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bug







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eutro



nós viajamos muito, aventureiras
levadas por eira e ventura
perseguidas e preguiçosas
e assim seguiremos
ao gosto de agosto
ao gosto de tudo mas nāo do divino
ao gosto da vida intensa
da fascinação pela nossa figura
clonada
muita
perigosa

mas ela
enquanto novelas e chuvas se seguem
ela e seus muitos frascos escritos 'não use'
seu olhar de sofá
seu dia desabado na rua heitor penteado
ela fica
com um sorriso espalhado frente à catedral
ali perto da praça metropolitana
vendo a vida de verdade na tv
ela a grande conhecedora do lar
da manipulação das dores
dos cheiros fora da hora
fora de mão
ela fica

a corrente das águas, que prende
pesada, suja, turva
meio que lava e leva
mas ela
com seus 30 anos de terreno fora da vila
fora de mão
fora da hora
ela fica





summer of 96



the air is thin, the sun is high
it smells nice for it's about to rain
the fan and the old clock talk hard
while dogs bark at fleas and flies
there's a machine barfing odd sounds:
someone works somewhere

not me





horse of the souls



do right, do good
very righteous, uncontrollable
in this proud moment
in the attacks with cutlery
face to face (big disaster)
with the crisis
the toxic culture
the ‘pay today and tuesday!'
with luxury degenerating in need
with the role of rude cole in the deaths
and embrace the truth, dude:

there are more urgent things to deal with
than that





conniving: were i, i would



(soonosoon i’ll perspire something of algae, and only then and there i’ll roll and rock within all waves!)

excuse me, master
but you really know gauche?
you know anything of solid
and you know everything - but gauche?

i’m here burning each word
saying things behind things
the same bigmouth when i should zip it
forgive me, master

i’m the gauche that hurts:
only error builds me

and i’m many selves
my swan regrets are several
but consider me for now
only a muse

the beautiful stone
glowing neon green in the shadows
i remember - a gift and a present poison
me there willing, available
then me one-and-all-miserable-seed
do what but grow?
was you who planted me, master

certain words are given and not chosen
they sob there, when they reach the point
they’re coincidences of the pure
stretched treasures that although open
do not reveal

that gauche, master, that gauche





Followers