Canto do CAN

O cheiro de velas permeia o ar. Velas que ardem e velas expiradas, cujo fumo corre, solto pelo ar. Sobre a mesa, um copo de vinho meio consumido, cartas soltas e uma caneta que nunca voltará a escrever. A perspectiva muda, com a leitura do aparente, segredos que mantemos a distância de uma mão, não sei se minha ou de quem se aproxima. Corre o tempo, a leitura que estava na mesa, entrou em pausa. Nem tempo existe para navegar. Nem momento que nos possa vagar. O que aconteceu? Como trazemos essas cartas, demasiado perto, demasiado coladas ao coração? Talvez por medo, talvez por orgulho. Como podemos então saber? Voltamos as folhas, lidamos com as cartas, com a informação velada, com o conhecimento, arcano. Puxar a cadeira, deixar de deambular, olhar para a mesa, puxar o copo, aproximar dos lábios, tomar mais um golo, reconhecer a beleza expressa, num movimento que nos ilude. O aproximar, sorver, saborear… Estender uma mão, torna-se um esforço desmedido, qual alcançar um peso sem fim, que...

Shards of broken glass, tempered, laying wasteful. Solitude, that stares the eye of broken madness, calm is a layman’s term, nothing really ever subsides. Serenity and serendipity, stupidity that mocks in waves, clockwork strikes, sounds of the gavel of symbolic awakening, the dream poses at the entrance, rises like a phoenix, poetic, tragic and asunder. Schematical in nature, philosophical in the past, connected to an eternal sense of disconnection, logging to exist. Source the words, for the words are the meaning and the words have the choice, to give power or enslave, for are we but meaningless truants or rebellious spirits, that dance, boundless, in waves of apathy. Scope the excuse, asking of forgiveness, when guilt is nye existent. Symmetry, obtuse angles, askew views, definition that puzzles, mathematicians will argue for reason, defined, definitive “existence is explained, logic is perfect”. Silence, a sleeplessness that lingers, a void of reason that fails, frivolous, unforgiv...

Sadistic and optimistic, moves that swing, dangled in unison, for book or crook the things that seem wild and futile and serene. Diverge. The path less traveled, the consonance of aspirant, I seek not, for if I seek I shall end sick as such, disregard innocence and please the pleader, painting the walls, the world and the sands. Sailing. Ask, the timelessness that follows, the rumor that pushes the mill, the sound of beating hooves, the square, the triangle, the shapeless forms that try for order, though order is fleeting, a dream that lacks sleep. Consequence. For a fool, a life well lived, is a life set in silence, for a fool never aspires for nothing and sees his achievements written in glee. Inspiration. Of what we know none, for words, the wordless and pens to be dropped, select a pencil, a disarray of insecurity, a crop of scattered images, silence and revolution. Seamless. Seems less, for aspiration, to describe whatnot, a convolution of colossus, a volte-face, singular in prosp...

Drag, along the blade. Sickening dagger of repetition. Like flowers fallen in concrete streets, that carry echoes of laughter past. Shallow is the grave, the keeper digs, zealous to all creation. Scream not in vain but twist the handle. Shackle down yet another soul. Through binds that crave and long. Finished with sick smile, careful approach. Yet the fool yells, screams and taunts. Pulls the mob into a frenzy. Rebel rousing, was never so much fun. Without pause, cause or debate. Jimmy and strafe down the window. Embrace the depth of the embodied. Swing under the moonlight. Stare into the deep. So long as there is a way, should there even be a will? How crass. How feeble. How stupid and mundane. Drown, pulled down by the anchor of despair. Choke, slaved to the laws of living. Puke funneled leis. Constrict on the shadow of opulence. It is rather mundane. Rather sad and sadistic.

Redact the composition. Let the conductor guide with madness for the composer became a poser, jesting out of vanity. Sit. Watch the sunrise, sunset and nightfall, full moon in bloom, while the time passes, kiss away the time. Absconded in uncertainty, match the striding continuity of notes, still the conductor took the wheel, direction is uncommon, mandated to the loony bin. Listen. We push the parlor, get candid and lasting drawings. We fill them. Theme by theme. Inch by inch. Layers of skin. Think. Connect with the disconnected, avoid mundane advice, whilst the sober calls and clamors for madness, let him pass gently into a den of sin. The dance, the damned, the conscripted, the converted, the fallen and saved. A flavor for all, a favor to none. Question. If there is a time to do, it is done and dusted, sealed and planted, without evidence or command. Compassion is a tear that slowly drifts, in slumber, while we crash, flop and fall. … The resolve, the procession, the act that you sh...

Foreclosure. What was spoken, laid in silence, craving existence, followed in lights of old, carried by the young, unwilling and blind. Strip the venue of excitement, clauses follow suit, no issue is left unhandled, for obscure musings, uncertain details, that reveal no information at all. It carries the text of pictures, social media revenue and relevance, which once was fought for, is bought with nameless acts of disconposure, personal disdain, sleepless nights. The undead body that drags the zombie along, morbid in status. And does anyone really care? Stitch the skin, to make a smily face, we tried it before, over and over and over, in continuity of insanity. The struggle follows the flow of ineptitude, the delusion of knowing, knows not no limit nor boundary. A chain and a rattle, them bones that shove you one, are you still breathing? Do you still breed? Expectations are lowered, the gene pool is clearly tainted, the generation that follows has a vague idea of the one that preced...

Only cretins, devoid of feelings, scour land and sea. Search for a nexus of easy fame, of easy fame, disguised with vain attempts at irony. Creation is feeble, bathed in failed veils of madness, for sanity long left the discourse. Discord settles illusion and the tell tale of madness follows the plight for coercion. It all decays. Left with a spiral of ruin, the laughter spins madness and the blind oblige. Brick by brick the stone road is paved in gravel. Meaningless. For certain travel around the course of life, drop the subject of serene disdain. It all spirals and encases the melodrama, getting unraveled. In a sense of lonesomeness, the flight takes place, guided by sonar and visual impairment is in place. No wonder the order wanders for wanderers that copy the flow of what shakes the earth, in the eyes of unsettled dispute. It all, in maddening muddled sway, plunge and escape. Is the time, the time to dock for hours, the time to escape, to clear the rule of thumb, we know of not wh...

 Quem me dera perceber Toda a minha insanidade Todo e qualquer vislumbre da minha doce sanidade que escondo nas sombras. Quem me dera esse vislumbre, de serena insanidade. Por consequência de viver,não sei, não conheço... Não reconheço. Mas por tudo. Abraço o inconsistente.   É toda uma experiência que não sei. Quero, por saber, por conhecer, que um abraço me venha de ti. Que uma noite seja contigo.   Não me chega um beijo contigo. Não me chega uma noite. Não me chega um segredo.   Quero te a ti. Quero o teu murmúrio. Quero o teu domínio e todo o teu ser no teu beijo e no teu devaneio.   Se ainda procuras, eu não sei de ti, Mas por tudo Alguma vez escolhi.   Raro anexo de loucura e sanidade. Tangente dos meus sonhos e realidade obtusa. Anexada a mim...

 Se a mente é uma casa, portas abertas deveria ter. Nos seus confins certos e emparedados, o pensamento deveria correr. Se a mente é clara, segunda e sem fim, certamente que esperaríamos, do amanhecer ao anoitecer, uma segunda via de vida, correctamente sem perceber. Pelas coisas que vamos descrevendo, sempre atentos ao que vai de nós, pela leitura diagonal, coisas que vamos perdendo. Sempre que podemos, sempre que somos, pela forma que vamos vivendo, que vamos passando, que vamos falando, escutando e lutando. Coisas, enfim, que devemos encaixar. Abre-se a porta da casa mental, somos pelos confins dela perdidos, a cada voltar de esquina, somos uma pessoa diferente do que cortou essa esquina. Pela ordem unilateral, de pensamento, de dissociação… Cada escolha aparente, pelo momento, pelo vivente. Abre-se a porta da casa mental, fecham-se as janelas, nem uma aragem parece passar. Sufoco. Não há como respirar, não há como escutar, não há como viver. Coordenação inepta. Se cada palavra ...

Should have brought a writing utensil. Should have drawn all over the tables. Should have sprained all the words, dividing them to new meanings. Should have crashed the sky. Should have sent it all falling down, restraining all sense of causality. Should have fought the waves that crashed. Should have proclaimed the end of the day. Should have embraced fire. Should have danced with sweet embrace. Above all, should have chosen what was wrong, to try out all the steps that make a mountain. Although in perspective, how will I know if my steps have been right? Should have clashed with the clouds, bathing in the falling rain. Should have asked for forgetfulness, as forgiveness is never tame. Then with arms wide crossed, approach the world defenseless, in contrast to expectation. Should have made allied of m my confusion so not to confuse myself in this tiring time. Should have asked for more? No, it makes no sense. Shut your eyes, wide awake, twist again in the high tides of time. Should ha...

Refer to my madness, winter eyes, will you not look beyond as the savage men cried. Secluded in himself, averts his eyes, for all the sunshine cannot be from a brighter smile. Take rude precaution, thread lightly if you will, for in an instance of reason, the train of consequences derailed. Check for pulse, a no resuscitation not lays dangling from his neck torn from head to toe, no more lips or gums to flap. Cut the rope and dangle the line, mast to stern, no captain nor rime. Gaze at the clock both hands are missing, stillness and silence, horror of winter at the door. The look into winter's eyes, for more descriptions to follow, winter in itself, a construct disguise. Shall we look, amazed, lost and dumbfounded, deeply into Winter's eyes? Your sentence, lost for conclusion. Your eyes, stuck to her visage. And with a giggle, a haughty smile, Winter leaves. Weight yourself, take note of more weight at heart. Winter left, left you behind.

Static electricity and static cling. For all left aloof nothing can divide. The mind in its wisdom did try to hide. A slice of science for the untrained eye. Static discharge, shock to the senses. Colliding realities based on lies. Foretold discrepancies asinine bigoted cries. A temporal still, closer to the blind. Static motions, close to home far from the sky. Going down a metal pipe, compressed and diluted. Scary notions, what a life. Erode and decay, stillness declines. Static mind, mental shun. Cramped thoughts and apathetic replies. Disconnection and dissolution. Care to jump in and try? Static notion, voided warranty. Scrambled calls and innuendo filled speeches. Faster backwards, idiotic conclusion. Shutter for silence, statically clinging to static mind.

Run afoot the flame, cold fire in separate horror. Entail, all the stories, confusion and malice, the shock of ages that seems to put off the flame of existence. Bury it, notify next of kin, only to find that nobody came to care, no profit, no loss. Scream, avarice and gluttony. We the distinguished dead, lay to pay entrance, two golden coins. Note however the price has changed. Note that we have come to a standstill. Douse the flame with gasoline, get drunk on napalm. All idiotic, craving down and carving in, the students of self-destruction. Escalate the notion, the war was always our pact. Charge ahead. Cut the countless loses. You never looked back. Canvas overhead, bound and blind innocent. Do you still know someone like that?

The clairvoyance of sorts, that leads down this path of forgottenness. Jump in, follow in suit, you only know the page that needs to be read, alas, not the words that need to be heard. The structure that would lead to the path, to the way to follow, inscribed in blue paper, rebelled and destroyed itself. For consciousness of honor lost, so should the ashamed be forgiven. It matters not. If the sense were indeed left for the sentence, the sentence would gladly be left to be read, but with no one to know where to find it, the words have lost the meaning and the pain is strong and unmourned. I would call for qualms of balance and temperance, for still rhythm and logging passage, to follow, to be on the way, for once lost, we know not how to reclaim. Wake up. Arise. Get ready. Eat. Leave. Enter. Clock in. Eat. Clock out. Return. Ride for self-destruction. Shall it sit in dismay? Reclaim to revive or simply follow the same path, the same pathetic excuses, the unwillingness to re-access the ...

The passing clouds Waves of light and confusion Clamor and childlike delusion. The sounds The festering wounds on the ground The silence. The science that claimed religion Unclaimed the roar of passing leaves Spelled confusion and disbelief. Invisible Lain and put to rest Clocked, loaded and cocked. It is, in reality, all artificial The sight and sounds that confuse The river that must flow to nothingness. Artifacts that are left in the rain Rotten and lost to dismay Ethereal sensation of endless negation. Plastic Unable to be corrupted but re-fabricated Dull and without purpose. Insane and disconnected Left to the world, juxtaposed While the blind man must lead, the deaf scream to follow. It is the situation that you reclaim. It is a chapter written once again. Synthetic, just like you were.

 Do you still feel it? The clawing of hours The horrors laid bare Beneath it all The wars to be held Do you understand it? The insanity put in motion The monsoon of time The wasted knowledge And the mile, so high Do you even look? The smile The Lie The element of despair Connection through disconnecting. Do you honor your word? Claim to fame The fortune to be hold The plagued knowledge The fall from all Do you even remember? One time was all it was The simple gift that ran The motionless stand The inability to think If you ever get it, know that it was not a lie.

Porque gostar do que me rodeia? Reaccionar parece ser uma constante de mudança, sempre que olho, parece existir algo que me destrona, sem um motivo aparente, sem uma realidade ou por simples curiosidade.  Parece então que dentro daquilo que persigo, existe sempre um passado que me contempla, algo que irritavelmente é inegável, que não consigo largar ou perder. São coisas que me rodeiam na escuridão, conheço esse silêncio. Verdade, sempre a tive pela frente, sempre a apresentei como deveria ser, como foi, como podes entender. Porque reaccionar?  Contactar a realidade, passou por ser um defeito, sempre que possa relatar um pouco mais, sempre que possa fazer um pouco mais de realidade, considera essa figura, sempre foi aquilo que apresentei, sempre foi aquilo que contei. Considera o que quiseres. Lê com atenção.  O tempo, caiu, rompeu-se por entre as coisas que planeie. O plano, como sempre foi figurativo, não descritivo. E se as coisas são como podemo...

Wear the crown, while the crownless wears the world, whereas the naked stalk the prey, the prey has eaten the flesh forlorn, naked, laid barren. Cross the words, that entangle, the various mistakes we seem to follow, the sensation of touching loneliness, while, whilst, among it all, freedom has been left adjacent to what we’ve mistakenly made as man, we have damaged as humans. I feel the sensation of none belonging, there are no roots that seem to hold me down, where I should follow, I have no way, where I should stay, I dare not dwell, for every monster might come out, might want to stare down, might want to shake what has been laid barren, the mistakes made, by the hands that dared touch, while we stare, forgetting, fading as we hide from loneliness. We created our own void, our own damage, our own karma. We scrape the barrel, try to sound off in pride, decide to pay the price in mockery, whenever we look back, our past self will look back and cry, I think not as myself, my past mad...

Since you've asked for the why, when the unturned eyes, meets the mind, longing to see. A sun dive, down the color, a ring that claps with solitude. A mark, left unchecked, that claimed the life of those whom denied, the lost have confirmed. A jobless memento, where the clear clouds, seem to dim away, the settle of vision, has been denied. A wave, came, washed away what could be, there is not a single trace, left behind, so says the sunset over the hills and the dancing shades that bask the ocean. I tended to sleep, a sleepless job, a silent whisper that I’d deny, such would be the intention of attention I would seek, fear, avarice and malcontent. I tend to stargaze, I get lost in it all and as such I walk the sands, these same sands, seem cold by moonlight, as the monolith of time echoes and bellows the changing fate. I’ve buried the hatchet, seems if it was a war, it turned down into a scuffle, if it was a scuffle, it turned into a buzz and as a buzz, it seems to have faded away....

Que admiração é trabalhar, ter mil e uma histórias vividas, por entre o tempo que me leva, cada vez mais distante, menos sentido. Que sentindo, que sentimento, pura ficção, em que por turnos mal vividos, aprecias um momento, grande ilusão. Que escrita por páginas vazias, por assumpção de vítima, vai e cai em litígio, pelo menos guardo palavras ditas. Que promessa tomada, dobrada e destruída Que todas as palavras, se deixem passar pelo insano, o verdadeiro, passa por aí, alheio ao olhar, sem que seja tomado pelo olhar. Que o invisível seja material, tomamos cada vez mais a falha que nos assola, estamos condenados a viver sobre ela e sobre o peso que nos persegue. Que o material nos seja negado, não conhecemos uma desculpa, não conhecemos um sentimento que nos assole, sei, sei que está por longe do perto, central do olhar, aparece num piscar de olhos e noutro nunca existiu de todo. Que o imaginável passe do papel a caneta, que a tinta seja cinza, que a cinza queime o papel que escreve, q...