Veronica Revamped

Most of you (readers, curious minds, people wandering every corner of the Web) don’t know, but I had already owned a blog.

However and to be completely honest, I no longer care about it and it’s been months since I erased it (out of frustration, a little rage and maybe, desperation).

I want to rebuild. The same way I’ve been trying to start over in real life.

I’m not asking you to follow me, or even try and understand what the hell am I talking about… But if someone out there is willing to do so, I’ll secretly rejoice.

Anyways, I should just bring the real writing in to this…

I’ll see you around, I suppose.


A maior parte de vós (leitores, mentes inquisitivas, pessoas deambulando pelos recantos da Internet) não sabem, mas eu já tinha gerido um blog.

No entanto e para ser completamente honesta, não quero saber mais dele e já passaram meses desde que o suprimi (por frustração, um pouco de raiva e talvez, desespero).

Eu quero reconstruir. Da mesma forma que tenho tentado fazer na vida real.

Não estou a pedir a ninguém para me seguir, ou tentar e compreender de que raio estou a falar… Mas se alguém por aí o quiser fazer, vai secretamente alegrar-me.

De qualquer forma, eu devia mesmo era deixar a autêntica escrita aqui…

Vemo-nos por aí, suponho.

post

Letter to My Young Poet Self

Dear me,
The tiny poet
Who admired Fernando Pessoa’s
Thousand personas.
Dripping from his feathered brain,
He build a million worlds
In which all of our futures could unfold.

Later me,
And a tiny poet still
Intrigued by Césario Verde’s dualities
Of green and grey,
City walls and country rolled in hay.
Urban life could do little to engulf
The flowers, the trees and the lovely bluff.

Youngling adult,
A poet that grows.
Walt Whitman wandering
A lone supermarket.
Outside, nature blooms
And rugged coasts erode.
Everything changes in the wild,
Even poets occasionally blend in, though ever so mild.

Rough young adult,
Poet in edges crashing.
A Charles Bukowski lost in a liquor store,
Drunk as never before.
All world is women he knows not how to respect,
All world is body he destroys with a shot in a glass.
What changes seem unbearable,
Are the result of not changing at all.

So much poetry, so little life yet,
Oh tiny poet!
Arise from the schadenfreude with Rainer Maria Rilke,
Travel across your loved continent and bring T. S. Eliot in your pocket,
Or venture further into the dark with Edgar Allan Poe.
And don’t dare forget the dear music that spills forth from your beating heart,
And love and despair as Leonard Cohen did,
Or as all poets do indeed.

Taste the journey,
And let its flavor and scent color your writings.
Try not to get to lost from what you love,
But if you do, try to find poetry.
So many things appear true
And so little actually are…
For a poet’s heart, little’s enough.
Just don’t give up searching.
And don’t give up writing.

Il Poema dei Lunatici

Lunatici, tutti voi
But so am I
In everything we must avoid,
We become lunatics.

Out of thirst,
Out of sadness,
Out of madness.
Society so decided
We must be lunatics.

Fever reaches unbearable temperature,
Misery only so will mature
And raving mad we become.
But we were not born in such a way,
We became lunatics, or so they say.

Lunatici, tutti voi!
But don’t mark my words just yet,
We’ve only just met.
And all are details,
The stories tend to be much bigger
Or perhaps that’s how I figure.

We die of irresistible thirst,
Of indescribable sadness,
Of prescribed madness.
We are given the medicine,
They must cure us lunatics.

But lunatics as we are,
We didn’t meet this fate alone.
We didn’t design our lives as such,
We didn’t desire so little or so much,
But now we are lunatics.
Or so they say.

Lunatici, tutti voi.
Silence in an inescapable void.
Everything we tiredly avoid,
And yet we become lunatics.

No water can quench this thirst,
No goodness can salvage this sadness,
No amount of calm can ever soothe this madness.
We will always be lunatics.
Siamo lunatici, tutti noi.

Siamo lunatici,
E saremo sempre così.

Grandfather’s Gun

A gun is hidden behind the bedroom door
And I wonder what’s it for.
I am but a child,
And though imaginations do run wild,
I’m not even sure what in the hell is a gun for.

Is it an air rifle, is it a shotgun?
Curiosities run amock,
Atrocities agonize the mind,
But the brain to that door will always flock.
I’m not even sure what in the hell is that gun for.

I want to hold this gun,
Perhaps because of the danger it unknowingly unlocks,
Perhaps because I am a girl and I won’t get to hold it otherwise.
Oh, it does stand there and it mocks,
I’m not even sure what it is for!

Was it meant for war
Or just for shows of masculinity?
Was it to scare wild creatures
Or to shoot a man dead?
These thoughts wouldn’t occur to a child,
They only arrived now in adulthood
And they haunt me just as well.
Would it be different if I had instead met boyhood?
Would I actually know what it was for?

There is war in my mind
And I’ve never crossed that reality myself.
I’m thankful for the peace I know,
I’m grateful for those willing to face cold violence for me.
I grieve the war that met my grandfather
And the conflicts he fought for all of us.
We know peace even if it feels shattered,
We owe him peace even brokenhearted.
I don’t think I want to know what that gun was for, now.

There’s a war in my mind
And I’m still gathering the burning pieces of memories,
And holding on to the life that still subsists.
The Lord knows how I fight to do this family justice
In time and memory,
In poems and in glory.
No gun can ever shoot these efforts down.
War may not be eternal, but I know neither is peace.
I wonder if I should pick up that gun, regardless.

I now buried my grandfather’s hat
And the gun no longer hides behind the bedroom door.
Does it?
I haven’t gone to look for it in a while.
I’m an no longer a child,
But Lord knows my imaginations still fly wild…
I believe I should let that gun go
And not look for it anymore,
As I won’t have the guts to ever shoot it.

I wish I was stronger, but I am just a poet…
I write prayers now instead,
I write in hopes I will maintain the peace,
But my mind is always at war.
I suppose it’s a war that has been in this family’s blood.
But I’m meant to keep the peace,
It’s the job that’s been assigned to me
And I’ve only known how to do this my entire life.
I can’t just pick up a gun and go about searching war.

We now know peace and owe peace
To my grandfather’s daring.
We must honor that peace,
In time and memory,
In poems and in glory.
I shall leave the gun alone,
Where it always stood,
And wherever it should stand now.

I bid farewell to the curious child,
So I can make peace with my mind.
And for however long it lasts,
I shall write poems.
And I shall pray for our souls.
For war is too unthinkable,
Too unsettling, too indescribable…
And God knows what people have done to keep it off our doorstep,
Let alone our bedroom door.

The Name is Trouble

I am trouble
Because I trouble you
Your mind races with thoughts of me
Your body flashes in hot pangs
In dreams of me
I am trouble
For the trouble I arise in you.

Call me complicated,
Call me crazy,
Call me absolutely fucking insane.
Color me infuriated,
Color me mad,
Color me in shadows profane.

In all the passions I had
I used no guile
I chose to love brave
And in your heart defile
The sadness of your boredom

I am trouble, for you,
Not for myself.
And in all these years,
I began believing such troubles indeed,
I lost myself to the complications,
I gave in to the narratives
And I sank into trouble
That didn’t belong to me.

I have my tricks,
I have my fashions,
I am not that simple either.
But I refuse to believe I’m insincere.
I balance myself
As I can’t rely on anybody else
And I turn to look for my due revere.

Call me complicated,
Or crazy
Or absolutely fucking insane.
I surely wish it was that simple.
Color me in dismay
As I refuse to do as you say.

Color me then, infuriated,
Mad,
And in shadows profane…
In Hell,
I shall be least unbearable.
Color me unbelievable,
I’d sure prefer it that way.

I am trouble, says you,
Entirely disregarding your troubles.
Lest my conjured troubles befall you
Kindly choose to speak to me true.

Hallelujah

Wash away my pain,
Oh sweet angel of mine!,
And sing me some refrain
My body still exhales fear
And my scars ache for sufferings gone
Oh blue nostalgia does shine
Will it ever be foregone?

My reeling body and imagination
They believe the punishment
Oh Christian education!,
Will it ever lead me to heaven?
The Holy Ghost that does haunt me
Was disguised in loving clothes,
Only to forever taunt me
And reappear in my naked dreams.

I’m alive, Lord,
Though for how long, I wonder
Something I thought I wouldn’t afford
I cry, I scream and now I create
I write a loving song for you
In hopes it will bid me forgiveness
And send me an angel true
To wash the pain that remained

I wish I was stronger, oh Lord
But my flesh and feeling are sensible
And when it struck, that heavy sword
Oh, it made me bleed for months!
And healing is taking me years…
I won’t falter, though I feel weary
And my days are dissolved in fears
I will pray I’ll be able to love once more
As fully and majestically as I did before
And I’ll sing in your praise, dear Lord,
For your patience and time have revived me
And my sensibilities have sustained me,
As they remind me I’m still breathing.

Wash away my pain,
Oh, lovely angel of mine!
Show me it was not all in vain.
Sing some kindness and love unto me
And release my body from this grief.
My hair has since so grown
And my body has shed so many cells
And my lips have kissed another
And my hands have wandered someone else’s hair.
Long has been since a tear has swept my left cheek
And longer has been since I’ve longed for that heavenly ghost
That nearly lead me to Perdition

I trust your love, oh Lord!
Please guide me to love.
Send me one of your angels, dear Lord,
Lead it to cleanse my mind and soul
And restore my kindness
I long not for revenge,
Only for refrain and forgiveness.
I’ve been praying for it for years now.
I’m ready.

Oh, wash my pain away,
Oh dearest angel of mine!
You do feel and know how much I need it.
And then lead me away,
So I can continue my journey.
I am but a poet that can’t sing for you, oh Lord
But I’ll whisper ‘Hallelujah’ at the sky
And hope it will reach that high.
I will write my words for your kindness and love
And teach the world what I’ve been longing for.

Hallelujah.


Os Loucos de Lisboa

Toca “Os Loucos de Lisboa”
Na minha mente ainda à toa.
Às vezes é rádio, outra vez leitor de cassettes
Outras vezes teatro, espectáculo de marionetes

Caminho sozinha na avenida
E recordo momentos desta pequena vida
E como amei, amei e amei
Tanto quanto por ruas e ruelas andei

Recordo tudo e parece pouco
E por vezes, sei lá, parece história de louco
Se contar, não acreditam
Se não contar, vocês não meditam

Então aqui vai…
Vivi muitos amores nesta cidade
Amores que nunca beijei
Amores que nunca toquei
Amores que nunca amei até de manhã
Amores que nunca quiseram que eu ficasse
Mas por todos, eu ansiei,
E sofri, e ainda sofro
Foram todos eles com um sopro
E agora expiro eu
Na esperança de voltar a inspirar novamente

Eu lembro
Paixões fumegantes
Correndo pela rua, ofegantes,
Como amantes
Como corremos eu e tu

Vivemos noites dignas de cinema e música
Fotografias de postal suplentes
Gemidos de pensamentos ardentes
E guitarras assanhadas 
Mas nunca ninguém fará filmes sobre nós
Ou escreverá canções de retirar a voz,
Sobre nós
A miséria de não ser reconhecível

Sabem vós…?
Quantos autocarros apanhei,
De peito inchado de crua emoção
Quantos táxis apanhei,
Com choro engolido no coração
Quantas longas caminhadas fiz,
Em desespero e frustração
Talvez não. Mas podem bem imaginar.

Sou eu, uma louca de Lisboa,
Ou assim me pintam
Mas eu levo esta comparação na boa
As verdades não me insultam

Bebi cervejas com estrangeiros que nunca conheci
Bebi ginjinhas com amantes que nunca me conheceram
Bebi vinho com amigos que desde o início me reconheceram
Fundi-me em nevoeiro enfumarado em Inglês
Fumei cigarros em Francês e charros em Italiano
Fumegei com outros corações na querida língua espanhola
E tudo isto é natural
Mas para alguém será isto de loucos?
Talvez. Mas podem bem imaginar.

Sou eu, e toca “Os Loucos de Lisboa”
Ao fundo na avenida, e entoa
No meu coração, na minha mente
Na minha alma demente

Sou Lisboeta, ou tornei-me Lisboeta,
Sabe Deus!
Mas vivo na arte de não saber
E de amar, amar, amar intensamente.
É isto, Lisboa.
Lisboa é amor.
Todos os meus amores pertenceram a ela,
E eu pertenço e pertencerei a ela.
Lisboa.
Só amando loucamente.

Pioneer to the Fall(ing)

Laying down on a luscious old couch
Colorful strobes of endless light fly about
And I’m in the dream of a lively mistress
Waiting for her painful lover’s call
Praying for another opportunity to fall

The ceiling shines bright and fleeting
As conversations draw along to nothingness
And curious souls come in the room
To experience the enticing psychedelic marvel
That we have become used to unravel

The night in the bar above appeals
To exploring the entire decadence building
And I run up the stairs, intoxicated
And drag everyone into the mistress’ reverie
Since she is as lonely as I (dear chérie)

And we all sit in a chaise longue or a sofa
And we revel in the mystical energy of the dark
Though the window calls in for a new adventure
We sit and now relish in our silence
Alien voices and music to aid our minor penance

I look outside, alone and dreary
And in my thoughts I’d find known solace
And the consciousness of loneliness to come
These people surround me now, moths and fireflies,
Yet I see nothing but magic between any lies

The mistress is me, up in smoke and fascination
Otherworldly passion and attraction
And a dire hidden need for love and adoration
Where is my lover in all this madness
One question that engulfs me in sadness

The bass and drums soothe my soul
Enough to forget the throbbing heartache
And perhaps the music is insufficient
But the lyrics, they resound their siren appel
To rest upon our broken navel

I imagine the strobbing lights still fly
And the couch tempts me to lie upon it
So I can dream once more, though numb
And believe my lover will call
So I can have a new opportunity to fall
And pour my love unto him endlessly
And die one more night beside him
Since he’s never to be of mine.





I (Don’t) Wanna Be Sedated

The bottle hits my lips
Any fight or flight action is temporarily disabled
A sort of Freudian prophecy is fulfilled
I kiss my humor goodbye
Like I’ll never get to kiss you

I feel greedy, I feel great
I feel needy, I feel nothing in this state
I love you and it pains me to say
I miss your smile and I long for your sensible touch
But I’m numb now and my pain is fluctuating above me

Yet another bottle hits my lips
And it tastes just as lonely as me
I take steady sips
I take longer gulps
But I will never be set free

I feel greedy, but oh, I feel great
I feel needy but hey, I feel nothing in this state
I love you but I forgot to say
That I miss your smile so fucking much and fuck, do I long for your graceful touch
I’m so fucking numb now and my pain flew away

I remember the words I wrote down for myself, if I felt like slipping away:
“Your sedated state only separates you from all that you love.”
And sometimes this is easy to forget…
Despite my actions, I want to remember. I want to remember my own words. I want to remember you. I want to feel you. I want to kiss your lips once more.

Tell me I can kiss you. Today or in the future.
And that will fix my hungry, lonely heart.
I don’t want another bottle. I want your soft, sweet lips.
I want you. Today. Or in the future.
And I want to remember. God, I need to remember. My words. And you.

Written and Directed by Me

Ever since I was a young kid (I’d say more towards the beginning of my teenage years), I always believed I had the magical ability to direct my life and the lives of others around. And by “direct”, I mean, create opportunities for goodness, goofiness and all around happiness for me and my loved ones.
I’ve always been the eternal romantic and optimist, and of course, I was hoping for everything to happen in the best way.

Life is obviously not as dandy and light-hearted, however, at the time, I wasn’t entirely aware of it. I have lived a rather sheltered life up until my early adult years, so I went on believing I could be a Roberto Benigni character of sorts for quite a while. I believed I could improve people’s lives just by being the silly, funny guy that doesn’t take much seriously and that goes through life in a comedic motion, engaging in it in an extremely theatrical fashion. I embodied that guy seamlessly and I suppose in a certain way it alienated me from taking existence or even life, with the earnestness and with the basic level of responsibility it also demands. I was a clown and I wanted to be a clown. I was an actor in my own life and I wanted to become one full-time. A lovely task, it seemed.

I jumped through my teenage years with the radical belief that everyone deserved to be happy, to feel truly gay, and at some point in time, I suppose I forgot myself. At this moment, if I am completely honest, I can’t be sure I actually ever did it for me. But I went all in, I committed to the character with my entire body and soul. At another point during those years, I wanted to be one of Robin Williams’ characters. I envisioned I’d be a professor Keating alike, I’d be a teacher and a guide. A daring and wise spirit. A witty human being. Willing to live my life to the fullest and assist others who wished to do the same. But you can’t live fully, if you want to become someone else. And you certainly can’t expect to give other people guarantees on how their lives will work out.

Early adulthood was therefore quite miserable, as you can expect. I realized I couldn’t play any of my desired parts anymore. I realized I’m not a director and  I am actually not in control of much. My mind and soul broke into a million pieces and I honestly thought I would not recover. It was painful and miserable. I’m still working on getting some pieces back together, if they may still belong to me.

Now, grown into a full-blown adult, I understand my intentions and my potential. I know I can’t direct or fix everything. I know I can’t be happy and fulfilled all the time. I know I’m just a human being, trying my best. I know I’m not a clown or an actor. I just am who I am. Accepting who you are beyond what you want to be is fundamental. Otherwise, you won’t realize the limits of what you can potentially be. And you won’t be able to cope with the fact that some things just don’t really happen or work out as planned.

I’m still the funny, kind and goofy guy I always rooted for in my favorite movies. I’m wise and witty and I follow my own path. I don’t wish to be another way. I’m proud to be unable to direct anything or to pretend to be someone else for all my years.

I’m happy and man, has it been a while, since it truly felt like that.
I can’t wait for the upcoming years, the next scenes in the movie of life. I’m still excited about it all. Or don’t you know… I’m still a romantic, optimist at heart?

White Dress

Wishing I was floating across the perfumed hills of a May afternoon, small wildflowers jumping up from the warm Earth, wind flying through the trees tall and tiny, sun setting lazily over top.

A white dress flows along with the breeze and with such simple ease, you wouldn’t take it for a man-made garment. Yet you would question how such beauty was to arise anywhere… but in your heart you would know, it’s how Nature works.

Everything follows a path, a trail, a journey. And now that all feels so aimless, perhaps a little time dedicated to the natural wonders of our world would offer the just solution to the complicated circumstances we all face.

Maybe just a little floating, jumping and flying. And a white dress flowing in the breeze.