postless

song of the rats leaving the sinking ship *



quando eu morrer
haverá um festim

um a um
comerão os ratos
os ossos
os restos

da minha ausência.














-------------------------------------
* American Music Club

the mood:


We are two mariners
Our ships' sole survivors
In this belly of a whale

Its ribs are ceiling beams
Its guts are carpeting
I guess we have some time to kill

You may not remember me
I was a child of three
And you, a lad of eighteen

But I remember you
And I will relate to you
How our histories interweave

At the time you were
A rake and a roustabout
Spending all your money
On the whores and hounds
Oh Ohhhhh

You had a charming air
All cheap and debonair
My widowed mother found so sweet

And so she took you in
Her sheets still warm with him
Now filled with filth and foul disease

As time wore on you proved
A debt-ridden drunken mess
Leaving my mother
A poor consumptive wretch
Oh Ohhhhh

And then you disappeared
Your gambling arrears
The only thing you left behind

And then the magistrate
Reclaimed our small estate
And my poor mother lost her mind

Then one day, in spring
My dear sweet mother died
But before she did
I took her hand as she, dying, cried:
Oh Ohhhhh

"Find him, bind him
Tie him to a pole and break
His fingers to splinters
Drag him to a hole until he
Wakes up naked
Clawing at the ceiling
Of his grave
*sigh*"

It took me fifteen years
To swallow all my tears
Among the urchins in the street

Until a priory
Took pity and hired me
To keep their vestry nice and neat

But never once in the employ
Of these holy men
Did I ever, once, turn my mind
From the thought of revenge
Oh Ohhhhh

One night I overheard
The prior exchanging words
With a penitent whaler from the sea

The captain of his ship
Who matched you toe to tip
Was known for a wanton cruelty

The following day
I shipped to sea
With a privateer

And in the whistle
Of the wind
I could almost hear...
Oh Ohhhhh

"Find him, bind him
Tie him to a pole and break
His fingers to splinters
Drag him to a hole until he
Wakes up naked
Clawing at the ceiling
Of his grave

"There is one thing I must say to you
As you sail across the sea
Always, your mother will watch over you
As you avenge this wicked deed"

[haunting, sailor-esque musical interlude lead by mandolin, accordion and tuba]

And then that fateful night
We had you in our sight
After twenty months at sea

Your starboard flank abeam
I was getting my muskets clean
When came this rumbling from beneath

The ocean shook
The sky went black
And the captain quailed

And before us grew
The angry jaws
Of a giant whale

[instrumental noise]
oh ohhhhhhhhhh
[screaming]
ohhhhh
[screaming]

Don't know how I survived
The crew all was chewed alive
I must have slipped between his teeth

But, oh! What providence!
What divine intelligence!
That you should survive
As well as me

It gives my heart
Great joy
To see your eyes fill with fear

So lean in close
And I will whisper
The last words you'll hear
Ohh Ohhhhh


The Decemberists | The Mariner's Revenge Song

change your taste in men *




tantos anos de tentativas de compreender as pessoas, e afinal é isto.






© www.garfield.com







---------------------------------
* Placebo

the mood


o melhor conselho que já recebi foi "tens que ensinar essa pele a usar a cabeça". há aprendizagens difíceis. há bocados de pele que doem a cada manhã, feridos pela nudez da primeira luz. e não aprendo:



no it's not going to stop
til you wise up

Aimee Mann | Wise Up (Magnolia OST)

current mood:





people look up. and when it rains, it pours.
(you're the night, Lilah)

já anda por aí o nº 8 da Águas Furtadas. não a deixem passar ao lado.
com poemas de Affonso Romano de Sant'Anna, Margarida Ferra e João Luís Barreto Guimarães, inclui também uma tradução inédita de "The Book of Ahania", de William Blake, da responsabilidade de Manuel Portela, e as primeiras traduções para português da poeta iraniana Forugh Farrokhzad e do poeta de língua ladina Moshe Ha-Elion. contos de Paulinho Assunção, Valério Romão, António Tavares Lopes e a estreia surpreendente de um jovem promissor: Lourenço Bray. uma peça de teatro inédita de Regina Guimarães e Saguenail e um extraordinário ensaio de Jorge Mantas sobre Marcel
Proust. isto tudo para além de múltiplos trabalhos em diferentes áreas das artes visuais e ainda um CD com obras de compositores portugueses contemporâneos. a não perder.




para mais informações sobre a distribuição da revista, contactar o Rui Amaral.

driving down the pitch black road *



sábado. são três da manhã, a estrada sem ninguém, Svefn-g-englar a atravessar-me como uma flor de estiletes, dói-me a noite inteira, e sei apenas que não queria regressar a casa.












____________________________
* Morphine

(...).


quando não estás, fumo cigarros, na falta de outros gestos.

oh boy oh boy oh boy (bugger! bugger! bugger!)


We went out one night
Everything went right
We got something started
It was outta sight
We had such a good time
Hey! Why didn't you call me?
I thought I'd see you again

Bt the phone I wait
String into space
Thinking about our first kiss
Out on our first date
We had such a good time
Hey! Why didn't you call me?
I thought I'd see you again

Why don't you call me again?
And I'm gonna ask
When I see you again
Thought you would be my man my lover my friend
I never thought it would end so quickly
It would end

I've resorted to
Hanging up on you
I know you know it's me
How else will I talk to you
We had such a good time
Hey! Why didn't you call me?
I thought I'd see you again

Why don't you call me again?
And I'm gonna ask
When I see you again
Thought you would be my man my lover my friend
I never thought it would end so quickly
We had such a good time
Hey! Why didn't you call me?
I thought I'd see you
I thought I'd see you
I thought I'd see you again


Macy Gray | Why didn't you call me



:)

(...)







(quando não ligas, jogo Diamond Mine toda a noite.)

In the mood for love







yes, I am.

novas resoluções
consumir em conjunto com:



Procelária

É vista quando há vento e grande vaga
Ela faz o ninho no rolar da fúria
E voa firme e certa como bala

As suas asas empresta à tempestade
Quando os leões do mar rugem nas grutas
Sobre os abismos passa e vai em frente

Ela não busca a rocha o cabo o cais
Mas faz da insegurança a sua força
E do risco de morrer seu alimento

Por isso me parece a imagem justa
Para quem vive e canta no mau tempo.

Sophia de Mello Breyner Andresen



+



Echoes

Overhead the albatross hangs motionless upon the air
And deep beneath the rolling waves in labyrinths of coral caves
The echo of a distant tide
Comes willowing across the sand
And everything is green and submarine
And no one showed us to the land
And no one knows the wheres or whys
But something stirs and
Something tries
And starts to climb towards the light
Strangers passing in the street
By chance two separate glances meet
And I am you and what I see is me
And do I take you by the hand
And lead you through the land
And help me understand the best I can
And no one calls us to the land
And no one crosses there alive
And no one speaks
And no one tries
And no one flies around the sun
And now this is the day you fall
Upon my waking eyes
Inviting and inciting me to rise
And through the window in the wall
Comes streamin in on sunlight wings
A million bright ambassadors of morning
And no one sings me lullabies
And no one makes me close my eyes
So I throw the windows wide
And call to you across the sky.

Pink Floyd

a intacta ferida


a noite
é uma pedra negra
o peito aberto
uma estrada
que ninguém trilha

think of me as place














© lbs | 2005

~


és tu a manhã

a penumbra diluída
junto às portas
porque é sempre excessiva
a primeira luz
dentro do quarto.


os corpos conhecem
os contornos silenciosos
das paredes

e um outro nome me chama
onde tu não estás


bastante é só
a certeza
de que um braço me acharia
acaso me demorasse
no meio das sombras
mais que meia-hora.

###



hoje é um dia reservado ao veneno
e às pequeninas coisas *


como os objectos que habitam
os lugares marginais do chão
as beatas e as pedras
a lama e os passos
ou um bilhete
que cai de um bolso
distraído
porque as palavras
já não valem
a pena.






* versos de António José Forte

1 de janeiro de 2006



[7h00]



receber assim o ano novo, ainda tão despreparada para a luz.




.....................................................................


«Uma lentidão, uma calma, uma quase indolência parece misturar-se ou acolher-se, como matéria comum, nas folhas das árvores, na neblina que a manhã faz subir do interior da terra, no azul das águas e no azul do céu. Depois da vertigem do período festivo, que alguns livros dizem ser de recolhimento e reflexão mas que, na prática, é feito sobretudo de velocidade e vertigem, é como se tudo regressasse por algum tempo ao que sempre ambicionámos: a essa lentidão que nos aproxima das coisas simples do mundo, as únicas.»

© jcb

absolut disappointment:







the contradiction
of what I expected you to be
and what
you really
are.












holding on to new year's revolutions.

enquanto isso


enquanto ganho novamente estômago para os filhos da puta, lá me convenci a inserir o sistema de comentários do Blogger. dentro em breve, portanto, o sistema do BackBlog será removido. os comentários deixados até aqui não serão eliminados, apenas deixarão de estar visíveis.

constatação e resolução de ano novo


voltamos sempre aos mesmos lugares do medo. nunca mais festejo nada num lugar de onde não possa vir-me embora a meio.


...


There comes a time when you swim or sink
So I jumped in the drink
Cuz I couldn't make myself clear

Maybe I wrote in invisible ink
Oh I've tried to think
How I could have made it appear

But another illustration is wasted
Cuz the results are the same
I feel like a ghost who's trying to move your hands
over some ouija board in the hopes I can spell out my name

What some take for magic at first glance
Is just sleight of hand depending on what you believe
Something gets lost when you translate
It's hard to keep straight
Perspective is everything

And I know now which is which and what angle I oughta look at it from
I suppose I should be happy to be misread
Better be that than some of the other things I have become

But nobody wants to hear this tale
The plot is clichéd, the jokes are stale
And baby we've all heard it all before
Oh I could get specific but
Nobody needs a catalog
With details of love I can't sell anymore

And aside from that, this chain of reaction,
baby, is losing a link
Though I'd hope you'd know what I tried to tell you
And if you don't I could draw you a picture in invisible ink

But nobody wants to hear this tale
The plot is clichéd, the jokes are stale
And baby we've all heard it all before
Oh I could get specific but
Nobody needs a catalog
With details of love I can't sell anymore

Aimee Mann | Invisible Ink

people are tricky, you can't afford to show
anything risky, anything they don't know
the moment you try, you kiss it goodbye