Paul's e da Millenium Bridge pode ser disfrutada do restaurante da Tate Modern. Cup uv tea anyone? Cheers.

Fly-King

Moth desire bigger than life, pinning. Glowing head on flying Super Nova (have you ever seen such a thing?). I swear them books send out a high voltage. Heart of Gin jumping out the window. All fever-fever brothel brewed scent consuming insects. He, Fly-King on his back, falling. She, pornographic-shootingstar spiting shirt and shoes (can you believe it?). Barking nightmare on American Dream. He suffers for her… "Kiss-it-strong-kiss-inside-her-whole-come-to-me-concubine!” She suffering for him, “Inside-her-whole-of-him-imense-penetrating-art-thou-angel-face-Romeo!”. Fly-King exhibits drowned wings on feverish mouths and a river all of his own. Instant combustion. Head burning. I’m not sure but these walls seem to collapse into fissures of 1000 undressing girls. Blood relieved dresses praying: He never no more himself ready for resurrection. She forever always herself Salome. Amen.

Hard Pulp

Bed sheets will move before sunrise. Hands upon multiple desires that even so have not killed her. Insecure by reason, questioning why she was there, she asked perception why the room had lost its entire original colour.

That made her retreat. The room was rapidly getting old as the sun set. Yet it continued to fool around in the same spot of her childhood playground.

She continued to smile, looking at the teaching commercials. She noticed that her snow carrying shoes paved foreign cemeteries. It reminded her how her parents rarely touched her, due to her inability to love.

She wandered in her pocket, where she usually kept her conscience, and realized that the blade was sharp. The night was cursed and the cold air that cut her face waited for the moment when cowardice would strike.

She had descended awhile ago in an entirely strange town. At the bus stop, she slashed little bits of paper that reminded her of the time when sisters chopped little heads off paper people figures.

There was an imposing dialogue…

Cellophane Voodoo

A man enters a modern building. Begets two wombs kills three dogs. Ill timed, digs up arrested spit from the floor.

There are shards of whiskey gulping the incidents lifeless body. Swallowed dammed absinth worm, searching for the female - La femme est morte - “Hello? Police? The woman is dead.”

The night is long. I know you are a strange boy. The Pope’s blood blinds your eyes.

Canine dolls pass as whores. Intention is not a woman with virgin dirty looks. Head on the ground. Thick as carpet. The rain comes down like pork chops. Forget the love/hate side of Nature. Nothing but friendly ghosts desire to possess you.

Two Stories

Visalia

The family quota, just so, a low mass but not mother. Just teeth! Wholly one… An odor of four excessive and irritant pills. Writing to see the total purity.

A car. An infantry sergeant, Mr. Peartree suffered terribly for he owned sundays, a family, a house and an American slammed license plate.

Employee three times a day. Very good! Beholding 1965-1969, paper and cardboard. Father was enough.

Books of excessive classic. Vehicle type Ford. The rest of the workdays with the way to a foreign woman. Wild Strawberries. Clean, recycled, that left him having acquired aesthetic German calligraphy of dangerous worries. That left him in the road. Instantaneous. Finding himself synonym to 0.

She still pleased, violated by his…For him. They are exemplary death. Mother isn’t used anymore. Too demanding and physical. Leading impossibility lying down. Father was sunday overtaken, weight to machine, fat, desperate of always.


Goldfish-Glass

Except when decided, extremely exemplary, she’s spiritually puerile. Above, with her, as always, a child, a penis and office occupied by a disarmed more.

It was one. They had weekend business. She was fat. Acne vainly posed, today a line empty of him. Nurturing opposed, energetic and aggressive to those North & South.

He led, when young, a pleasant mind. Therefore he was like father, in the business of doing like.

Voando Sobre Um Ninho de Cacos

Está confirmado. Passaram-me o atestado. Já me tinham dito, outros já tinham pensado mas nunca afirmado, havia uns que já tinham sussurrado a outros mas nunca me tinham dito, mas nunca tinha sido realmente confirmado.

Fui a mais uma consulta no hospital cá do sítio para ver se a maleita e os maus humores estavam debelados. Desta vez cheguei cedo para evitar confusões e fui atendido tarde devido a confusões.

Três horas depois fui chamado ao gabinete 4 mas não estava lá ninguém. Perguntei a uns velhotes que estavam no corredor qual era o gabinete que estava a atender os pacientes e aquilo começou a parecer O Gato Fedorento. - Pr'o gabinete 4, portantos, xegue, xegue, xegue, num bira... - Ok, obrigado. - Pergunto ao médico que estava no gabinete 7, ele pergunta-me o nome, eu digo, ele levanta-se, dirige-se à placa no exterior ao lado da porta e exclama - Então mudaram as placas e não avisaram?! Por isso é que ninguém aparecia! Isto é incrível! - Pois é, e eu já vi o sketch.

Saldo da consulta. As análises e os exames revelaram que o corpo está, salvo um niquinho de colestrol, em ponto de rebuçado. O enigma encontra-se algures no ninho de cacos que é a minha caixa craneo-encefálica.

a)Estou com 80kg, vou ter que consultar um nutricionista e fazer dieta. Lá vou eu ruminar que nem um bezerro.

b)Vou ter que frequentar um grupo de controlo de ansiedade. Uma equipa de psiquiatria do Miguel Bombarda aguarda a minha visita. Nem sabem o que os espera.

A minha mãe é que tem razão quando me diz - Ó filho, come uma peça de fruta que isso passa.