Eduardo Alexandre Pinto

Pensar que és tu que atrais a solidão, quando sou eu que sorrio para ela, escrevi em 1988.

O piano entoa-te e eu na ordenação desse lugar, congrego-te etéreo e o tempo a suspirar, escrevi em 2002.

Escrever ao que se sente e se conquista de forma luminosa como ser e estar são os viandantes do mesmo alfabeto do mistério e se os seres de outras galáxias nos observam, podemos nós humanos, talvez segregar halos de bem estar enquanto se pensam os lugares chave da constelação de cada solidão tão negra, mas sem muito atrito e o fascínio da cor, apresenta-se no desenho do corpo nu e a quem decide sentir-se embalado pelo sentido recriador da vida, que é a espontaneidade e organização, pois ‘se não tivesse a vida, sentia a falta dela, disse o General à prostituta’…

Estarei em alma mágica,

Teu amante, escrevi em 1997.

Quem melhor desenha em planeta oco no centro do seu vício que a si engana e esgano eu, quem não tatuar o linho com o sémen, enquanto Franz Liszt se habitou a escrever para ser ouvido e quem nos ouve? ‘Um abraço (talvez), do tamanho do Stadium’, escreveu a mais querida musa que soube ouvir e doar-se e sem sémen, mas com alma de tacto e mão hábil se torna ela, sujeição de um tempo que cresce com toda e qualquer alegoria que iguala a vida…

Death of an author, an interesting comic story from the 80’s where a man looks for an author already dead and finds him alive and dies with him, both were authors… The memory grows by events and the glory called the center of the woman, so the wanting of love became an addiction, being inside the living story which answers by voice and untied tongues on every edge of a little devil, going deeper and wondering why we are similar when we break the car for the insects to pass and in Liverpool, Ian Rush scored Manuel Galrinho Bento, and my cousin said we lost and so his English team is Liverpool, cause only a giant team could win Benfica and the light focusing the eyes of Bento were fatal to us. Now comes erogenous feelings thinking of Z. while Louise Brooks appears to explain Z. my relation with muses, they were Laura in 1987, Lígia Soares in 1997, Patrícia Guerreiro in 1999 and Mafalda Nascimento in 2002, so my poems stopped in 2005 so that I could write as an author who’s life is not taken seriously and the cuts turn the wounds licking into an journey inside for heart to prepare his delicate senses and the writing as I understand writting as the beating of a rhythm so potent as giving birth to the light that allows Bento to reborn into   life for my delight as a child and all the stars replace his courage and turn the Stadium of the Light one dangerous creation, called hell but still it’s a long way with deaths and births and these saudades that swim so far away from me and all I can do is to wait and listen to the silence, dear author.  

As every government the Portuguese terrorists coming from the Parliament, they achieved to control my generation, lead them into laziness by giving them computers, television, accede them to buy cars and consequently kill animals and themselves and the natural instinct of creation in work is under the order of mass control so led into nothing and you can notice it on newspapers, music, art, drawing cartoons (political cartoonists are gone because of fear of persecution) and where there were the left scene who were been told that they made the Portuguese revolution is a complete lie, cause they lie and we die. Revolution is inside our heads, not in colorful tales with red flowers, in fact the left scene is ashamed to live in luxury but they say they have the same rights as the right wing scene and that is to feel as bourgeois feels and experienced. Agriculture is dead and gone in Portugal, we have rich people, rich with fake richness and people who had a rich spiritual life and the Portuguese they are in general satisfied with what they feel as democracy no matter how much in cruel ways they are oppressed by government, because there is money in the pockets, so Portuguese are not revolutionary people, they sleep under the problems of borders of not existing in an independent knowledge and then comes the degradation of relations with people from this country and the imposing of the absurd by the representation of the big circus in the external world where justice lovers are thrown away, like me, who must beg in the streets, cause my intellectual freedom is too dangerous to be accepted and I feel this also with the fear from the local anarchists, so even if I am alone on this illustration, I can feel pain of course, but the joy of freedom is so intense regarding the first person to feel aware of my claims and to encourage people to find these reports in every delicate subject which we could share as a public meeting in a serious nature of work with life feelings which come from the inside and not from any external illusion, so please the ceremony is a empty box where I can throw my hate before the car crushes the card and the cheating and that is something sick that is something sad on this rudimental cosmos which himself is a talented exception of unlimited resources.  

O meu amor mora longe, eu gosto dela, ela é silêncio e rugido, calmo estou diante do poente e algures onde se folheia a memória, quando nossa por inteiro, respira-se como tiro certeiro a esta fórmula que apresento como vogal libertadora de um coração trágico e que se escuta dia após dia sem que o peso me envelheça a vitalidade, torna-se elegante como ela e segura seus braços e conforta-a com a sua força, poderia muito mais por ela se o fazer das coisas, fosse mais aberto que um afrodisíaco e a palavra fosse sentida, no murmúrio do amor e na leveza inaudita e nunca esquálida de tantos afazeres, que tento sossegar a narrativa do labor da alma com a delicadeza com que meu amor distante, me faz sorrir, por seus olhos inteligentes e porque não na sua destreza com que dança a sua presença honesta, quase inocente, arada desde há muito pela sua lealdade comigo.

A quem ama, a dádiva de renascer em vida.

She asked me for my body language and all I could say, was that I am a country boy, like this Sunday morning when a very polite old man salute me and I was already missing these kind of men speaking in Portuguese and told the man while looking for his eyes and manners that I don’t know the families from Campolide but if he would ask for mama and papa family I would know, cause I am a countryside boy.

I am tired and miss Z., I have pains in my bones but I am on my world, I am alone but I chose this way so I’ll keep going (Myslovitz lyrics). The missing of Z. is strong, every time I awake from a world of screams, something deep is felt.

I am a Portuguese dissident cause Portugal always neglected me, rejected me, fortunately I will become Polish citizen and my heart was full of hate which was released by Zofia and could forgive many many friends. Something deep happened, Patrícia was the first person who saw Zofia and I told Pat that I am happy and probably get married, she said ‘I know’, how do you know?’, cause I read you…

I was touched. She is kind and her boyfriend Marco (Mikado lab his band) he his very delicate man, an open couple which gently smile and they don’t pretend.

I had so many things to write but a bad calculation in time which blocked my intentions, so I had a peaceful Sunday but not so productive.

Must rise and follow my poet instinct, for so long I waited for Zofia, dear heart keep shining for tragedy and funny little ways, her the softest sound of this sunset with cats and silhouettes and I’ll stand in the game like Fernando Chalana who like Manuel Garlinho Bento, made my youth nights in Estádio da Luz, deep emotions and now the flowers bloom for the clock as long I am loved for Zofia which accepts me and don’t pretend. I miss her eyes, her speech, laugh, body, soul, heart, energy. I will send her a gift tomorrow, I repeat, I am on my world, I am alone but I chose this way and I will keep going, dear friends with open and polite smile, cause we feel what comes from the inside, to give and accept the life of the unknown, mystery she would say, I am real.

I read a interview with Chomsky and many words he used passed by my mind on the last two weeks, I am glad that he keeps fighting and I feel sorrow for Klaus but I cannot help him even if I will be close to him, in Poznan-Greifswald, I can only say that would take care of him and for now I saw a brazilian woman and told her, ‘gata, do you still listen techno?’ and the cats in here are moving and my pink panther misses his parking place (names for my genitals and Zofia genitals) and thank you to all my friend that should eat yogurt rather than milk, I am sorry I feel saudades…

When she came here with her friendly eyes I told her that I was a poet, in fact not a heroic poet in the pages of books but my name buzzed in the streets, mountains, rivers, up in trees, cages, rocks, seas (of course the Baltic Sea, my favorite sea) and I was in great danger all my life and like a good hero always kept safe but these adventures I made alone and they  started in April of 1989 when I was 18.

Now I have white hairs in these twisted times, I feel the same power, my eyes are deep but don’t want to scar, they want to know, like Cassiel which I met in Lisbon, my angel, he was reading a German  newspaper and I was preparing a friend for her life, you know cinema girl and the 90’s and the millennium brought nothing new, so in these 10 years (second half of the match, I prepared my inner traces, writing furiously, making charity), the first half I was able to love, feel so much than because like you, the unknown is something that inspires me and I must now take care of your heart and like you said, Alexxxxxxxxx don’t put punk music! Tak I told you. Jestem Polakiem mam no ta papier ( I am Polish I have all documents) and my anxiety is the dragging by minutes that you read or listen by phone, so as you can see for a poet, this times are difficult but you know how bizarre I can behave (our secret) and you made things that no man, woman, made me, so thing will be in scratching grains of sand somewhere where you will lead me in your Mazda, watching you swimming faraway like brave woman, because like I told you Portuguese they have so much ocean but don’t know what to do with the mirror of the sky and the poet act was to help people in trouble in the sea of love somewhere where my heart found yours and I could trough Alexander name expel every danger, the guy who was annoying you, like German man, with a Portuguese heart, son of the Amazons and of the Oporto Wine where my dear family lives. KC with GL ( Kocham Çie/Grosse Liebe)  - I love as giant!

Dear Alex,
I’ve just returned to my home. My dog didn’t eat for last days, now she is laying next to me. I’m happy that I could spend this time with you. You gave me so much energy!
Now I think about your caput heater. Tmorrow I won’t be so laconic…
Z.

Yes I was here too, they used to call me Alex and my fate with a pair of green eyes met a giant name without camouflage, a dear heart, like a pearl dew drop on this dawn and Z. is in my veins and here at my desk thinking of fertility and of the things that I’ve experienced on her view of the world, telling the world about Parking Places and Pink Panthers like Eusébio with Yashine after the penalty in 1966, after they salute and oh, that was how I felt Portuguese for a week, turning blue like the Tagus where we had our meal and the muses, friends, family were happy for me in the shade of freedom, of course the actual view has different structures and I will be feeling the 240m2 of her house, I will visit Bukovina (old Austrian-Hungarian Empire- now Ukraine), Lithuania, Germany, Bielorussia, Bulgaria. The waiting, the counting of days in my silence but I dare like poet who dies everyday to integrated what has generated my coherent strength into humans and emotionally I see the cats on the backyard and the trees, birds, where love was so intense, oh I couldn’t think, sleep, eat and now she is still on my bible of memories, some hurt and my fingers extend what’s behind the this sunny side of this quarter, where plains brought what is beautiful, cause the wind is whispering around the world for jokes and the laugh, even sadness or melancholy with the satisfaction of life.