abyss of metaphors

Image: João NItsche


six sonnets


The words and the shit I submit
To the sewer, where everything is vain and varied,
Like the useless rhymes of rosaries
Vainly ardent sonnets;

Each spasm of inconcrete flesh
And idiot I send to the leper colony,
That orgasms are lonely verses
Made the inane hollows of the skeleton;

I say goodbye to the chimerical mosaic
Of masks and muscles, mestizo
Bottomless immensity; of this layman

And dirty love I want the spit, I want
The knife, I want tears and greed,
I want the most sincere pain and screams.


Poetry: airless lungs of shipwrecked people?
Exercise of adornments and techniques
empty? prodigal myth of the ages
without God? Mere chimera, hermetic monster?

Deprived and melancholic cathedral?
Voice without muscles? architectural flower
metro and rhyme and rhythm and pain and birds?
Failed and beautiful refuge of the anathemas

of the language? Futile and anachronistic enigma
of tired labyrinthine archangels?
Love without a shadow? Abyss of metaphors?

Sky? Hell? Lust? Burning? Machine?
Or just another one of the barbarian screams
without ground, without mouth, without pity and without tears?


Ontologically we are sea;
ontically, foam riding
the endless dawn, endless dawn, in slow
bleeder of sorrows and winds.

The horizon without ballast is our altar,
where, unskilled, we use transumar
our wet dreams, our hundred
and so many soft muscles. intent

incurable? Irremitting pendor?
Everlasting task, dung and rose,
passion and rag? Or are we just
the seat of other seas, of extremes

depths? Heaven descend to us,
and it would not be in vain for us to be atheists.


Fear, my friend, is a friend of madness.
To fear the executioner's hand is to already feel it
approach, lubricious and tranquil,
in the most serene and safe hours;

predict death and its path, dark,
it is already to die without death, it is to produce it
in the inaudible voices of the sibyls.
Fear, my friend, is the enemy of mildness.

We fear, but we fear fear:
certainly the red rose, fresh now,
one day it withers, it will decompose
becoming fertilizer feed.

But to the roses go the laurels,
and in the pastures only the whining of donkeys sounds.


"Arcane is all that is our deceit ” (Leopard)

We will die. And the flesh and the flower and the zeal,
sprouts of an atrocious hopelessness,
they cradle us in shadows. don't rest,
o chimera? Are you not sleeping, O scourge?

The infinite, fated to want it
shall we lie? And the nails and the strength
they just send us, hungry, to the tame
darkness? Our plea is in vain,

our hell is vain. Go, naked,
opening the buds of the last
trip. We sail with the oars

of mirages at night. Arcanum is everything,
except our pain. On this border
of sand a cry echoes: we will die.


How many times has Love told me: write,
Makes carved rhymes of tears,
That it is necessary to give life to our life;
Life is dry and brutish breeze and brief.

It's brief and dry and brusque and shouldn't be
Lament: of corroded calm,
Of the vain and unavoidable farewells
It is possible to carve a light frame.

But he warned me when he saw me in a hurry
For action: don't rush, I'll whip
And scourge and lash both the slow

How fast. suffer the scars
Until the pain with the pain does not harmonize:
Before art there is always suffering.

*Pedro de Souza is a writer.


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