SONG OF THE EXILE
Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen blühen?
My land is three hours ahead by satellite.
Every year it is burnt in my land
one Germany, a country which has been
Wilhem II´s and Hitler´s.
In the ever transforming Nature,
carbon dioxide will bloom orchids
in the future forests of Greenland.
The smoke doesn't prevent the connection.
WouJd che silicon birds be canorous,
the ones that repear the same beep?
In my land no one answers the call.
The teJephone rings in the open air
in the Esplanade of the Various State Departments.
ít is assisted by three hieratic ornamental
palm trees. Alone in the canicule,
they preserve themseJves for rhe next
CANÇÃO DO EXÍLIO
Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen blühen.
Minha terra está a quatro horas via satélite.
Queima-se nela uma Alemanha por ano,
país que já foi de Guilherme II e Hitler.
Na natura que é transformação,
o gás carbônico brotará orquídeas
nas futuras florestas groenlandesas.
A fumaça não impede a comunicação:
Serão canoras as aves de silicone
que repetem o mesmo bip?
Na minha terra não respondem
Toca a céu aberto o telefone
na Esplanada dos Vários Ministérios.
Assistem-no três hieráticas palmeiras
ornamentais. Sós, na canícula,
reservam-se para o próximo
THE PRACTICAL POET
The practical poet thinks in Greek with the help of a good
The practical poet goes trekking in mountains dragons of fire
And he never mixes up his credit cards in the breast pocket of
his Argentinian leather jacket
Oh he does not forget his forgetfulness
Oh he will not endure / renounce his biographemes
Oh he tells the winds unheard elegies on the warm
He writes two columns of dactyls in the sand
And loses his poems to the sea with a fierceness ali his own
The sea becomes literate
The waves swirl in laocoönian contorsions
Mountains of poems everchanging libraries of practical
presumption burn in this poet's retinas
That urn-like building retains ali ashes including this poem's
Red Beach Red Winds Red Muses of blackening rhetorical
Hesiod was practical and Sappho his best friend
Hesiod was prone to writing in the dust his so so endearing
The poet's agenda is avant-garde and sets the time for sailing
in the dunes
There is no moonlight as clear as this one in the backwoods
Decide what you will between rising and stumbling from that
The practical poet is practical knows his time and thinks in
The practical poet's love's the size of Liechtenstein
Oh he summons them ali Red Hair Red Nipples Red
Oh he experiences falling in the mist
Oh he conveys urns are not his cup of tea
The poet is practical takes his cars keys from the lower pocket
of his Argentinian leather jacket
And ignites his membership in the fraternity / sorority of
The practical bonzo practical
Ιαπετιουί'δη, πάυτωυ περί μήδεα είδώζ
— Son of lapetus, among all tricksters the trickiest —
And in his practicality
He is also
for Milos Sovak
The Vltava is full of ducks
Her eyes go baroquish unruly rollerballing
around all saints vestments unveiled
No ducks at sight from this bridge
Swans most noble swans Zeus' favorites
are not ducks you could ever cook
Jellybelly burghers of Prague we command you hear!
Rollerskating crusaders under Sezession ǽgis pass by
enacting a memory of not that long ago
5 P.M. sunset shines in the Castle´s rows of windows
in the company of pigeons their equals for the effects
I want to talk about not of food but
Clouds Oh! Clouds Clouds Clouds
Pigeons à la Bohème is a traditional dish of our countryside
She's much too insistent
Feathery white flocks of nobleness swans aren't pigeons you
I answer to no question spinning
like a dervish Am I one
Am I one baroque somebody defenestrated from no window
over a bridge's edge
gracefully bending my neck so
Muse Oh! Muse Muse Muse
why is she deaf why is she dumb
Her walk the Vlatava flow through the meadows of an
History is the bottom
History the botton line
I fall over oh I fall
While we talk and talk about
Página publicada em fevereiro de 2009