Poemas 30

I can’t

I’ve got to get this feeling
off my chest,
but I cannot cry;
I’ve got to get this weight
off my head,
but all my tears are dry;
I’ve got to run away from this,
I’m drowning,
but he cut my wings: I cannot fly
I’ve got to help myself and yet
I feel hopeless
and so, so I die.

[Fevereiro de 2006]


I’m a fountain of blood

In the shape of a girl.

[Bjork - Bachelorette]

Pensamentos líquidos 93

Pequenas conquistas

Hoje voltei a ter carta de condução. 1 ano e 3 meses depois de ter feito uma mera alteração de morada. E fiquei contente. Mesmo depois de o IMTT me ter levado à loucura. Mesmo depois das reclamações. Mesmo depois de ter sido parada por um polícia e não ter carta. E sem nunca ter tido culpa. Depois de tudo isto, deveria estar/continuar revoltadíssima. E por segundos, depois de ter a carta de condução voltar a estar na minha mão, enchi-me de contentamento. Fui uma totó.

Mas já passou. Aproveito agora para vos incitar a nunca se deixarem vencer por estas coisas. Reclamem. Reclamem. Reclamem. Contra o IMTT, contra os CTT. Contra todas estas instituições que trabalham tão, tão, tão mal.

PS. Se tiverem histórias de roubos pelos CTT, agradecia imenso que as partilhassem comigo. Eu tenho já uma longa lista de bens pagos e nunca recebidos e de outros reparos menos onerosos. Desde edições especiais de álbuns a meros conjuntos de cozinha, desde cheques de seguros a carteiras pessoais remetidas pela polícia, tenho episódios muito variados que podia contar... As reclamações nos CTT parecem ser irrelevantes, mas parece-me que algo tem que mudar. E rápido! Let’s press the trigger.

Poemas 29


I have written and written,
said nothing about you.
You are my soul’s mirror.
You shout out loud my truth.

I have written and cried
saw you all the time.
You glitter like a fresh diamond.
You swim in cool sunshine.

I have written and pretended,
bended chest for my surrender.
You felt like it before.
You opened me up the door.

I have written and hided
for some inner, deep peace.
You tracked for a path guided.
You hoped strongly for an angel’s kiss.

I have written and listened
to your music - my light.
You have sang bitter tones.
You showed me a perfect sight.

I have written and waited
for your presence shining my life.
You came like tender dolphins.
You filled my heart inside.

[Julho de 2001]

Yes, HE could

The time is NOW!

Contos 23

Ciclo S - The tie

When we went for a drink I already had sex images inside my mind, but I kept pushing them away. After all, I had to stop smiling: my life was still miserable.
I kept looking at this guy while pretending not to care and I didn’t know what he was thinking. He was there with his captivating smile and his trendy look, his € 2000 suit and € 500 shoes. And his tie, my gosh, his terrific tie. Anyway, we were just a bunch of career people on a happy hour. Booze.
I couldn’t stop looking at his tie, while in the meantime I glanced at his eyes, his look, his exquisite smile. And, my mandatory requirement, his beautiful hands with those fashionable rings that could either mean he was married or just nothing at all. But then, while we talked cheerily about fashion, he mentioned he had to buy something for a girl. It seemed like she was his partner. It’s all the same and I didn’t care. I still wanted to look at him and enjoy the fact that, at least in a few hours from now, I would be making up this story about us.
Fortunately, our hotels were nearby. He acted according to the dandy gentleman that he looked like. He took me to my hotel, no matter his was closer. With that sweet touch of alcohol still running trough my veins, I didn’t even care a lot when I asked him to join me for a last drink at the hotel’s bar. Inconsequently.
I would love to be inconsequent. That would make me so free, but these existentialism roots attaching me to life just do not let it be. Even slightly drunk, as he was as well, I still knew all this. But I sort of admired him, I didn’t cherish him, so, last drink or no drink at all would mean so little.
So… While one drink led to another, I started my non-alcoholic booze. He kept drinking his Porto wine. That special one that he requested with, I don’t know how many years, with that fruity I don’t know what flavour. The last guy I had sex with drank beer and beer is not a fashionable drink. But Porto wine, that’s fun, even for people who don’t like it. He looked even hotter drinking it.
Anyway. He was my favourite dandy. My hot, fucking hot, dandy. Should I tell him I kind of need to get laid? Having sex with him would make me feel better. I sort of have these self-confidence issues and now I feel like shit, so sleeping with a guy like him – my favourite dandy –, would be really good. I could even smile again. Let me just think about it. But while we talked about designer shoes and hippy night clubs in Paris , my brain kept doing what it always does. It kept thinking. And I kept trying to push my thoughts away.
He was self-constrained, respectful but sassy. It was too much to figure out. And a polite no after inviting him to my room wouldn’t make next two meeting days less unbearable. It always sucks to be rejected. Even if for a drunk one night stand. But if he kept laughing like a theatre actor with that very well positioned voice, I would have a hard time restraining myself. And he did accept my drink. It is a pity the hotel is not my home, I could argue that I wanted him to see my kitsch side: all the paintings hanged on my walls were bought from street guys. Most of them were a bargain bought from street artists who won’t ever have a nice life. I love artists that won’t ever have a nice life. Have I told you that? I might tell you now.
Suddenly I used the most famous pick-up line. Do you want to come upstairs? Of course he said he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. There was this girl – his wife –and his kids. He simply couldn’t. But he didn’t seem convinced, so I tried again. What could happen now, will never happen. There will be no guilt, no restraints, nothing. Whatever may happen upstairs will be self-destroyed in less than 5 seconds. Not even MI gadgets are that effective. Booze was making me determined. My room is 405. I am going up now. You will be welcomed if you want to follow me. I’ll wait for you for 5 minutes. And tomorrow, whether you’ll meet me at my room or not, everything will be the same. We’ll be the same two people as today going to the same meeting. Just that. And then I smiled, I said goodbye and I left. I didn’t look back.
I knew he wouldn’t come.

I needed a cold shower.
I went back to my room, took my clothes off and while I looked at my beautiful “La perla” lingerie in the mirror I started feeling the alcohol running off my body. Damn. I had even chosen my underwear appropriately.
I read for a while before I got my bath ready. I had to cool off.
And then surprisingly enough someone knocked at my room door. I freaked. The idea that it could be him no longer seemed so appealing now my make-up was cleansed, my clothes were off and my room was a mess. Though it could not be him. I dressed a robe, assembled a few things under the bed, turned off the water and I finally opened the door. I was shivering. I saw only his back, covered by his long black coat and then his face, turning back at me.
Next second our tongues were inside each others’ mouths and we could hardly breathe. He suddenly stopped to apologise for taking almost half an hour before deciding to come up. It didn’t really mater. I shut him up by kissing him and he held me in his lap due to our height difference. No matter so thin, he did seem strong: he held me up high kissing my neck, my chest, for quite a while. My robe was half open and my glittering bra was shining with the dimming light and that was when he told me
Beautiful la perla lingerie. I knew you had an exquisite taste.
Had he known that no one I loved had ever cared for my lingerie, he would have said it before. But he did say it without knowing it.
I decided to lie down on the bed, open my robe and let him look at my really beautiful lingerie. And it was great. For a while I could only hope that he wouldn’t have silk underwear. But after I saw he didn’t, with those Calvin Klein perfect tight boxers, all what happened was really great sex.
When I was about to come, this non-orgasmic quiver went rapidly through my body. When I came I made no sound, as before, I controlled my muscles and I would bet he couldn’t have known I came. I like to keep my orgasms private.
That night I went back to my good old days and we had sex twice. When there was nothing else to talk about and we were too exhausted to have sex again, I asked him whether he wanted to leave. He claimed it was too warm inside and just freezing cold outside. I agreed. And we slept together. I liked when he held me, when he embraced my body with his and it got so comfortable. When he did this and immediately fell asleep, my back on his chest, my ass on his penis, my eyes were a dam of tears. But I left none of these to be shed.
I could not sleep.

When, in the morning after, he was getting ready to go back to his hotel before going to the meeting, he didn’t put his tie on. And I felt so much like asking him to do so. But I couldn’t. That would give me in. And great sex should not be screwed just because I miss you putting on your tie in the morning and your body embracing mine at night.

January, 2009

Apontamentos fugazes 122

I just gave myself in. For you. I shouldn’t have. I lost myself along the way. I am sorry, but I will build myself again. For me.

Again, a Valentino dress will surpass any guy.


Em Moçambique, a esperança média de vida é inferior a 40 anos.