FICTION III (black coffee): Crimson X: Molt X

When I saw
Your blood rising manhood
And fast blushing lip biting expression,
Your breathing stomach
And your towered arms on my waist;
When I saw
Your pale soft hairless skin
Next to my exotic haired rougher skin
And all of your corners,
When you taught me the location
Of your every time burning scar,
When I noticed how much warmer you were
And laughed at the care you have for your toe nails,
When I kissed your coffee seasoned lips
And savoured the arts of your tongue,

What I saw
Was the temperature of the room
And the light coming through the window,
It was the sound of the city outside
Our little nest
And the weight of your breath
When I’d let your rest.
It was the pain and happiness of the same life we lead
And shared on that bed,
It was the glue that kept our lives apart
And the red light you put beside us,
The only thing that shone in all that dark.
It was the morning ticket to the late night ride
And the dish I improvised like I always improvise.

But, of all that I saw,
There’s one thing that persists.
It’s the thought of abrupt fall
And sudden flight over hills
Of all the continents.

It was how I didn’t love you
And you were what I know
Will be one of the greatest
Loves of my life.
It was how I didn’t need you
Yet I craved for you with
A freeze induced
Burning chest.

It was how you made me see that
We were nothing. But life was everything.
I could be anything.

Ver

fat talk

sometimes i dress like i dont care for opinions
like im a rebel and a real masculine kinda gay dude
and sometimes i take the time to dress properly
and feel like a french-chic or a cute gay nerd
or maybe not even gay at all
sometimes i dress like not even gay at all
one day each thing, whatever i feel like
and everytime i change styles people go
“hey wow you’re different”
i’m not.
can’t recall a moment when i cared for your mind
and i have always been kinda masculine. i just don’t like soccer.
i live by the french-chic ways and
i’ll always be a sucker for science.
all of this doesn’t happen
i was born with it and it will persist confusing you for eternity.
it’s not like i can’t define myself
or put myself in a box
shit, it’s just that my personality is SO FAT i’d need to chop it to pieces and use tons of boxes. it’s just too much work man
so yes
i am a lot of things
and so are you. yes so are you
and you will realise it once you actually bother to measure your weight

(“pisses”. oh god.)

It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to

may silence be the wordless glory of unexpected fortunate and unfortunate events that happen in the everyday life of a man who sees what there isn’t to see and ignores everything he shouldn’t. may this rainy numb night be the curse of our undeniable fate, our necessary bloom of the coloured riot of spring scents. i’m crying out loud by telling no stories of not unseen me.

home
they say its where someone is missing you
but how do i differentiate the waves crashing
and the wind blowing through the leaves
and grass keeping trot to the horses
or the kingfishers smoothly striking underwater?
how do i know which one misses me most?
the wolves’ howls every moon?
the birds’ sonnets every spring morning?
the skies’ cries during the winter storms?
where is it?
and how do i know, if i know they all miss me,
for i am every same bit of reality as them
and without me
without them
the puzzle is incomplete?

where is home?

FICTION II (black coffee)

i feel you beside me
a vision through the mirror
reflecting of past and
made up futures.

i refuse to gasp
but your lips still touched my neck
and your beard still tickled
my sensitive skin
rough to your sensitive skin.

and in the universe of what never happened
i see a dead world before us
and a dying you to the coming years
fiction, when we’d be far from arms
still reciting your every scar
and kissing our charming scent.

old

The world is so big and I am so small;
Nature is so complex, yet I, so simple;
Time is so slow, but I will die in a minute.

And, so many times, throughout the years I spend years wondering what it’ll be like in five. What have I done? What have I said? What have I seen?
And, always, who will be in my bed? Always the expecting not to be alone, throughout the years spending years not ever being by myself, at least in my mind.

And always doing some things while doing nothing,
Always saying some words while not talking,
Always seeing the world while not looking.
All to, then, realize: ”Five years ago wasn’t true,
Just as minute as me and as drifty as the Blue.
I was stuck but I was moving, I was shut but I was shouting.
I am where I was, but I am who I wasn’t.”

And, like that, I grow. Tall. Fat. Bald.
Until one day, when five years is just as minute as me.

Ver

FICTION I (étranger)

stranger who i haven’t met,
dearest who i haven’t felt,
shadow of the twilight
and mist of the dawn
who i haven’t kissed,

my lips seem to be growing affection
to the incredibly poisonous wine
of wandering through you with no direction
and in the eternity of your eyes die

you’re a knife that stabs my heart
if ever i wake up alone
you’re a fire that burns my heart
if ever my sleep is gone

stranger who i haven’t met,
dearest who i haven’t felt,
river of the valley
and trees of the forest
who i haven’t lived,

die in me the ashes of the time
through the years we’ve been burning
until our branches intertwine
and days will pass very slowly

we’re the dust that blinds the vision
of those who only dance alone
and this is a mere story of fiction
for those whose lives are gone

Ver

Dear stranger,

Of all that future holds,

Of all the tear shed rivers flowing,
Of all the tree branches to the wind dancing,
Of all the harmony of birds singing,

Of all the sky-scraping buildings far above,
Of all the heads locked in the flying white dove,
Of all the trains I’ll be coming out of,

Of all the heart-stabbing horrifying crime,
Of all the skies where stars don’t align
And the never ending bottles pouring wine,

What I see and what I hear,
What I desire and what I fear
Is mostly you, stranger dear.

Ver

holder of infinite darkness
house of lightless windows
that come as your eyes
fields of crying jazz,

pity me, I need the warmth of your chaos
I strive to melt to your melancholic voice
carry me, I need the winds of your breath
one minute my heart stops, the other it raves to death

curieux. étranger.

Been having trouble sleeping without your breath
Warm, down my neck.
Without your slower heartbeat
When, finally, I could let you rest.

I go completely insane
Have you kiss my skin
Oh, to simply have you touch my skin
And tear sweat like pouring rain.

But, my silk haired dear darling
I miss raving to your raving
When you lost yourself inside of me
Unveiled so many hypotheses
To what the world could be.

Then, I was Rodrigo and I was Ver.

I almost regret reading these amazing books, watching these real and creative shows that last a decade. They become my daily need. Watching the words run along the tracks and the stories evolve between the laughs, I become warmly attached to these particular worlds. Then, they devastate when they fall and make me hit the ground, with a quick, silent, dry slap. It’s over. None of it was ever real.
Yet, somehow, my life won’t ever be the same.

“hmmmmmmmmm…
The sun… the light…”
he thought as I dropped
parts of mine through sweat
and heavy bones dragging
through the like desert streets

but, always that
“hmmmmmmmmmm…
the summer… the pleasure…
the restful nothing all day long”
and always me feeling down
and useless.
summer things grow too quickly
and die too soon
summer things live so freely
and erase meaning from the blue

yet again that
“hmmmmmmmmmm…
the summer.”
as I try to enjoy everything off it
that doesn’t go its lazy ways.

Ver

The last page of my diary

I have always loved the big things. I have always admired the strong spirits.
I cannot remember a day before being amazed, as I looked up to the infinite skies. I cannot recall one conversation before promising that one day I would travel everywhere there is to visit.
I have always loved the incredible mathematical stand-up comedy. I have always admired the complexity of my own hand and how it meant nothing, compared to my father’s (and how his meant nothing, compared to the glittering stars in the sparkling night — I have always dreamed only of glittery horizons and infinite roads).
Oh, I have always gotten hurtful cramps from laughing at the cold ocean bathing me, under the hellish sun. I could only rest under the cozy blankets and warm socks of the frozen Christmas white lights — which have been the same every year.
But, oh, always the years. Always the years.
Always the same joy and the same wonder.
Always wondering if there will ever be other reality to wonder about.
Always wondering if there will ever be other roads to wander through.
Oh, always the years, undressing myself in front of a mirror and never looking different, yet never being the same. Always, wanting more to wonder more.

— Virgin eyes! — I shouted. “Virgin eyes!” I shout.

The Concept

Only closing my eyes
And seeing every detail
Of a world under disguise.

Only losing myself in the rain
And hearing the white noise
Of every sky crossing plane.

Nothing but to lose myself
In the touch of skin built upon
Ages of lived through star stuff.

Never thinking too much
About what it all means,
Every time I look far above.

Ver