Basbaque X

drink up
dreamers
you're

running dry. 

Peter Gabriel

No smiles
no supposed mutual understanding
no looks
only in a nothing-to-do-with-anything kind of way
no fucking
in a way
but certainly
in another
("My dear, I'm working on the most marvelous invention... a boy who disappears as soon as you come, leaving a smell of burning leaves and a sound effect of distant train whistles.")
no second intentions
enough with those
the mission taken then of
just caring about first intentions
since
"we are meant to be seen
and not to be understood".
and in a caring way
you say to your former and/or current
(whatever former and/or current:
parent, lover, friend, stranger, etc.)
in a deep first intention-based way
yelling
"I SWEAR IT WAS NOT MY CHOICE"
and you stop and listen to what you've cried out
and you sorta like the sound and the feel of that
and you yell
"I USED TO BE SO KIND...".
And you quit Marling for a bit
and recall over-quotted Hamlet's
need of being cruel only to be kind
as drags Polonius corpse elsewhere
and you get confused.

Que tumor?

The matter being that of being chosen
rather than choosing
no matter how fucking much
you may imagine yourself
as being able
to choose.

And you simply
(because it's so simple)
don't know what you're doing
you're running out of premises
which are
in a second-intention way of speaking
vitally important when you want to make sense.
When you want to make
strictu-sensu-sense-based-choices,
that is,
second-intention-sense-based-choices.

if you don't,
you just move
and it's good
and it's bad
because life
seems to be
in fact
nothing
told by an idiot, etc.

Basbaque IX

Lake Bell

Talvez eu possa vir a me interessar por minhas cicatrizes de modo igual ou, se não, de modo que trave algum parentesco a como minha mãe me mostrava e ainda às vezes mostra as queimaduras de passar roupa ou de cozinhar ou sua tatuagem no tornozelo. Menos por uma suposta gravidade absoluta supostamente intrínseca a “uma certa mulher chamada mãe”, que pelo mistério desde priscas eras de uma rosa mínima no tornozelo que faz acenar o verde o vermelho e o espinho o caule e todo o seu movimento contido na cor na pele (e as rugas da corola que são algo um rosto de algum modo traçando algo uma expressão inadivinhável) e de um corpo que funciona de modo diferente do meu, cicatrizes não-extraordinárias, que ignoram ou de todo modo não se valem de coisas como soberanas fantasias de amor conjugal frustrado tórrido com desenlace estúpido num cigarro me beijando o antebraço, mas de algo tão imperativo e impessoal quanto o café da manhã e ainda conservar um mistério que não posso pronunciar.