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.


In the Mood For Love

Tease my body with your lonely hands,
Oh king of solitude,
Let not your pride reign you in.
Forsake your senseless obligations,
And the mindless chatter inhabiting your mind.

Tease my nerves with your electric fingers,
Oh king of illumination,
And allow the night to take you into its darkest hour.

All these years of shadowed longings
And deep pretensions,
Mean nothing to my history.
I could have always longed more,
You would have always pretended more.

We strolled through the midnight hours of the morning and the evening,
We smiled quietly when we would have laughed boisterously,
We abandoned the shade in our backs for the light in our imaginations.

Nothing was realer than what we could have had.
And thought we knew not of real,
We understood all that it meant,
Its implications would have been significant.

We chose subtle suffering.
Looking out the window in Winter nights,
Messages whispered into the wind and the trees in our home streets.
We kept all the secrets so well,
We even hid them from ourselves.
Every day was an Autumn morning.
Every night was Winter, chilling and killing our dreams of one another.
Flickers of lamp lights, gambling at our hearts.

The rain wouldn’t come until Spring
And until then we drowned ourselves
In liquor and in false expectations,
In kisses wronged and arms overtaken.
We stole what we didn’t have,
We lived what wasn’t our life.
And somehow that felt real enough.

The red lipstick I always wore faded
In another’s face.
I always waited.
I never let myself go.
I always thought the Winter would become Spring, and then Summer.
It did not.

And though the permanent sadness in me
Occasionally craves your lonely,
I realized you were no king.
Your solitude and illumination
Were a product of my unbearable imagination,
And what I really craved were my own hands on myself.

Love never left my body.
It exuded from me
And it intended to return to me.
But I expelled it away,
Like an ancient curse I feared would haunt me forever,
A curse that tormented me and threatened my descendants,
The fruits of all the love I still guard within me.

There’s still Winter days in my calendar,
And my red lipstick and heart palpitate
At their mere anticipation.
Nonetheless, most shadows have left my way.
And at last, I see what’s real.

Lights flicker outside,
It’s Autumn once more.
But the seasons shall pass as they always have,
And my illusions that negated then have long been erased.

I do crave a kiss.
(Though not your kiss, oh charmed king.)
I released my lips and my heart
To real love.
I long no more.
If I do, someone longs for me, as well.
And I pretend no more.
I suffer no more.

I wait for someone to appear outside my window,
And appear they shall.
Not hiding from anything.
Smiling up at me.
Kissing me through the wind and the trees wavering, and the lamps’ steady light.

(Guilty) Pleasure

I wonder about this quite often.
I know what it is,
But it always felt like a forbidden secret,
Something I could perhaps afford to miss.

Teach me pleasure
Since I’ve only known it fleetingly.
Teach me pleasure,
As something I also deserve to seek
Ever so unwittingly.

Teach me pleasure,
Since all I know is guilt and shame.
Teach me pleasure,
Because I don’t care about fame
Or anything that’s too obviously a game.

Sometimes I wish I had been born a man
Because all we learn is guilt, shame
Oh, and pain!
And though men chase these feelings relentlessly,
They know nothing about them.
Guilt, shame and pain,
Are all games they desire to play unrelentingly,
While completely unaware of the consequences,
Their soul-obliterating consequences.

Pleasure should be enough.
And that’s why we wish we would know it.
I want to know it
And allow it to entirely wrap up my body,
My soul, all of my spirit.
It’s been hidden from me enough
And hell knows, I’ve hidden from it myself.

Pleasure should flow through all of our lives,
As we all deserve to feel it.
So teach me pleasure,
It tires me not to know it so fully.
It kills me to hide from it.

I’m not looking to play dangerous games,
I’m just looking to take what should be mine.
I don’t want to know only guilt and shame and pain.
I deserve pleasure,
And it will be mine.

Night Walk

Night creeps up to me,
As dogs howl in the distance.
The earth is scalding,
The heart is losing warmth,
And I walk slowly, but unsurely.

There’s only the sound of barking,
And the fleeting buzzing,
And my blood rushing to my brain,
And my thoughts trying to make me insane.

I’m not sure how I came to be here,
But here I am.
The earth is still emanating heat
And my heart is growing colder.
I keep walking though I’m still unsure.

The trees wave peacefully,
White leaves gently saying hello.
The tall grass dances
And I become hypnotized.

My thoughts rage and go,
Though not as violently as they had been.
I know if they ever become fully silent,
I will not be telling their story anymore,
Or I’ll be sleeping as soundly as ever.

The only refuge on lonely Summer nights
Is the imagination.
And she runs wild –
Oh, what a child!
But if dreams make people children,
Let me fall into a deep slumber
And turn back the time.

Sometimes my ideas ease the loneliness,
Sometimes they become obsessions,
Sometimes they fade into black
And I become alone once more.

My heart is as chilled as it can be,
And I long for warmer temperatures.
Scorching times come back to mind,
And they brand my conscience one more time.
I’m alone, but I pretend I won’t be any longer.

The future seems more powerful
But it never appears to arrive.
The present is bland
And I remove myself from it.
The past comes back,
And it always leaves a painful mark.

My imagination sets in
To try and save my wounded heart and brain,
And I wonder if I should allow it to escape me.
But I always do.
Loneliness simply hurts too much.

Night has fully overcome the sky.
And though stars now cover the horizon,
Dogs still howl as solemnly as earlier.
The earth cools and takes a breath,
My heart receives a shot of warm blood,
And I walk back home.

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,
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.


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.


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.
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.