English Poems

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. -------------------------------------------------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. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------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

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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

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. 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. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------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