Não adoro que ele entre em mim;
não adoro que se passeie em mim;
não adoro que se divirta em mim.
Ele? Ele adora entrar e sair de mim:
sem remorsos, sem moral.
Mas hoje decidi retomar a posse da chave para mim:
matei-o.
E, agora, adoro estar a come-lo pedaço a pedaço para dentro de mim.
I wear clothes
made with fog rags
stitched with moonlight lines
and I dive into dream waves.
A versão Eça de Queirós, ainda sem história.
Wearing a turban, his body covered with sandalwood ashes and painted with dye, his face decorated with an outline of a black beard, precariously wrapped in a ragged saffron robe, fastened on a piece of rope is a loincloth that pretends to hide his nakedness, with sacred beads and sequins around his neck, a gold chain looped on his right ankle, which makes him appear to be a young sadhu although he does not have any tilaka on his forehead, he walks through Rishikesh towards Haridwar.
A smile of pure satisfaction radiates from his face as his senses embrace the colors, smells and flavors of the spice stands that surround him.
Sitting near the bank of the Ganges River, wearing the shade of a tree, after having crossed the Laxman Jhula Bridge, he realizes how magnificent the smells of Rishikesh are and is proud to have chosen this pilgrimage route to the Maha Kumbha Mela. ‘It is incredible how in a crowd one can better perceive healthy solitude’ is the thought that arises before the undulating mystique of the Ganges River. It is this refuge that he needed and also the absorption of millennial energies.
It is almost sunset. The young sadhu rises and as he leaves behind the Ganges the aquatic magic is diluted harmoniously in the bustle of the metropolis and he feels like the link that unites the two landscapes. His readings taught him that there may be no chaos in chaos, as there may be no order in order, but these maxims begin to be broken when he is surrounded by a group of tourists who had hitherto been photographing the exterior of Trayambakeshwar.
‘A HOLY MAN!’ they shouted.
‘Holy? Where?’ he questions himself, but as he is pointed out by cell phones, he suspects that they think he is the saint, ‘crazy people!’
[… an excerpt …]
Pediram-me para fazer lol ginecologista.
Aqui temos lol a ser forçado a abrir as pernas/braços.
Le Scat Noir Number #217 está disponível para download.
Mais um excelente lançamento de Black Scat Books.
Uma das minhas histórias lol tem a sua presença.
‘Daddy, I’m scared.’
‘But you don’t need to be afraid my little pumpkin. You still don’t have the right weight for the witch to be interested in you.’
A versão de lol para uma história de amor indiano ou talvez não.
Para já sem palavras, sem história.
It started raining. I opened my umbrella. Someone asked me, ‘Can you give me a ride under your umbrella?’ I replied, ‘sorry, but I do not have permission to drive umbrellas.’
‘But can I, then instead, take shelter under your umbrella since it is an umbrella with two seats?’
‘Can you tell me the time?’ I asked.
‘No because I don’t wear a watch.’
‘Then I can’t shelter you under my umbrella.’
‘And why not?’
‘Because I support the symbiosis and not parasitism.’
Desde que descobri as histórias com 10 palavras que me divirto a “tentar” criar histórias. Hoje ao ver um esqueleto estas dez palavras saltaram para o papel.
‘Está escuro aqui. Estou morto?’
‘Ainda não,’ cochichou a Morte.
