The Children Of Janus

Jeitinho

noreply@blogger.com (The Light Son of Janus) — Mon, 24 Feb 2014 19:08:00 +0000

O samba toca na veia
Uma salada ideal
faz essa gente

O jeito que vive
É o jeito.

Reviramos a cara em repulsa
O avesso da média é mais
Em minoria.

A reverência isana,
Ufana pátria, de pretos pardos
Cospem as dores da garganta em cantos.

E agora os chicotes
Estalam os dedos e fazem essa gente sofrer
Ainda a guerra.

Sobrevivem os secos sangues
E molhados suores.
É o jeito de quem precisa-
[mente faz
O que a gente
[acha que
não deve.

Em nossa estupidez
Aprendemos o samba
Tomamos sua alma.

Rascunho de saudade

noreply@blogger.com (The Light Son of Janus) — Sun, 17 Jun 2012 23:43:00 +0000

Longe
Tão perto do meu jeito
Distante
em tanta terra

Cai a folha
De um bordô o céu se pinta
Sua mente escuresce
A minha já escuresceu.

Olho para o céu,
não está.
esta realidade
O momento deste lugar nunca mais foi agora.
É agouro.

Olho para o céu,
voar para ver você.
Ao horizonte, você está lá.
Ao horizonte, Sísifo, subo o morro.
Morro de saudades.

Em chamas

noreply@blogger.com (The Light Son of Janus) — Fri, 02 Sep 2011 21:43:00 +0000

Fogo!
Tudo chama
Clara, lânguida flama
Vela.

Manifesto

noreply@blogger.com (The Light Son of Janus) — Sat, 16 Jul 2011 17:10:00 +0000

De que adianta a vida
Que se resume a sobrevida?

Vale o que?
Se o coração teimoso sem vontade bate
O cartão de ponto,
O apito do dia,
O pino da vida.

Espírito posto no horizonte,
Doce memória.
Alvorada dos povos, já ilusão
O dia já vai anoitecer
Melancolia

Em tudo bate o coração, ignaro.
Sangue de pó
E enquanto não descansa,
não traz descanso.
Só desgosto.
Esgoto.

Nada mais toca o pensamento,
nada mais entoca.
Em nenhum lugar ecoa
De nenhum lugar soa.

O mundo acabou,
Não há nada que não seja vilania e desespero

09/julho/2010

Anima

noreply@blogger.com (The Light Son of Janus) — Sun, 10 Jul 2011 16:14:00 +0000

Fala a minha mulher
Interna
Aos meus sentimentos

Mas fala
Com a voz que me deu
Minha mãe

Conta um segredo
Um desejo de me ouvir cantar
Que me diz assim:

Sou sangue do teu sangue
Quando pulsa no peito
A paixão proibida
O amor e o ódio que sentes profundo,
Calado, cativo

Sou tua musa escondida
Tua bela perdida
Num fundo, num mundo qualquer
Que cantas,
Que chamas
Que juras
Mas enfim, não quer.

Sou tua costela roubada,
Tua morte antecipada
(teu segredo mais íntimo)
Sou podre, sou puta,
Sou bruxa, sou
Mulher

Sou tua filha perdida
Tua mãe escondida
Dos teus delitos cruéis
Sou madre, sou santa,
Sou um canto
Uma idéia
Um revés

Sou minha filha cativa
Minha voz perdida
Nos teus delírios cruéis
Sou maré, sou tantra
Sou o barro,
Sou alguém
Que não és

Sou tua filha, cativa
Numa torre, minha
- - - - - - - - - própria
- - - - - - - - - saída.
Numa mente, fechada
Numa dura, fachada
Numa palavra,
a trois
demência
amor.

Old Poems of the Light Son: Menina dos olhos

noreply@blogger.com (The Light Son of Janus) — Sat, 25 Jun 2011 19:50:00 +0000

Onde estão as meninas
Azuis
Nos olhos dos céus afegãos
Reflexão da loucura
Da vaidade

Onde estão as jovens meninas
Dos olhos bombásticos
Estáticos
Bobos, vidrados
Nos vidros das selvas de vidros

E quando elas acordam
Do acorde dos sonhos
O que elas olham?
E quando dormem os olhos
O que eles sonham?

Onde estão os sorrisos
Dessa nação
Pudica nos campos de areia
Ao vento
Alheia ao mundo

Onde estão os jovens meninos
Da terra deserta, inerte
Lutando por suas mulheres férteis
Sozinhos
Combalidos, perdidos

E quando vem os soldados cruzados
A repetir no futuro o passado
O que eles vêem?
E quando vem os soldados armados
A repetir da justiça o passado
O que pensam?

Circa 2005

Old Poems of the Light Son: Compreender

noreply@blogger.com (The Light Son of Janus) — Sat, 25 Jun 2011 19:20:00 +0000

Distingue o homem tolo a obra alheia
Como se alheia fosse de vontade,
Finita e morta de necessidade,
A alma, o engenho, a obra, estreita, anseia.

Mas se adentro, a arte pulsa a veia,
Saltando aos olhos sua intimidade,
Esta janela e espelho da verdade
Sustenta o ser já fundo de idéia.

Mutando a mente, o ser se muda junto
Do artista, de sua obra e dessa vida
Pois dentro e fora e adentro se transforma.

Entende-se na obra a própria forma
Transforma-a no seu íntimo movida
Confeccionando-a, nova, em novo mundo

Para a professora Maria Nazaré de Camargo P. Amaral
04 de setembro de 2006

Análise de conjuntura

noreply@blogger.com (The Light Son of Janus) — Thu, 16 Jun 2011 23:58:00 +0000

Modernidade:
Cada pessoa, um troféu
Cada troféu, uma sina
A cada dobra de um beco
canto escuro e poeirento o vazio
Desalmado e frio

Extermínio:
Corpo oco não pensa
Corpo oco não pesa
Corpo oco de empresa
Corpo oco de entrega
Corpo oco recheio de margarina sem gorduras trans pela metade do preço

Transubstanciação:
Máquina: a flora da terra
"Colhei seus frutos!
e comprai-vos nos mercados!"
Gente é pão, é vinho
Pão é ferro, madeira, couro
Vinho é gasolina, diesel
Oroboros

Tudo o que é sólido desmancha no ar:
Você é real
Você é o real
Vai ser o real
Mais ter o real
Mais ter que um Real
Meu deus é Real

take no prisioners (as they influence our energy demands for FTL)

noreply@blogger.com (The Dark Son of Janus) — Thu, 09 Dec 2010 02:41:00 +0000

a man inside a box moans

he reaches the lid

feels the wind as it blows life back

keep floating in the mud

the trashcan is dumped

he gently changes bags

while hearing the crackle

of charlies' deaths

traffic lights all red

the truck stops at...

the truck stop

whatever...

all connections lost

no light travels

all we have is a red sky

and some arsenic

for the acid

in bacteria

california is right there

but florida is waaaaaaaaaay

back there.

Conto de um grande homem

noreply@blogger.com (The Light Son of Janus) — Tue, 29 Jun 2010 20:48:00 +0000

Era uma vez um homem que queria ser grande.
E um grande homem lhe disse
"Daqui, todo mundo é pequeno".

Enquanto isso, os homens pequenos fabricavam ouro de lixo.
E esperanças eram plantadas em latifúndios.
Colhia-se desilusões.

Pessoas morriam umas às outras.
Os gigantes erravam o caminho, sem memória.
Idiotas tomavam Canaã.

Houve um tempo.
Em que grandes homens morriam ao contrário
Puxados da cova da nulidade
Em revoluções.

Agora,
No fim da história,
O mundo e os homens
morriam,
só.

Bleak

noreply@blogger.com (The Dark Son of Janus) — Tue, 02 Mar 2010 02:58:00 +0000

I wait by the fireplace.
The comfort of home.
I seek the answer
for the prayers I wrote
and they never come.

I wail to the door
as I never done before.
I wake from a world
full of lies, full of pride.
I lost my hope.

GONE.
Don't cry for what's lost.
Drift further across.
Lie still while your muscles
learn how to walk again.
Turn your back to the ones
who made you bleak.

Who made you bleed.

I step into the temple
and I pray for our god.
I live the dream
as Mother thins out.
Just one more.

Leech me dry
and feed me to the dogs.
I'll rip their meat and bones.
I won't find peace
in the pieces I keep.

UNDONE.
Fall from grace.
Embrace your grin.
Sink your teeth in the skin
of those who kneel.
Feel as their blood
will fill your void.

Take what's yours.

Give way to a killing wave.

turn out the lights

noreply@blogger.com (The Dark Son of Janus) — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 14:01:00 +0000

these faces bore me

long days that have been

are long gone, so...

what would you do?

come on, don't be shy

drain me out dry

there is more from whence it came

who's to blame when the time is out?

got my time to exorcize

now we shall mesmerize

dump these faces in the sand

and land into the open wide

and then, she cried alive

she's waiting for me, inside

come on, babe, put it out

my hand can't reach down

stop the frown, I don't give a shit

the myths are all yours to idolize

this endless joust of cocks, the flock

has just gained an electric black sheep

that dreams of androids who dream freedom.

bathtub full of blue

noreply@blogger.com (The Dark Son of Janus) — Tue, 19 Jan 2010 05:27:00 +0000

the sky became some lab experiment

unwilling test subject number phi

it kills not to know what time is it

but what the hell, this is relative

to the observer in mars, it is shit

now you are some creature of myth

something out of homer's dreams

a horned god of some sort, goat legs and all

the norse gods are just over, having a beer

along incan priests and tolkien's little people

inside, she feels like strawberry jelly

out, it's like stainless steel

and the stripped cat is somewhere else

his japanese features whisper

"come on, pull the moon"

the raindrops, the lake and the farm

the glow of starlight... was there a lake at all?

we are lost and alone among friends

their faces everchanging, hazel and blue

the devil's got my truth, and won't return

I couldn't care less.

robot interface

noreply@blogger.com (The Dark Son of Janus) — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 13:56:00 +0000

I feel like a child today

there is a mistake in this state

unknown from back then

so I amuse myself

in comparing both strains

of a long, lost sense

one from pristine time of simpler things

the calm exposure and experience to our ways

everything so subtle, yet so clear

feeds me with the fittest of dreams

and this, something of everything, so sudden, fast, what you cannot grasp

like a hurricane made of moths, and you jump from the flock

and swim in melted clocks in parallel processors

tragically, it all fades down in about an hour

and all you can barely is to sever the weather

stop and get some paper, have a deep breath

and try to be clever and write it all down

os mortos irão dançar até o amanhecer

noreply@blogger.com (The Dark Son of Janus) — Sun, 20 Sep 2009 19:34:00 +0000

observo sombras na serenidade, o silencioso suplício dos segredos
se espalha às centopéias para sorver e morrer
o seguro certo para tempos incertos.
sou o espírito sedento de sangue, o sublime substituto
para a ternura da tempestade, sob estranha embriaguez,
testando minha temperança e meu semblante sóbrio e san(t)o.

estagnação sucumbe o sagrado, permanece o pecado
dias distantes, demoníacos, derramam-se em devaneios
desejamos mais que diversão, drinks e desperdício
e amanhã, ah, "amanhã é outro dia"

um novo dia intangível
as paredes pedem por perecer
e o tempo distorce nossa tez
tão tenra, tórrida e transbordando certeza
mas sem a tenacidade para transformar
quando o preço se cobrar, a carne apodrecerá

uma sonata para o sofrimento
disrritmia dissonante
sonhando com uma saída
espero que não tenhas esperança.

the dead will dance until dawn

noreply@blogger.com (The Dark Son of Janus) — Sat, 19 Sep 2009 07:43:00 +0000

I see shadows in serenity, the silent scream of secrets
spread as centipedes to sever and never
return the certain shelter from this stormy weather
I am the spirit of spite incarnate, the sublime surrogate
of the taste of tempest under uncanny vacancy
testing my temperance and skin of sinless sober san(t)ity

stagnation separates the soul from the sin
and we dream of dreaded days where we will be away
wishing for more time to waste in drinks and kicks
'cause "tomorrow we'll do what we need to"

tomorrow, overmorrow, nevermorrow
the walls wail for breakdown
and we frown and moan at the passage of time
so young and yang, lustful and full of trust
but dead of fresh thoughts, la même chose, tous les jours
time will take its toll and the flesh will mirror the soul

dance as the dead
dissonant dysrhythm
dreaming of escape
but I don't think you can

partidas y arribos

noreply@blogger.com (The Dark Son of Janus) — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 01:30:00 +0000

you say goodbye and then the engine start and you feel a rush, a connection with each little cog that runs this clock, the mechanical spirituality so 21st-centuriesque that children are born with wi-fi included, above the mountains it feels so weird so unnatural as if I'm missing all the little landscapes and faces and peestops and nights-at-little-inns that would compose a REAL trip, still the lights down there tend to have a high æsthetical value, in which I mean they are pretty, and then the migration papers come, and in this land of unfairness, it's always about the taxes... and "it ain't nothing sure in this life, except death and taxes" and I'm sure they won't collect taxes from dead people so it should be "death or taxes" and then you fill the papers in, declaring all the little trinkets and useless waste you bought, cause you had to you need to so you can show and shove all your power in-to the neighbors like a aroused male peacock would as if your smartassphone would save you in case of a plane crashing into the rocks and woods almost as if they were claiming their dead brothers stolen by us when justice is made and in case of a crash panic would be spreading like flu but there would be one smiling at last free from our stock-market-samsara and the customs control and taxes and prohibition. 'cause death is freedom, life is illusion. but the plane comes down, the way it should be. and life goes on, the way it can be. at least I can see the ones I miss, the ones that put sense into all of this.

sunlight

noreply@blogger.com (The Dark Son of Janus) — Fri, 14 Aug 2009 02:12:00 +0000

sunlight hits
what does it means to be alive
in our endless, unholy hives
that plague the sacred grounds
endless halls of constant crawl

step out
out of this whole hole of dirt
purge the darkness and the war
from our open-wounded hearts
and feel the freedom newfound

so you die
but the earth is still around
it will tear itself apart
grow its child in the wilds
honor the old into stone

you will become
the ground you walk
and then, mountains
everything is alive
until the sunlight
hits us all

Despedida - Troca trilhos

noreply@blogger.com (The Light Son of Janus) — Fri, 31 Jul 2009 20:56:00 +0000

A Deus dedicadas incertezas
A Deus lúgubres lamentos
A Deus jogadas as mãos
A Deus sopradas sombras no caminho
A Deus a culpa de meus destemperos
A Deus orações por liberdade

Em curvas de vento, vôo, vou
Migrar ao norte para o meu verão
Me ensinam as músicas do cantar dos patos
Notas rosa ou verde
Ou amarelas ou verde de novo
Saudades vêm, vão, virão
Vãos

Troco trilhos
Essa grande estrada d'água
Enche meus olhos
Enche minha alma

Sobre meus ombros, o céu, apenas
E o nariz aponta o caminho
Do homem
A fé em esgueiradas ruínas caídas à Terra
Aos amigos agradeço
A fé
A Deus

generic low rock interface

noreply@blogger.com (The Dark Son of Janus) — Mon, 27 Jul 2009 04:47:00 +0000

just another man lost in its own sins
high on the perspective of a greater dream
looking for anything he can find
on anygirl's eyes

the names roll by...

little girl made of stone
when she talks
I hear the moan
of the saxophone
endure, girl, endure
and you'll grow strong

there's this girl made of clouds
thunders the softer sound
as the screams and shouts
fill up the empty spaces

one made of fire
the sheets made smoke
on a heavy load of dope
you could think she was some

water made poison
the first one you'll not let
shed tears of loss
rendered me helpless
on the floor

the one I never met
I won't soon forget

things just happen
it's a fact, a trap
for those who are not dead
love turns to sand
as the band hits the next
stop

vernissage of souls

noreply@blogger.com (The Dark Son of Janus) — Sun, 26 Jul 2009 23:43:00 +0000

dig all your thoughts and find a way to be lost
see the faces painted on the wall and then you fall
drift further into the mistakes of your past
walk through the dead, low head, pay respect

wounds that'll never close, but do you care?
just another story to tell on a bar brag
so many possible worlds where you're the best
but at last, you became just a hateful bastard

under the sheets and the warmth from her skin
there are no mistakes to be made by a seasoned man
but when the screaming and shouting ceases
will the ghosts under the bed haunt and dread?

and then, the silence reigns
another shadow is made
a new face for the scenes
to haunt your dreams of peace
within

another prayer to the light son

noreply@blogger.com (The Dark Son of Janus) — Sat, 25 Jul 2009 03:39:00 +0000

father once told
"go, and then grow
apart, but still one"
restless stones roll
and I keep memories
of those fond old times
and hopes
for times that are
yet to come

old brother
where art thou?
in our path to doom
thy feet follow
their inevitable road
the wall crumbles
and the way is shown
the dark night's gone
and thou shalt shine
as thou wast meant to

don't look back
but if thou doest
thou shalt not be lost
I will be here
somewhere to flee
to hear thy plea

amen

Haikai de Herança ou O som pode ser mais importante do que a visão (ou não)

noreply@blogger.com (The Light Son of Janus) — Fri, 24 Jul 2009 23:50:00 +0000

A vós
o que é
de vós

para Wally

drunk poet II: raw meat

noreply@blogger.com (The Dark Son of Janus) — Sat, 04 Jul 2009 08:04:00 +0000

nobody to talk to tonight
I'll fall to this desire
this stupid daydream
where I'll take you away

but what will we do?
I warn you with words
shouldn't even write
it ain't right
to put this through

how can the poet
rhyme and reason
when all his life
is fearsome?

can you take this loss?
can you feel it so raw
growing, taking form
can you?

I should not.
but if I lose it
I feel it in my meat
it won't come back.

drunk poet I: scatterplot

noreply@blogger.com (The Dark Son of Janus) — Sat, 04 Jul 2009 07:22:00 +0000

so you feel
and then you fall
hit your face
into the wall
so you're drunk
and then you think
you can make
something good
bring this urge
and let's talk
about ilusions...
so, little man
you've got the world
on your hands
and, then
it slips
into the hips
of some woman
and you then see
the misbelief
in your own grip
and you'll trip
about her lips
feels like a kid
with all his bricks
scattered
through the floor
your plot is all lost

you'll get that
there was no way
to nail
no way to make
this turn
to your favor
and then you grow
to lose control
once again