Marina Podgaevskaya

Setembro 16, 2012 § Deixe um comentário

Anúncios

Joseba Eskubi

Setembro 10, 2012 § Deixe um comentário

Para os dadás

Março 11, 2012 § 1 Comentário

Imperturbável

Fevereiro 15, 2012 § 1 Comentário

Perturba a imensidão do intocável

Com seus louros e vivos glamoures

A dor é insólita, ainda assim genuína

A paz, inalcançável, se posta atrás de mim

E com a crépida imagem daquilo que jamais vi

Fujo aos sentidos das sensações imagináveis

Beijo os lábios da incerteza

Aprofundo-me na imaturidade das minhas concepções

E em passos vertiginosos, eu caminho diretamente sem rumo

Para as águas rasas e ímpias dos meus sonhos, minhas loucuras

Por Constance, constantemente perdida em si mesma

Horror Art

Janeiro 24, 2012 § 6 comentários

Cá estava eu, olhando sites variados na internet e eis que encontrei por fim o meu estilo favorito arte. Encontrei umas imagens especialmente legais e que me fizeram ter muita vontade de aprender a utilizar todas aquelas técnicas de photoshop, ou até mesmo ter algum sucesso, seja qual fosse, com um pincel ou um lápis. Enfim, com quanto eu não tenho talento, tampouco empenho para desenvolver algum, vou postando por aqui as minhas tão cobiçadas imagens de horror art.

 E depois de ficar por horas a fio apenas olhando para cada detalhe destes graciosos desenhos, a trilha sonora a me acompanhar me passava certa sensação de desespero tão conveniente.

The Cure – Lost

A Idealização Antagônica Em Um Único Todo

Dezembro 19, 2011 § 2 comentários

Era todo amor, todo obsessão, todo sincero, todo puro! Era tão intenso e tão forte que era impossível resistir. A calmaria abraçava o diabo, que sorria, apaixonada! Olhem só, ela desenha na face a expressão de seriedade e êxtase, são mais perfeitos um para o outro do que se pode julgar possível. A liberdade é abraçada pela segurança. E a imaginação os prende em todos os seus desejos, ele cria, ela vive. Ela sonha, ele escreve! Ela canta, ele lê! Vivem suas vontades, às suas vontades. A idealização de amor e vida. Oh, a perfeição aos meus olhos. Juntos são um só, tudo aquilo que eu sempre sonhei. E talvez os sejam pois vivem os sonhos.

The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy

Outubro 27, 2011 § Deixe um comentário

He proposed in the dunes,

they were wed by the sea,

Their nine-day-long honeymoon
was on the isle of Capri.

For their supper they had one specatular dish-
a simmering stew of mollusks and fish.
And while he savored the broth,
her bride’s heart made a wish.

That wish came true-she gave birth to a baby.
But was this little one human
Well, maybe.

Ten fingers, ten toes,
he had plumbing and sight.
He could hear, he could feel,
but normal?
Not quite.
This unnatural birth, this canker, this blight,
was the start and the end and the sum of their plight.

She railed at the doctor:
“He cannot be mine.
He smells of the ocean, of seaweed and brine.”

“You should count yourself lucky, for only last week,
I treated a girl with three ears and a beak.
That your son is half oyster
you cannot blame me.
… have you ever considered, by chance,
a small home by the sea?”

Not knowing what to name him,
they just called him Sam,
or sometimes,
“that thing that looks like a clam”

Everyone wondered, but no one could tell,
When would young Oyster Boy come out of his shell?

When the Thompson quadruplets espied him one day,
they called him a bivalve and ran quickly away.

One spring afternoon,
Sam was left in the rain.
At the southwestern corner of Seaview and Main,
he watched the rain water as it swirled
down the drain.

His mom on the freeway
in the breakdown lane
was pouding the dashboard-
she couldn’t contain
the ever-rising grief,
frustration,
and pain.

“Really, sweetheart,” she said
“I don’t mean to make fun,
but something smells fishy
and I think it’s our son.
I don’t like to say this, but it must be said,
you’re blaming our son for your problems in bed.”

He tried salves, he tried ointments
that turned everything red.
He tried potions and lotions
and tincture of lead.
He ached and he itched and he twitched and he bled.

The doctor diagnosed,
“I can’t quite be sure,
but the cause of the problem may also be the cure.
They say oysters improve your sexual powers.
Perhaps eating your son
would help you do it for hours!”

He came on tiptoe,
he came on the sly,
sweat on his forehead,
and on his lips-a lie.
“Son, are you happy? I don’t mean to pry,
but do you dream of Heaven?
Have you ever wanted to die?

Sam blinked his eye twice.
but made no reply.
Dad fingered his knife and loosened his tie.

As he picked up his son,
Sam dripped on his coat.
With the shell to his lips,
Sam slipped down his throat.

They burried him quickly in the sand by the sea
-sighed a prayer, wept a tear-
and they were back home by three.

A cross of greay driftwood marked Oyster Boy’s grave.
Words writ in the sand
promised Jesus would save.

But his memory was lost with one high-tide wave.

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