When you feel perpetually unmotivated, you start questioning your existence in an unhealthy way; everything becomes a pseudo intellectual question you have no interest in responding whatsoever. This whole process becomes your very skin and it does not merely affect you; it actually defines you. So, you see yourself as a shadowy figure unworthy of developing interest, unworthy of wondering about the world - profoundly unworthy in every sense and deeply absent in your very presence.
― Ingmar Bergman
Lembro, em primeiro plano,
tua estatura de planta
e recomeço a esculpir-te
em miolo de pão, pétala a pétala.
— António Barahona, REMEMBER (de Maçãs de Espelho, Língua Morta)
darling
the crocodile species
has existed for over
300 million years
and you became extinct
last night.
— Charles Bukowski, 1-23-76
A poet
can stick anything into the fog and make it look like a ghost.
But tonight let us not become tragedies.
We are not funeral homes
with propane tanks in our windows
lookin’ like cemeteries.
Cemeteries are just the Earth’s way of not letting go.
Let go.
Tonight, Poets, let’s turn our wrists so far backwards
the razor blades in our pencil tips
can’t get a good angle on all that beauty inside.
Step into this
with your airplane parts
and repeat after me with your heart:
I no longer need you to fuck me as hard as I hate myself.
Make love to me
like you know I am better than the worst thing I ever did.
Go slow.
I’m new to this
but I have seen nearly every city from a rooftop without jumping.
I have realized the moon did not have to be full for us to love it.
We are not tragedies
stranded here beneath it.
If my heart really broke every time I fell from love
I’d be able to offer you confetti by now
but hearts don’t break, y’all,
they bruise and get better.
We were never tragedies.
We were emergencies.
You call 9 – 1 – 1.
Tell them I’m havin’ a fantastic time.
— Buddy Wakefield, We Were Emergencies
† 72
→ 15 Oct 12 at 1 am
→ 15 Oct 12 at 1 am
Jean-Luc Godard making the last shot of 2 ou 3 choses que je sais d’elle (1967).
(Source: waltdisneywithblood, via lettertojane)
o que me vale aos fins de semana
é o teu amor provinciano e bom
para ele compro bombons
para ele compro bananas
para o teu amor teu amon
tu tankamon meu amor
para o teu amor tu te flamas
tu te frutti tu te inflamas
oh o teu amor não tem com
plicações viva aragon
morram as repartições
— Manuel António Pina, Todas as Palavras - Poesia Reunida (1974-2011), p. 46, Assírio & Alvim
