...bloodthirsty and flesh hungry...

Feiticeira...drowning of suffocation in a blood cursed by the dream sea, of a sea not yet dreamed...anguished to embark on an incessant journey that stops nowhere...Selvagem. Soul perched at the shore's edge aching to depart..belonging to nobody...

spirit of diwali

why do i wish tonight for a dream ... as like a dream my soul tonight will lead my heart to the summit of the holy mountain igniting the burning fire frozen inside, breaking the stormy darkness that befell the thermaiko...across the dark skies shrouded in memories burning, Thessaloniki, lights... bright diyas celebrating universal compassion, love, and the awareness of the oneness of all things....higher knowledge...energy divine incarnate. Emotions bathed in the scent of oils under the stars awaken the dreams of the warrior, as the underlying reality of all things. Love.

Tortura do meu s(ab)er

A hotel room, half a sleeping pill…pen and paper at hand. A million thoughts burning my eyes, rushing in as many directions, clashing in a myriad of kaleidoscopic explosions. Scalding my mind, as if chaos was the most sublime of choreographies. Spontaneous combustions of predatory gluttony, destroying everything that ravishes through them. Lavishly composing this melody of madness, that slowly devours me. Alimentando a loucura que ilumina a escuridao em que sou. Doida, Louca, Tonta de tanto pensamento incontrolavel que me corre nas veias em lugar de sangue. Palavras tortas em pensamentos alinhados. A kaleidoscope of feelings and understanding in a place where I no londer reign. Nem a minha alma, nem o meu ser são meus. Migalhas de um mundo que é so meu mas não me pertence. Ainda assim eu continuo, entendendo mais cada vez que compreendo menos. Desvaneada, sem palavras numa mente onde o chaos dança eloquentemente. Graciosamente, as in an eternal choreography, subconsciously realizing that void is the only reality. What is, can be nothing more than all that isn’t. Incongruous limbo between awake and somewhere in the depth of thought, sobressaltada pela realidade. It’s so deep, that my heart nearly stops each time. I am brought back in the mundane dangers if disaster. I am starting to loose myself inside my own mind. The depth opf the void becoming more and more defined, rapta-me o pensamento afavel, para aqulea dimensao que cada vez mais me consome. I am no longer satiated by the lingering of my thoughts in the subconscious of my existence. Now, at times I feel as if all my molecules travel with my mind into the subconscious dimension of my silent ranting. Incongruous meanings, meaningless words. Abstract precisions in undefined settings. How can it all seem so normal to me, which all others ostracise. So, I no longer. I loose myself in the silent ranting of endless monolgues that scarcely conclude. Never ending stories or thoughts, memories are the only tomb stones. I wish for a dream that needs sleep. I will even settle for a nightmare as long as I can sleep. How meagre the rest para uma mente vagabunda como eu. Alma vagabunda de uma mente louca. Tortura do meu s(ab)er.

... enluminurer...

As if inventions into the unknown... remnants of an inspired geek with a penchant for words, driving a convertible with an untamed heart, wearing black on black...

answer to a pricky comment...

...broken land... ...In the self serving consent of the soft-handed intellectually challenged aristocracy by affirmation...red cheeked jolly in their characteristic self commiserating oblivion of plump lethargic children of old warriors too desolate too fight...

Unfinished...

With eyes set on the misty throne From the East Silver Moon rising among caresses of the West setting Sun half my body on shore the rest at sea the wind lulls my soul among whispers of my heart wishing for thee... V

Poetry

Poetry is as varied and fluctuating as the present. It is not graven in stone, but is where relationships with the world and with meaning, culture and language are constantly created and re-created.The particularity of poetry that must be recognized is that it does not convey clear words that can be instantly grasped, but constructs new, unprecedented forms of language that owe nothing to common codes. Poetry, because it offers a multitude of ways and actual forms of writing, is therefore an experience that enables the human condition to be reviewed in its entirety. This ultimate reappraisal of the use of language makes for a universal critical reflection on words, genres and categories, the whole range of that which is at all translatable. In doing so it designs the contours of possible forms of dialogue among cultures, histories and memories.

... enchanting verses