RECORDAÇÃO VI

 

É uma ânsia febril, essa memória...

Não sei se uma mulher percebe a glória

Que um homem experimenta, quando orgasmo

Indubitavelmente ele produz no espasmo

 

Inigualável que a vagina agita,

Quando ejacula, quando as unhas crava

Em suas espáduas; e um milênio trava

Alheio ao tempo, exaltação aflita

 

Por se entregar enfim, deixar-se amar

Qual nunca amada foi, por mais amantes

Que tivera em seus braços, delirantes,

 

Mas sem sua alma poderem alcançar.

E como é raro o divinal portento

Que explode a própria alma em tal momento.

 

RECORDAÇÃO VII

 

Depois de muito fazer-se de rogada,

Ela entregou-se, pensando menstruada

Não vir a engravidar, erro frequente,

Que ao menos desta vez, inconseqüente

 

Se demonstrou, pois gravidez não houve...

Sendo a primeira vez, um desajuste

Sempre surgiu; embora claro embuste

Fizesse pretender, um brado não se ouve.

 

Um sem prazer o esperma ejaculou,

A outra só de leve sentiu ardor, apenas,

A sugestão fugaz de quanto havia esperado.

 

A glória de possuir somente superou

Os anos coletados de numerosas penas,

Enquanto o pomo d'ouro foi outra vez adiado.

 

RETALIATION

This is normal indeed, for less blessed

it is to receive than to give  -- o, a deal!...

as much your feelings you'd well conceal

still there's resentment for being pressed

into thankfulness; you feel you're lessened

by having to take help and someone's advice.

it's like patronizing to you; and the spice

is bitter on your tongue, you fancy wizened.

therefore so often feelings for rebellion,

were manifested, oppression and smothering,

the suffocating power of a presence

felt too strong and all the more exacting

as nothing was requested, no collection

but for heart and mind and soul's essence.

 

RECORDAÇÃO VIII

 

Mas depois... repetimos tantas vezes...

O desajuste foi-se e, bem contrário,

O prazer revelou-se, multifário,

De intensidade plena, enquanto os meses

 

Em anos se faziam, até que um dia

Ela me disse que tinha algo a contar:

Que o amante antigo volvera a reencontrar

E que fizera amor não me escondia,

 

Pois não me pertencia e, se eu podia

Fazer com ela e outra, ela também

Tinha direito aos homens que escolhesse.

 

Mas eu, sabendo que a ela pertencia,

Entreguei-me sem mágoa e sem porém,

Para que a mim somente pertencesse...

 

DESPITE ALL

 

i am tired of thee, O Muse way too fickle

my dreams a-thwarting like a sharp sickle

 

i am tired of life, a game way too hard

cutting through my dreams like soft lard

 

i am tired of teaching, a task way too boring

looking at faces all unwilling and snoring

 

i am tired of doors, always way too close

smacking my knuckles and THEREON bleeding my nose

 

i am tired of bills, taxes way too tall

for as much i make, must spend it all

 

i am tired of pain, it's way too smart

as soon as some heals, another shall start

 

i am tired of people, a job way too difficult

smiling outwardly to swallow ALL the insult

 

i am tired of working, far away too long

melting out my brains, getting paid a song

 

i am tired of sonnets, far away too true

to register my ashes, my demise, my rue

 

i am tired of courting, far away too sick

a heart in a maze, walled in by brick

 

i am tired of translating, way too meaningless

all the folly of others, mine own to stress

 

i am tired of fighting this computer of mine

troubling me galore, always grudging a line

 

i am tired of praying, as far too heedless

as my mirror gods, never bent to bless

 

i am tired of preying on my own design

my hands oozing verse, soul sweating brine

 

i am tired of my dreams, far away too roving

never to be accomplished, all astray from loving

 

i am tired of my body, way too a prison

fettering and chaining, season follows season

 

i am tired of my heart, way too hopeful

expecting too much, then achieving null

 

i am tired of my mind, way too clotted

with useless song, by poetry besotted

 

i am tired of my soul, way too clean

to believe in death, in hell, in sorry sin

 

i am tired of giving, way too bleeding

yet never taking, yet never seeding

 

i am tired of waiting, far away too patient

procrastination always, never a fast grant

 

i am tired of expecting, far away too soon

for my labors' salary and never a free boon

 

then i am tired of hope, 'tis way too beckoning

an hourglass of wisps to sightless reckoning

 

and yes,

 

i am tired of thee, O Muse way too fickle

my dreams a-thwarting always

ever the sharpest sickle

 

and still

for all my pains, for sorrow deeply riddled

fight back i shall till all my fight is stilled!...