HOVERING

 Text by Alceu Natali, copyright protected by Law 9610/98

I always halt, I ask myself what satisfaction I can get, Not grounded in reality that fades into oblivion in the shell mound on the other side of the North Star and I remain unresolved, I still try to get the best of both worlds, But I linger, Drifting between Africa and India, Between coming from the northern hemisphere to nest in my homeland, In holes, In ravines, In hollow logs, And only making flowers, Trinkets and even nests, In all human dwellings, Wherever they may be, The sun's slowness below the horizon makes me impatient, And I hurriedly go to call the moons of Jupiter, Of ​​Saturn and other lands that still don't see me, Throughout this universe, And when darkness envelops me, I let go of your arms, I jump in freefall through the vortex of a dream that belongs to somebody else, Until I reach the chasm that closes around my aura, Along my traveled roads of life, And from above you emerge like the great mirror reflecting your lost image, With this woman in long dress, Embraced in a dance for forgotten hours, This woman suspended in the air, As if you had invisible hands holding me above the ground, And my most immense efforts, With eyes and ears, Barely manage the slightest movement, The slowest camera, Everything hovers, Like a subtle mist above the swamps, In its mysterious time that seems to stop the night, In its silence of indefinite extension that seems to hold the soul of all dead generations, Thus, Indifferent to happiness, And resigned to the indeterminism of its existence, I feel the approach of inexorable vultures, Slowly circling over me, Sniffing my body of a color, Fading my consciousness to black and white.

WOLF IN THE BREAST

 

Text by Alceu Natali, copyright protected by Law 9610/98

Under my blouse

There is a heart that beats non-stop

That races at the slightest sign of fear

At the slightest sign of love

If you use it

Just to satisfy your recklessness

You can lower my resistance

But not defeat me

I can cry inside

Without you noticing

Because you don't know how much I can take

Under my blouse

There is a pair of breasts ready to nurse

That rises at the slightest cry

At the slightest touch of affection

If you abuse it

Just to delight yourself

You can even excite me

But you won't conquer me

I can make myself easy prey on the outside

And deceive you

Because you don't know how a wolf devours

Under my blouse

There is a womb that prepares for the future

That feels a chill at the slightest sign of emotion

At the slightest sign of passion

But if you fertilize it and excuse yourself

To escape responsibility

You can attempt to attack my motherhood

But you won't stop me from giving birth

I can tell you that it is not nothing serious

And let you go

Because a she-wolf alone has already raised children capable of forming an empire

BETTER WITH THE NINE OF YOU

 

Text by Alceu Natali, copyright protected by Law 9610/98

Nobody, but two women who live with me, knows what I’ve been going through, under pressure and mentally attacked high and low, from the four cardinal points. What the hell of a decade it’s been. I keep on bluffing, but I just can't win. I bet the devil would never walk in my shoes. Jung said loneliness is dangerous and addictive. When you realize the peace that exists within it, you no longer want to deal with people. I do like that and I've become a junkie as I’ve lost all my relatives and friends. None of them are left. And today I’m on my own, a complete unknown, but not like a rolling stone, I still have direction home. But if Lilian was alive and heard me complaining about one of my problems at home she would say that any man in my place would have his head in the bottle, his heart in a case, at a bar confessing his sins and drowning his sorrows which can swim. Living a life like this is like a walking dead's life. My long lonely nights without sleeping a wink is worse than lucid nightmares, if they weren’t for you, my nine sweet ladies, Deirdre Clancy, my soulmate, my everything, Fiona Byrne, spokesperson for my soul, Nessa Lynch, the guardian of all of us, Siobhan Rafferty, the convergence inspiration in a cancer hospital, Maire Tiernen, a tenacious magician who can turn my life into a handmade paradise, Grainne Lyons, the fearless warrior who commands armies of billion soldiers, Ciara Sweeney, our emeritus translator of the alien ad infinitum language, Aisling Healy, my angel of the morning who lifts my spirits, alive and kicking. I still have high hopes that there is still time for us all to be together in the Bachir’s Circle, in the Mulberry Valley, in What To Do When The Sun Is Too Cold, and at the Convergence.

WOMEN IN BLACK

Text by Alceu Natali, copyright protected by Law 9610/98

Outside she dresses in mourning with diatomic derring-do, She is chic, Charming, Downright stunning, Inside she hides herself with no chromatic flamboyance, She is all mystery, All sortilege, All complexily adultery, She shows up in bizarre dreams some men have once in a blue moon, She is sinister with the left hand, Remote viewing with clairvoyant eyes, Magical with an intuitive mind, She lets her pleated skirt fall between her knees and feet, She is sharp, Scholarly, Erotically classy, She raises the lampshade skirt between her tighs and navel, She is bold, Crazy looking, And has a learnt by heart chat, A hasty man will not spare that woman wearing a nightgown-like dress, Available for love anywhere, Not even that both ways swinger with sunglasses and clad in rompers, Willing to win the body slipped in a suit with a head covered by a top hat, Outside she is impermeable and hangs on to black heat, She is steadfast, Almost inexpugnable, She deconstructs herself in colors, Inside she pierces through and radiates white light, She is loyal, Almost angelical, But does not discompose the monochromatic artifices, She is the very bizarre dreams some men have once in a lifetime and another in death, A sudden appearance, An enigmatic behavior, A surprising vanishing, She lowers her pleated skirt between her tights and shins, Knotty treatment, Stepping on, She rises the wrinkled skirt between her knees and groins, Remarkable restraint, Extroverted volition, Freed from compromise, She is fun, The oportunist man will not dismiss the exotic woman with a hat and transparent clothes, Standing by for a smart talk, Not even the teenager with braided hair, Ready to dovetail the one with a big bow tie on her frontal waist and with a look of oh, drive me crazy.

SEASON'S GREETINGS

 

Text by Alceu Natali, copyright protected by Law 9610/98

Where are you spending Christmas? On the mountains? In my immense longing for you? This distance unable to speak with our eyes, won't stop us from exchanging fake gifts. I did wish Jesus really existed and was born on this 25th of December, celebrating the resurrection of a Babylonian god. I couldn't grow up like him, and for much longer than his brief childhood, My wasted years are lost in the time he didn't have, and like him, my life can't escape the mythological cave. You know more than a little about this. In how many of my dreams have you been? In how many of my thoughts and promises? Only god knows that this may be the last time I intend to deceive myself. Only he decides when my luck ends, as he does with death. Only I can decide when I must reinvent myself before the scythe lady comes to take me for a ride underground. Where are you you spending New Year's Day? On the ocean plains? In my messianic expectations? I'll make vows of change, I'll pay for the new and the old, Take down my tree on the sixth day, Of the kings who lost their primacy at the Council of Nicaea, I wish I had been born in your place, And you wouldn't exist to be disappointed with me.