no, no present continuous, there isn’t.
neither the past, and the future, yesterday, no tomorrow.
there isn’t either the time
divisible.
no, it’s just the simple present, absolutely.
simple present beyond everything,
from the universe
to god!
or maybe neither 'this' instant.
maybe not just anything.
for us, just we have to shake hands
and walk crazily thrown with the life! life!
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
Monday, April 29, 2013
DOCTORS OR TELL EVERYTHING YOU DON’T KNOW
a little song, written when teenager
Doctor I’m telling that it hurts
Something goes wrong inside
Maybe you can believe me
I’m walking in a fallen heaven
Don’t you think it’s weak?
No medicine can work
The darkest days are coming
You need a proof I don’t
Shit! I’m telling that it pain
Something goes wrong outside
Walking under the rain
It’s impossible don’t wet myself
Doc I’m feeling so cold
Have I ever been the same?
Cloud clouds my brain
I want it to show I can’t
Doctor so silly I was
It will never hurt anymore
My ghost will impressive you
When I am outside
Shit! I know I weaken
Neither everything is refreshed
Hey I need a gun
To end all night all right
Tell everything you don’t know!
Tell everything you don’t know!
andré boniatti
in:http://www.recantodasletras.com.br/letras/174764
Monday, January 14, 2013
pray among the men
by andré boniatti
when the prostitute passes by, oh Lord,
when the prostitute passes by, oh Lord,
that i don’t turn down my eyes.
the colour don’t be to me a detail,
neither from the eyes, either from the skin.
that everybody has equal cheeks and
better hearts
for me, oh Lord.
that they be tall the same meters i am,
in every meters i am.
that when i think what i see is absurd or ridiculous
or strange or spurious,
that i know that i’m seeing, that it’s
just my eyes,
— what stupids, my eyes that invent
obstacles to look at.
they look at suspicious and distrustful,
stupids!
that someday my eyes can see with love,
— when the prostitute passes by
and everyone, oh Lord!
that someday we can think the way we
are,
in freedom. that someday we can make the
way
we make, that we have wisdom.
that someday we can be true, since the birth.
reasonable.
but, before it, we learn something.
that we understand the conjugation of “we”
in the silence of us.
(that before we judge us christian we can
understand jesus: plebeian of nazareth,
philosopher and poet, singer of
inteligence and heart,
that never had left one for another:
inteligence and heart.
how fool are the men, my heaven’s
jesus!)
how fool are the men: in the pea of
themselves ego concentrated (introspectively) — hurting all around; as if all
their world was a
perfect nucleous of pride and arrogance!
but, after all, they’re nothing.
after all, they’re equal one another,
one to the other,
and to everything,
one thing to the world just more.
and, even thus: “more”, they don’t add;
dyslexics and retracteds:
the men go nowhere!
when the prostitute passes by, oh Lord,
we can see the out of us, we don’t mask
ourselves seeing.
that our soul understand that it’s just
silly matter, shape in the wind: your body, your creed, your fit and the mine,
that green from the heart inside and
starts to live in this time, that passes,
(this space, that blows);
that be more soft my body, your body,
‘cause they don’t be sunk;
(when the love opens my heart. when the
love opens my heart. when the love opens my heart.)
that i be all entirely within,
without, right — when the sundown of my
life starts.
that i have no doubt about my integrity;
that my cry be for guilty,
chancre,
bald silver-head intrepid emotion,
but that i don’t be killed before i will.
that i can cry!
that i don’t sleep without feeling me (absolutely)
wasted out. all on me,
when the time
goes down. when the bright of my soul is rightly to fall.
and then — good bye!
but that i be armed,
reverentially armed, light, far and
flighty,
with no disagree;
when the non-prophecy be real,
when the rest
exceed.
when me, my grandma, my mother, my
love...
— when the prostitute passes by,
oh Lord!
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
it's yours
i reserve t'you this blank.
even it has no
name,
it's
yours,
- i reserve it t'you since my latter days.
even it has no
name,
it's
yours,
- i reserve it t'you since my latter days.
into our heart
there is a song, but it's still far away from our tongue...
this is still buried into our heart!
this is still buried into our heart!
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)