The beginning, the donkey and the Hungry seed The

word skewed in the tongue, unheard-of, not-hearable,

Odd, Pregnant,

Null, ageless and profaned

Maculated with ripped off eyes Innocent,

Promiscuous, the Enticed Speechless word topples

and stands up

Francis Bacon’s skylight

The language occupation on Ipiranga 908 Beneath

the skin the prejudice, Beneath prejudice

a Surviving lamp throb amidst the garret’s turmoils, in

the absence of foliage a twisted copper stalk rises to

brightness. Support for kidnapped realities.

The rejected: that which rejects itself. The intimidated

impaled shaved head snorting crack

sticks a wood piece in the imaginary ground of his

whimsy territory

A paper sunflower sets fire during the night Over a

vast void in the palm of the fictionalised hand friction

in the middle of the night, nor calculated, or

measured.

Forgetful yellowish path, the mouth is

A foul goblet chewing the consonants and squishing

the vowels, vomiting the stomachic fire

at the wall, at the belly is the dream that never was

In the copper strings’ bonfire, the childhood floats

your shadow and mine

You get deepened and tied by the smoke

An afire toothless mouth a girl stuck in solid iron

gates, naked

the passion of the compassionate ember evokes the

guardians of fire

a girl thrown in the fire circle, dances over forbidden

fruits

At night the heads open up

Dried saliva is pulsing

(a great wall of wet syllable)

Without saying a word

Darkens my boundaries

A language omen

THE SPRINGS of me blowed up the weir breaches:

my house on fire, eroded Letters on the table.

holy water and ember

in brasil’s chest the ground

I am dust from that dirt

River of leeches

River of bloodthirsty stories

Barren river: the mouth of a gagged spring

By the anonymous evoking of the bones

By the scowling stone of the centuries

Language itself is an atonement, immured sacrifice

day after day I unknowingly sign for something:

innumerable

I speak even though I’m aware that my speech is

speechless. polishing bones and whetting silences,

digging shafts in its body

a country of barks

to get into you is impossible

a country of fastened eyes

to get into myself by getting into your body I come

out leaked out

a country of sailing mirrors

By the mirror I pierce myself so not to be a narcissist,

so not to see the face, but the other side.

I come out of my own eyes

and lose sight of myself

Inside a vertigo wagon I go through what is left of the

river of unburied bodies

​

PART TWO

Reptile, I empty a van in the middle of the night, I

throw away everything that isn’t mine

Forcefully, I eradicate part of myself

Against my own will

A pool of blood, mine

Noise from the genealogies lost in the city

I cast an unknown archeology

Albeit I am now powerless, I go on. At this point I

create a way to go on even though it doesn’t exist!

Subject or not, now I must exorcise myself, even if I

am crawling

Even if I am at the basement

I need to sacrifice my world, for it is killing - without

that I will never see the other side.

I will be condemned to be at movement

— tied to the creation of what I see

and what I see never really is

the perception of myself has degenerated a long time

ago,

I am at the gutter of being as a divine creation I am a

scarecrow of the creation,

I must abandon creation and place myself far from

what I see.

From the embodied yellow from what I don’t own I

shall produce my tough nut to crack: calcined

language, I have to goad myself till the blooming of a

hull that will make me sail on the thorn-full

me-river.

the pinkish vultures peek at me

​

they don’t have a body nor a face

and wish to devour mi sowl

they’re everywhere

even if I wriggle out they squash me against a wall

that I have built myself to take refuge I pluck out

hollow and unnecessary words until only the spine of

what I want to say remains

Saying it is not, it is an urge

for the decolonisation of my soul.

I must get rid of Octávio Paz

to insert myself in me.

I must re-create a way for myself to be me

Either I do this, or I will rot

With no drums, no music,

I’ve got to hear the secret chant of my entrails.

Fuck it if the sky gets darker,

whatever, I need to breathe amid the soot.

Exhausted, I am falling,

the mist moves in on me,

Rusty doors grind

I get a punch in the head

I soak my white shirt in blood.

I try to install myself in place where no one has ever

installed itself

intersected truth.

half-naked, my word howls

between a punch and a kick in the mouth,

I insist with my life. I insist for real, I drag my body

aiming for the door,

seeds snap inside my pocket.

moths fly from my snotty nose

I attempt to grab my writing from

where there was only madness and misery

a creeping bird alludes to flying

I steal a sentence - push myself to throw

away the rest of the poem that wasn’t mine, as

beautiful as it was.

​

I got rid of what wasn’t mine,

of beautiful sentences, now it’s only me and myself,

like this, “catalogue”, I will have to finish

what I’ve started so early today,

​

I’ve insisted in translating something that wasn’t

mine,

in an mind-boggling attempt to fall into myself, but in

myself, what is me,

am I something without myself? —

without me, who am I? Tired,

exhausted, lost and with hands inside the pockets,

wandering,

maybe that’s the one chance

I’ll have of remembering what I am here for

doing this thing that is writing,

in a state of complete nullity,

of sacrificing hours of work,

maybe only through this I can go ahead with myself,

with the other, with what I really wanted

a poem from another beyond myself.

My hands hurt.

I shall stop so I am able to continue.

I shall speak so I don’t speak a speechless speech.