lsd com torrada.

bird watches as metropolis fades i could smell the sea breeze over your cigarette smoking. now two days after the encounter, i feel exquisite, as if i'm missing something. i am confused again, why is it? oh, why.  i didn't avoid your gaze, or i tried my best not to do so. i must be sincere to the point and say that i wasn't attracted to you that day, nor may be again, but still the strangeness persists. why is it? oh, why. i recall that other day, you set your eyes on me and i was only melting like ice cream; but this time, no, i have to say that: no! i could see you were trying, but i didn't melt. i was more of a pretty frozen ice cream right out from the fridge. now the metropolis reaches its farthest and suddenly contracts, shrinks before my bare hands: the metropolis will not turn bigger, it will not become the equatorial megalopolis.  the metropolis is illusion, only a village.

dementors in privet drive? there's a blackout immediately after that call. the metropolis is dark, though it is not dangerous. not now. the metropolis is only senseless, reason-less. what to do? what not to do? what is it? people think that will never happen (or never happen again): they are inside-out-ly wrong. i wander off, hands in my pocket, dreams terrify me during the long nights. who will i call? who will tell me "oh, you're too much skinny dear". empty, way empty. the metropolis doesn't have a voice, anymore. right now, the metropolis is, just is, no plausible reason to its existence.

right now i feel pretty ok, we have been away for some weeks and this addiction has faded away. am i right on this, of course not. but then, again, my mind - it plays me every once in a while - is making me think of other boys: past ones, new ones, the world is so tiny, i get angry everytime i see you flirting with some other boy i know... but whatever, it's 01:37pm and i'm making a party home alone while listening to some electropop and trying to write something decent on African feminism.

try hard: Africa is just there as i listen to the dixie chicks truth hit me hard  i am thoroughly left alone the other day when the bus passed across the bridge i realized all i wanted was to see africa across the atlantic ocean and what is my life if not this: wishing what is impossible desiring anything beyond my hands touch, my cold hugs and i hate these free verses poems for they really mean is i am thoroughly left alone

boys, boys, boys i lie in the couch, the tv is on. that entertains me, actually. but i'm anxious. i can't get over that. something pops up and suddenly i am overwhelmed by that feeling (it's not a good friend, though i've known it for some years now). you pop up in the screen and my heart jumps. my heart knows how to behave in these situations. i need to recap what i am, again and again. would you be my fucking boyfriend ? i would never be someone's boyfriend. i am forever trapped between "i'm sorry, i don't want a relatioship" (as if i had ever proposed something) and the "oh, leave me alone, i wanted you to be my boyfriend" (as if i hadn't said that i'm not into formal relationships). how to get away with this? i have this urge to run and call you, immediately refuted. control your mind, discipline it. how can this be? i can't stand this.

Como escrever uma carta de amor para mim mesmo? I miss the old times . De verdade, quando eu me sentia mais completo sozinho - apesar de sozinho. E eu ia ao cinema sozinho, ao teatro sozinho. No money no family 16 in the middle of miami , ou no meio de botafogo. Rindo sozinho na sala de cinema,  indo a boate sozinho após ir ao teatro sozinho. Jantar sozinho. Almoçar sozinho. Tomar um café sozinho. Como faz isso? E, agora, como fazer tudo isso de novo? Como me controlar e não fazer burrices? O que eu amo em mim mesmo? Tough question. Self-love Letter to Myself. Eu nem sei lavar os cabelos direito. Por que em alguns momentos temos esses arroubos de automutilação? Raspar a barba (quando se fica esquisito sem ela - ou se é esquisito o tempo todo?). Cortar os cabelos (mas eles não estão uma bosta mesmo?). Esse desejo de se estragar: isso eu amo em mim mesmo. Ou esse ar semi-inteligente que sustento, fingindo ler mais que do leio efetivamente,  conhecer mais músicas (apesar...

view from the hospital window da janela, enxergo o mar de prédios que se tornou icaraí. não enxergo o mar. enxergo uma catedral, algo grandioso. Tem uma cúpula, ou duas, e eu imagino a abóbada - como será por dentro? Toda cúpula tem sua abóbada? uma cúpula e uma torre, na verdade. os sinos que ouço vem do outro lado. sento no sofá e tenho o cuidado de não entornar a bebida. o que é? vinho, vodka? eu preferia cerveja. não me recordo se você bebia cerveja, acho que sim. agora me vem a memória aquele dia, você aos meus pés com uma lata de cerveja. você bebe cerveja. (mas não gosta tanto). eu olho para você. estamos sentados, no sofá da casa de minha vó, eu e você. ou você me olha profundamente ou sorri sem graça. ou com graça? isso é algo que nunca saberei. i wish i had elizabeth taylor 's eyes levanto de novo, isso é tudo uma baboseira. a pizza está fria. por que comprei pizza? eu nem como isso. o telefone está ali, iluminado. visualizo-o. visualizei. visuali...

last time, i had an intention that I didn't carry on. I tried, though. is it true, or am I lying to myself? I tried for less than 24 hours. the city had a vibrant color, I could see all those vivid, brilliant spots, all the agreeable sounds around me - your eyes sparkling, your laugh resounding. the rain, its sound. i cannot say who was laughing more: you or me, or those girls inside that car. that was what you said... silly boy, angry boy: who is who but then, again, what is this all about... is it some joke? some play? i was about to send "okay, sorry again for being boring or persistent, or just intruding myself", but then again: no. who am i pretending to deceive?  maybe until next time you send me something... will it happen again?

who's gonna care for your bleeding soul , i repeat that. i keep repeating. i wander around the city: the neighborhoods seem so boring. i am boring. as i walk, i spot you. but it's not you. or is it? i flush immediatelly. my cheeks are red. i walk fast. the city can't help me. my phone is a recipient of flop dates. did they really become dates? or only try-dates? i am failure. i am nothing. the city can't help me. my gods are gone. the city can't help me, it's all grey now...

pego o telefone e aperto as teclas: 2711-9823. esse prefixo é claramente de niterói, tal como 3396 é da ilha do governador. a ligação segue, alô. a voz é familiar, mas o que vem depois não. vovó já não está em casa. disco 2711-9823 novamente. já ninguém atende. às vezes, eu mesmo atendo. levanto da cama e vou até a sala, atendo. alô. as pessoas estranham a voz masculina que responde. algumas desligam, outras tentam a sorte. vovó ainda está no hospital.  o disco segue, o telefone continua tocando, eu, invariavelmente, continuo ali, esperando.