Gargantua

Have a sit!
Here we only drink cunt and wit

While beholding the building scanned by the eyes
which within thighs
populate the hand
made of the most promiscuous sand.
Fingers galloping up her body
Down her throat
Poisoning the reason
With acts of treason
That corrupts her soul.

Here where pleasure is coin
And the anthem is moaned
Oh you drink from the groin
Outlined in bold

There something to us and much more.
Just like the barbed wire around the toy store
we have furry bears, sex
And belts that have seen less wastes than necks.

But please, don't let yourself be appalled by my manners
What my father taught me is all that matters.

Diogo Baiao  2/12/2015

À la Bukowski, but not quite

That redhead that fucks
through the ages
survives through time,
Spat on Charles, Oscar
some other meaningless poets and I,
has the nerve to present us
with those beautiful long toes
that crumble exactly like a failed poem
when she moans.

There are two types of women.
Both types are allowed in
my flat.
That includes my room
and every other shared rooms:
kitchen, bathroom, corridor and every other spherical lamp.
Shared, I said!
May no one enter her room!
that she doesn't even share with insects
and that includes cockroaches,
cockroaches, cockroaches and woodlice.
Oh the pure and the impure.
Oh that sweet and twisted balance in devotion.

Two types of women I suppose:
the ones that come to bang their head against the light
and the ones that come for the rotten food.

The ones that bang their head against the light starve their love to death.

But not this one, barefooted, the stratosphere is the sole of her feet
and what a soul, breaking my every lock with hair clips, sharp nails and a melting voice,
sliding underneath the door like previously inhaled smoke unable do find
its way out.
She will make sure to hit every step of the way with her big beautiful long left toe
and I will make sure I let my love be guided by this blind woman,
like a beautiful poem, wherever she may roam.

Diogo Baiao 17/10/2015

Aqui há fabrico próprio!

Metálico 

Constante e producente.

Peito para fora, barriga para dentro, barba aparada,

Mas não exageradamente 

E só o suficiente 

Para se perceberem os contornos da cara

Feitos pelo pêlo e não pela linha maxilar,

Facilmente confundida com o momento de quebrar a prosa e partir o verso. Deslocar a mandíbula...para quando?

Fazer poema, porque tem de ser!

Mas então, peito para fora, máquina producente 

E os versos a alargar, a fazer mover roldanas, 

Preenchidas por atacadores, a esticar a liberdade das articulações, cada vez mais livres até se deslocarem em dor. Livres na liberdade de sofrer a dor da obrigação.

Ah! Estava em vias de reproduzir. 

Peito para fora, ombros para trás, costas largas, cauda em leque, 

Movimentos aleatórios com a câmara focada no movimento 

Impaciente, rotativo e diagonal

Das rodas das camas do meu hospital

No qual, 

Por muito mais que se progrida

Filma-se sempre tudo a preto e branco 

Com lascas de tinta velha.

Que não nos percamos na linha de montagem.

A reprodução do "sério": peito para fora, centenas de olhos na ponta de centenas de penas alinhadas, como já disse, em leque!

Um espécime exemplar

Para uma companheira mal executada.

E estava eu a tentar reproduzir os acontecimentos.

Nunca se suspeitou que eu fosse humano.

Diogo Baião 3/4/2015

William's Admission

God reaps a harvest of tombstones
engraved with thoroughly assembled sentences
Words long invented
carefully placed in an order that makes sense
Not for the ones who’re dead
but for the ones who read

It is imperative to stop giving meaning to the lives of others
Sentences as a product of trade?
They should only remain with those who assembled them

for self consumption

Simões Baião