boneless poems

1the stench of death comes up into my nostrils/

defeated by the romans my mind flees in disorder/
there must be a place out there
beyond the distant walls of imagination/
where the souls lie low to communicate the impossible.

2 don’t you ever set any sort of example/

avoid analogies of all kinds/
your soul is to rise above all senses/
don’t forget to dump it into the nearest trash can.

-don’t you ever set any sort of example/

avoid whatever is unavoidable regardless of anything/
your soul is to prevail over the greedy being:

we’ll meet each other in hell.

3-words do not move.

silence is definitely unchallenging.
i can now see the invisible track of the unknown/
enclosed in my thoughts like a frenzy soul.

4 i can easily see whatever is not said before me.

i still have a name for that and that name is: nothing.

language is a fallacy that ignores manifestations of any kind.

.

existence is then a matter of death.

5 i often wrestle with the words before me/

by rolling with the punches as they vainly try to extricate themselves/
there’s absolutely no virtue lying over the battle field/
just like hidden presages which remain speechless every once in a while.

i am nothing but a mere spectrum plunged into the flames of chaos/

the son of the dark,
 wherever the mind ceases to search for the impossible/

i am nowhere soaked into the numbness of thy soul/

i am nothing but a mere spectrum plunged into the flames of chaos.

7-my heart bleeds all over/

as my mind flows into despondency/
in the emptiness of my soul the image of nothing/
there’re no limits in the frisky movements of the unknown.

i see nothing but countless bloody images.

existence is said to be impossible without them
i shall ponder very little over manifestations of any kind,
nor about the way they’re thrown into the world.

i see nothing as my heart bleeds all over

as my mind flows into despondency prickled by the word menacious

i see nothing but countless bloody images

way over there as they knock at an invisible door.

9 since i have very little to say, i remain silent:

nothing can be done when the words leap into the darkness.

the more i write, the more i come to realize

that the invisible is worth ten thousand verses.

what’s existence but a sequence of tepid meaningless events/

that undermine our vigour under such flaky notions of time and space/
i shall travel tomorrow morning with no previous itinerary in mind/
for fate is eternally now and never.

10-my mind vanishes into the air since its afraid of its own shadow/
words come and go and find no peace in my tormented soul/
it’s about time i packed up and headed nowhere/
strangled by an ever-growing despondency in the land of pain and sorrow.

11-thoughts are like fractured visions.

existence answers for nothing but wisdom in disdain.
emptiness makes the being possible.
thoughts are like living entities in the very core of the souls:
naturally useless when invigorated by choice.

12-i make no move towards the impossible/

the impossible prevails over any dicey reasoning/
god is dead and so is human nature:
imprisoned souls weep over its tombstone.

13a lost mind created the being

faith then came into the world to support such flaky illusion/.
invigorated by a tepid existence that made decadence possible/
by ignoring all the instincts under the rubble on a sad day.

a lost mind created the being

nothing would ever exist like a suspended look anywhere
i could hear the unheard crashing into my mind
like that tree who never dared to be a root once
like that bird who´d flap its wings to disclose the glade
just like that ocean which would gradually eat those rocks away.

14my soul is often crushed by melancholic rainy days/

as the door that leads to the hall is invariably ajar/
i shall see nothing through it
but ancient visions which gradually pop off in the dark/

winter is in once again/

it’s about time i cut myself off from the rest of the world/
dragged by the flow of nature to be selfless in eternal disdain.

15-through silence and meditation

i return to the primitive movements of my soul:
i look back to envision whatever lies ahead as a mystery.

nature does not seem to make quantum leaps:

our indigence is ruled by infatuation in the very core of it.
through silence and meditation
i return to the primitive movements of my soul:
-just as the drunkard tries to emulate the flying of a black bird.

6 i can barely think of a definition for the word pain.

pain is what i feel as the sun goes down.

the smell of rancid butter coming up into your nostrils

the same tasteless cold coffee in your mouth:
that’s pain.

your soul decapitated by gloomy nightmares every so often:

that’s pain.

what’s is not said,

what’s is virtually invisible in my crushed bowels:
that’s absolutely what it seems to be: it´s raw
it´s always a bit too rough:

that´s pain
and more and more pain.

17-no one can teach us to be no one.

it takes a lot of solitude or abandonment.
it takes a lot more than the mastery of uncountable words from insane
grammar notions.

to be no one is like to be like a pronoun.

close to the mirror so as not to be able to see whatever is to be seen.

no one can teach us to be no one

for all the senses have to be buried somehow.

to be no one is to be like the opposite of the so called verb to be.

it´s invariably more than a state of mind

invariably more than a frame of spirit
it´s a cross between a lugubrious verb and a insane noun
or may be it´s just like any damn sunset on a desert beach.
no one can teach us to be no one:
it´s takes a lot whenever there´s very little.

18-songs

as i look around and see

so many years have gone by and i still know so little
about the birds that come and go just to watch me/
from the hidden branches deep inside my soul.

.
somehow we manage to have a chat:
nothing is really said as the sun hits our bodies like a hammer.
somehow we manage to have a chat:
nothing is really said as we calmly watch the snow fall down.
.

19i can see the streets from this window

the coming and going of cars
the pedestrians promenading along them
the coffee shop
the post office
the roaring of the unknown in my eardrums.

my tormented spirit seeks for balance through the eyes of a ghosty snake
as i’m stalked by devilish movements in ever-growing melancholy.

20 there’s no more time to see

what the invisible has just taken away from us
infinity is loneliness therefore can only be felt
when death discreetly knocks at your door.

there’s no more time to regret

the improper use of any speech to disclose indigence
between the words and things there remains the yawning gap
the unique shadow that drags your soul to the bottom.

21 no one could see whatever lies ahead in wait

i invariably slither my throat without any reasonable explanation
dark words hammer into my mind like a ming vase smashed into pieces
the streak of blood coming out of my dry mouth.

i talk to the cold floor that nests me like a tender old lady
unruffled before the bugs which walk over my numb body
i shall not struggle to reach the same old creaky door that leads to the
basement
by always crawling over the impossible with empty hands.

22 as i stroll around that park

i see those inquisitive trees which ask the wind who that stranger might be.
i know very little about the silent movements of my soul
that’s why i peel oranges not to lose my mind melted in a pot.

my anguish slides over distant landscapes

since whatever pains me bears no possible resolution
sweeping life around like a bloody river, startled by an endless curdling
scream
my anguish smothered in the darkness like a choked off cry

22-the idea of having to make a choice pains me/

therefore i`m as inflexible as those rocks down the beach.

a couple of centuries ago they looked very much the same

since the sun and the ocean have done their bit to deceive time just like a
broken clock/

ignored by the ordinary eyes of a inattentive beholder

those rocks moan and groan so discreetly in my mind.

the idea of having to make a choice pains me:

therefore i remain silent as the sun slowly goes down.

23 i can barely say a single word

lured by this damned silence like a shot of rot-cut whisky
i’d turn into a piece of wood to meet the dead anywhere
deep down under the earth without saying my prayers late at night.
 i can barely say a single word
lured by this damned silence like a shot of vodka in hell
i shall look through nothing to rake over the ashes back in time
deep down under the earth to be no one in the corridors of madness.

23-i can’t see much here and there

my eyes rub on the blurring of whatever is around me.
i express my crooked thoughts just like any unfinished painting:
a portrait of my tormented soul just like the blood drops that run through
my mind.

my favorite color is exactly the unknown

the one which makes the absence of a background possible
therefore that landscape would allow itself to conceal
the flow of an unique soul dragged by a never-ending emptiness.

the wind blows my hat away

just like my thoughts that fly over nowhere
huge bloody waves crash into my mind so i faint on the street to be taken
to the land of the unspoken as if there were no more words.

the wind whispers its sadness into my ears

going away like a black bird which leaves no trace behind it
i can see the dead slouched into the sofa burning like a candle in the hallway
of sorrow
trudging trough mud in the very core of the most intense pain.

25 i hear the unheard late at night

i see the unseen trough the shadows of ever-growing abandonment
touching the untochable pains me every so often
just like the taste of whatever cannot be tasted that melts into my dry mouth;

likewise i smell whatever gives off no smell

entangled by the impossible in the very core of despondency
everytime i hear the unheard late at night
just like the sound of silence which grows intensely into my soul

26needless to say i’m deeply bothered by the commas

by that cabalistic full stop which invariably manages to hamper the flow of my
bloody words.
darkness and punctuation definitely do not come together:
a yawning gap emerges from the suffocating bookish rules.

there should be no commas nor full stops nor semi-colons and the kind.
interrogation marks are definitely totally lacking as well.

the world should be put into question by extraordinary strains of subtle

thoughts
the most original question to be asked would be the one
about why there should be a why.

27as i’m obliged to face up the mirror every damn morning/

i realize oldness is a lot more than saying that the years go by/
i have bags under my eyes which bump into my nightmares like a vicious
circle/
since i can still manage to climb up the stairs not as fast as anyone can
imagine/
got in the habit of taking the elevator up and down drinking myself to death/
tripping over my sadness as i drag myself wearily to the unlimited.

the unlimited which lends itself to the unspoken

which spreads quickly all over my body and soul like any kind of untreatable
disease
the evil makes himself known inside the organs that struggle for survival in
the battle field
the cannonfodders that fall to the floor right in front of me
the cops who had shot that weird man point blank late at night
that starved dog barking nervously on the corner of a desolated street.

28that window over there is wide open

i can see whatever can be seen wherever it might be.
i’m definitely blind close to the movements of nature
since whatever grows around me is not as palpable as the invisible.

sometimes i picture myself turning into a myriad of lost souls

which constantly hit one another to form shapeless strain of thoughts
hurled like a piece of scrap metal against the walls of an ever-growing silence
next to the words that flow like a river to vanish in the dark.
29 i write poems to challenge this feeling of emptiness
therefore i never manage to get my head straight
the more i lose my senses the more i come to realize/
that life is like a pandora box where evil stands out at our dinner table.

i do write poems for the sake of my mental health

the way i feel is even worse than ever, considering the intensity of my
madness/
i bite into any native’s bone cartilage just like a bunch of cannibals on a lost
island
nothing would ever prevail over this huge grave where i bury my damned
name for keeps.

i do write poems to open and close the doors

of my mind that rules my thoughts like a overthrown king anywhere
i write poems to see that glade where the being comes up the very moment it
conceals itself/
to open and close doors in the cemetery of my imagination.

30 the clock shall not lie to me know.

it is midnight in this cozy kitchen.

the universe shakes my soul telling me the end is always near:

yesterday and tomorrow both blended into our present curse.

i open the cupboard to get myself some more sugar right now
there’s got to be a way to stir this damn coffee like that dead lady used to

she comes over here dressed in layers due to the cold weather
to tell me about my ancestors who were once nobody like me.

the old man shakes my hand as if that would be possible

some centuries ago like a lost entity on the corner of a dark street
we walk straight to the square where his head lies on the floor decapitaded
for unknown reasons ingrained in that same impietous slaughter.

the clock shall not lie to me know

it’s midnight in this cozy kitchen
the unbearable ghosts will bump into me in the hallway of madness
so as to cast light into my drowning soul .

31anytime is the time right now

we shall go nowhere just like the dead that behave as if they had nothing to
lose
what is at stake is not how or where or who or even what
the most original question must be buried for a while
the one which would greet the most intense silence in a single word.

i strongly recommend that we pack up and travel as soon as possible

not to find the same old reflex in the mirror as if we were to be this or that
to spit out fire like any outcast entity in the corridors of pain
enclosed in dreadful thoughts leaned against despondency.

32
i do need to say very little
insanity vanishes into the air as if i could feel the presence of death
there are no words to describe whatever slips trough my fingers
the very act of washing hands with no hands and no water.

i say what i say in the first and third person

i can move my arms and legs since i do not now who i am
he can move his arms and legs the same way i do
since we have no absolute idea what to do next.

33 time is gone
whatever is left plunges into nothing
to be a lot more than the word intensity
just like that dead bird washed away by despondency.

time is gone
whatever is left tears my soul apart
to be cut off as if there had been absolutely no flow
in the image of a purging desert that appears to me every now and then.

time is gone
just like this meaningless verb in the past participle
imprisoned in my voice which fades away
to bang his head against the walls of pain.

34i do ignore
whatever is said right now or right in the middle of nowhere/
since most of the words cannot bring me home/
to have a cup of tea right next to those ghosts in perpetual solitude.

i shall not consider the possibility of killing myself in the winter

for silence is already ingrained in my veins
like a rock which has made that ordinary landscape
very unique over the centuries of intense pain.
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35
i do plunge into
whatever is said
to be no one
in the years to come
i shall vanish
like a missing link somewhere
since the days and the nights
will never cease to exist.

35to smoke a cigarrete

inside the rings of smoke
to be the smoke
that hits the ceiling so despondent
raking over the ashes in ever-growing silence
as smoothly as any autumn leave
that fall from those snappy branches.

36i do speak from a world/

which does not really exist/
as if the word possible/
were buried in the depths of my soul/
like those menacious clouds/
which do tear my mind apart/
 just like those rain drops running down the window/
right after the five-o´clock-tea.

37i shall teach all men how to fly

to surpass all possible limitations
to find another name for the term earth
therefore the world ought to be best called/
the lightest of the lightest of all.

i shall not bear the thought

of any heavy gloomy spirit anywhere/
seeking for resemblance in piety/
dropping on his knees like any secluded beast/
ready to cope with the burden of existence.

37i do not know

the meaning of the word meaning
which as dead as any dead creature
that finds its way inside the word freak
which dresses in layers to face the word blizzard
so definitely empty close to the word glade
which manages to rest upon the nothing
as if the word landcaspe
were able to bury the hatchet
that chopped off the word head
born to roll down the word staircase
inside the word slippery
on top of any cursed verb
cornered by the urge of the unknown
which casts its net wide
inside the word darkenss.
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38 the time is not the time

when my eyes are closed
inside the word insanity
which sits at the table
to have its meals
right next to that tricky subject
which does feel slided
taken that its more passive than ever
taken that he had an accident on the way home
inside the word home
which does not mean much here
the place is not the place
when the words try to keep their heads above the water
the water that manages to wash the nothing away
inside the word waves
when my eyes are definitely closed
somewhere inside the word adrift.

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii

39 i can see through the beyond like the ones who are definitely in the dark
like those who graze their souls as they fall into the nothing
the windows were open when i threw myself off the bridge
the ocean which came hard upon my shoulders that very night
as i hid my soul in the very core of the word bottom.

i can see through the beyond like the ones who are definitely in the dark
as i talk to those bread crumbs every damn morning
as if time and space were a matter of cutting off my hands and arms
there´s got to be way to breed the unspoken somewhere
to shoot myself in the head before that damn word mirror.
-------------------------------------------

40 all my senses
mean very litlle
therefore
whatever i do
shall be taken for granted
to have plenty of time
to iddle in luxury
or to be definitely so damn poor
to manage to observe
whatever is not said
whatever is not heard
that unique fragance
which is hidden somewhere
not to be dilacerated
by any brutal disgraceful eye
which will never be able to witness
the growing of that tree.

41 so much pain
inside the invisible
which falls into my soul
as i see the very little through it
all possible word
is now under investigation
wherever there is ignorance
to unravel the word door
which shall lead to the unspoken
just like saying that the eyes are glittering
in the most intense wilderness
to icinerate the forest
segregating all the leaves
on top of one another
to be eaten
like that dog
who was definitely killed the day before yesterday
to give time some reasoning
so that it could easy the mind
which is used to crumbling away
just like any damn whole
from which you can`t stick your neck out
to bear the unbearable
just like an empty boat
washed away by a couple of waves
which crashed down inside the sin
so commited you must be
to the silence that carries down your morals
it´s about time
you took off the word clothes
to lay out in the sun
to feel the rays
which celebrate the advent of life
your eyes closed
inside the unending thought
which drums the table
like ghosty fingers.

000000000000

42 tormented drums.

i listen to whatever is not said

there´s this funny thing in my ears
where meaning ceases to exist
as strange as the word strange
something like a squad of dogs barking on a desert street
something like a deaf beat
that opens a rusty door
that opens an ancient door
which opens what is to be opened
to dig into the primitive impossility
of saying crooked things
therefore we come to the conclusion
that we have a special fondness
for fallacies of all kinds
taken that truth is definitely
in the eye of the beholder.

i can see through all this bleeding

which makes my mind stumble
so disgruntled inside the inside
i

to sing like the birds

who fade away like any muffled sound
i wake every morning to praise nature
who grows around me under the shade of
 000000000000

i have an aversion to the word time

since time is a matter of not knowing when/
used to like that clock
fairly immutable like those days and nights
used to drink a lot more to feel relieved
after a hard day inside the word pain.

i have an aversion to the word word

since it needles my mind by telling the wordl is possible
there´s got to be a way of breaking the walls of the inefable
to

toughts and doubts

sometimes i feel lost

sometimes i feel in love,

sometimes i love you,

sometimes this all is not true,

sometimes my past denies my present,

sometimes i live an illusion,

sometimes life is strange,

sometimes life changes

i’m not sure,

there are blood words in this paper,

there are painful words in this paper,

my mind is like a wave

everything is spinning,

my body dies second after second,

i don´t know about my spirit
sometimes he´s in a mode, sometimes he’s in another,

and as time goes by, life makes me cry,

sometimes i guess this is just a dream, just fantasy, but it isn´t,

my toughts are a labyrinth,

i want to get out of there,
i want to open my wings and fly out of them , before everything turns into
ashes,

i wish i coud rewind the past time, and just do it right

i want to love like i did before,
i want do make my parents happy causig them no more problems
i want to be perfect,

but i won´t surrender, i won’t make it easy,

i’ll overcome it and live my life.

by: lucas souza eyer paixão

.
.

stomp ballad

i see the dead

wherever i go
as if the word go
would always prickle my eardrums
so definitely bitter
like this cloudy day
inside its grave
buried like any corpse
that did its beat to relieve
the incredible vulgar tension
which keeps us from making the breaktrough
by placing our souls
on a bloody silver platter.
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be was been
who would be the no one
taken that this is not real
as empty as empty soul

be was been
the present wolfs down on the past and the future
who would definitely desintegrate
before all the words vanished into the air?

taken that nothing is nothing

something must be like the other side of the coin.

the other side of the coin is like a nothing

taken that the other side of the coin is something i don`t know much about.
 slowly but surely
my mind does it best to become to have no side
just like the impossibility for those who dare say
that this is just a matter of being literary sideless

so the prefix will end on all this painful emptiness

0000000000000000000000

without words
without really thinking
u shall reach the unreachable
for the sake of the most intense
the most intense of all
taken that i don´t really know
how to put a end to it
to discard
anythi