WHAT´S THE ROLE I PLAY ?

I´m not stripped of memories
or blossom in the dark...

I´m empty hanging
without wings...

what´s the role I play ?
otherworldly,
I have muddled it all...

I grab a rope and it breaks
my mud-stranded resignation
through the pelting gauntlet...

my arms are weak
and the tide impossibly distant...

some days I fear
never dream again...

Mário M. Carvalho
30.09.2011 - Dudley

I´M ALLWOED

Crossing the hillside
of life
there are no stepping-stones
outside

the thistles
tear our hands...

political sticker
words laid down
overwhelm...

how much cost your hapiness ?
fifty "pi" ? doesn´t it ?

you ought drink a can
or a pint
the words are to twist
at any time...

I´m allowed,
that´s me...

Mário M.Carvalho
29.09.2011 - Dudley

WET PAINT

Where are we ?

Inside a box

labeled

"Rusty Brains"...

silence now...

who´s going outgrow it ?

where is the uproar´s for freedom ?

old claims :
fairness,
work
and clear paths...

new brains
" Wet Paint "

Mário M.Carvalho
24.09.2011 London

PASSION OR FANTASY ?

Hazy morning
the wind swing...

a sunk look
and a panting breath...

passion
or fantasy ?

nothing changes or glows
in the way...

the wind spills
a future
or a spoiled life...

does it promised anything ?
dreams
and imagination...

fantasy
or passion ?

Mário M.Carvalho
23.09.2011 London

BEYOND THE END...

Quickly
the heartbeat
a message falling
exhausted...

every light
every day
dims...

to pretend
covering the ears
mind the silence...

beyond the end...

Mário M.Carvalho
22.09.2011 London

THE SHADOW OF A KNIFE...

A shadow
in my head
as hidden grove
in the sky
I must get it !

I never prayed
and I never burned letters
none of this !
my friends
are my cigarrettes
every night...

I never chase
my thoughts
they go way up high
as shadow of a knife...

Mário M.Carvalho
21.09.2011 London

VIRTUAL SLAVERY...

Suspicion
day by day
working,
virtual slavery...

how are you doing ?
I´m cramped
unwilling to speak
my face is set off
alleged...

Mário M. Carvalho
15.09.2011 London

POEMA QUE NÃO SE CALA...

O poema que não se cala
a dor que se prolonga
na distância que nos marca...

há poemas que não se calam
numa absurda presença
como os dias que passam
com muitas horas...

ninguém cala um poema
com o ar fresco
que entra pela janela
nem o som
dos aviões
e das buzinas...

nunca se cala um poema
que não se vê daqui
o meu mar e a minha gente
o cheiro de quem amo...

mas nada entra pela minha janela
nem pelo meu poema
apenas a minha angústia
de estar só...

Mário M.Carvalho
Londres 17.09.2011