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Gil Cardoso Feb 2019
Remate, chuta, golo!

Quando o faço no meu quarto
Ninguém admira
É mentira!
Admiro eu!

Que fazes tu?
Escreves remata e chuta
Que é a mesma coisa?

É? A lingua portuguesa é...loiça

Isso era só para rimar?
Nem rima bem

E para que me críticas?
Tu és eu
Partilhamos o mesmo corpo
O mesmo….

Lorpo?

Isso nem é palavra!

Para quem usou loiça antes
Esta pelo menos rima

Tu nem fazes um esforço
Com essa mania de superioridade
Tornas-te um destroço
Por causa da tua inseguridade
Eu pelo menos trabalho
E faço sair palavras
E se me apetece
Rima uma com bugalho
E a outra com larvas
Agora vai-te embora
Vai morrer
Se te apetecer
E deixa-me escrever
01/02/2018
Escrito 01/02/2018
Lilly Mavis Dec 2018
I am going to set fire to every motel 6.
The way that what happened there set fire to my brain.
Because that fire is still burning
and the smoke constantly drips down my throat.

The few moments I remember from when my eyes were closed,
my face pressed into the dingy comforter
are constantly reeling in my mind,
like videos on super 8 that make your mouth taste like bleach
and I’m always praying that the fire will melt the film
but it never does.

In the videos I see The First One and his orange hair.
I remember the way that its ginger began to drip
into every scratch and every cut he made on me.
but maybe the burning felt better than the initial puncture.

In the videos, I see the pads of his fingertips skating over my skin.
I remember feeling the sparks.
Not the good kind of sparks,
but the sinful ones.
It felt like a dream at first,
to finally have someone care enough to touch me.

I see the flickers of the Carmel Haired’s rented Volkswagen.
and I see the smoke signals that
the Florida license plate set off in my head.
like the receding hairline wasn’t enough
like the GoLo parking lot wasn’t enough
like watching my high school shrink in the rear view mirror wasn’t enough.
I’ll never feel smaller than I did, laid on the bed
with him towering over me.

I am waiting for the day that I can
reach into my head and wreck that super 8 projector.
I want to be able to
relocate the wildfire in my head to my heart.
I want to be able to feel
the projector crush under my combat boots.
I want to feel like Debbie Harry.
I want to feel like Lilly.

I want to use the wildfire to destroy every motel 6
I don’t want any other teenaged girl
to feel the way I did,
only feeling worthy when held to a motel mattress
by an older man’s hand.
Bura

Hladnoća me opija
klizi niz kičmu lagano
do solarnog pleksusa
vrti spiralu vremena
i prvih stremljenja…

Bura udara u svom nesmiljenom bijesu ,čisti prljave ulice, još prljavije duše
nosi sve pred sobom , negdje već…
-U svom toplom kaputu ipak se zbijaš uz mene, ispod vunene kapice vire
samo crveni obraščići i leden vrh nosića.
-Nije neki dan za šetnju pomislim, al nije me briga, dok god se pripijaš uz mene
vjetar mi ne može ništa.
-Jedan veliki bor uz obalu ponosno se odupire buri, savija se , lomi, ali opet uspravlja
i šepuri pred olujom.
-Zastaješ, guraš me ispod mirisnih iglica ,naslanjamo se na golo deblo …ljubim ti vrh nosa
grlim obraze rukama, grijem ih, ljubim promrzle usne do krvi, upijam bistrinu života
u najčišćem, najnesputanijem obliku, guraš mi ruke ispod majice, hladne su i tople
istovremeno
i ja zatvaram oči, neki val , ljut što ga ne primjećujemo baca se na hrid i razbija o nju, kapljice
nošene vjetrom padaju na nas kao mala sleđena koplja, ali nas nije briga, uspavani na milijun godina
u tom jednom trenu, združeni u igri vjetra, mora, opijeni mirisom joda i borovine, ukopani čvrsto
u crvenu zemlju ispod nas… samo tražimo da nas svemir ostavi na miru, barem taj jedan tren
dok stvaramo peti element…
Johnny Noiπ Oct 2018
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— The End —