my heart snaps.
this unexpected common-place: love.
on the rapid trajectory of the tram
from Sant’Ana to the city,
from Earth to Moon
did I cross a comet’s nucleus?
I feel dressed in strange lights.
and the effulgent unrest of happiness—
those cloudless morning eyes . . .
my heart snaps.
the day—although hectic
I went to search for my uniform—
the guys from Rio lost the match.
but those cloudless morning eyes . . .
and I think of her, uniquely I think of myself
I love every lover from São Paulo . . . of Brazil.
I am the talk of a hundred mouths
to kiss every woman in the world!
Suburra in my trembling arms amor!
my craziness, calm yourself.
. . . many days of military exercises . . .
dark previsions . . .
future revolutions . . .
perspective of a khaki slave,
my heart snaps.
love! . . .
b d g z, remington.
to each letter of ours
from fast-typed feelings
hurry, much hurry
duma feita surripiaram my brother’s
this is also in the poetry
because he had no money to buy another.
love hate sadness . . .
and the smiles of irony
to each letter of ours . . .
the maleficent and the presidents of the republic . . .
writing with the same handwriting . . .
unificação de todas as mãos . . .
all the lovers
starting by some AA that look alike . . .
the husband that cheats on his wife,
the wife that cheats on her husband,
the mistresses the children the boyfriends . . .
dear friend . . . (and the 50 thousand reais.)
adm or. obg o.”
and the cursive signature
trique . . . estrago!
it’s on the letter O
pras almas especulas diante da vida!
todas as ansias pertubadas!
not being able to tell my ecstasy
besides your fiery hair!
the exclamation mark got misplaced!
forgot to hit return
a thread was kept
such as a tear that is shed
and the period after the tear.
I however had no tears, I went “oh!”
besides your fiery hair
the machine lied!
you know I’m very cheerful
and like to kiss your morning eyes
see you wednesday, okay, ll.
I type two letterhead LL
and the cursive signature.
and the morning
four paths of human menhirs
but the souls shake, trespassed
“—heads up! no one move!”
that tram . . .
spring garden sensation
regular french alleys crowned with roses
wheezings by insects with metallic wings
light smell threadbare rosy of open roses,
of roses in the airs of grass in the path,
thousands of roses in the airs of grass in the path,
de rosas se rindo . . .
a will to love! . . .
it is however too trivial
this comparison of flowers and women
six o’clock in s. bento
the bandits suddenly close their eyes
the bell’s commanding voice
the immensely dark dawn
suffocates the square’s architectures
and the Verdi statue too, thank god!
hands in pockets
occult within scaffolding’s diggings
militaries like malefactors.
the procession is coming with its lights and candles
and establishes the voiceless agitated assault
out with the banners!
the night’s priests disappear
the children of mary, from the fogs
terrified by the Anhangabaú . . .
muggers held by stirrups
aurora’s blood scraped in my eyes
vitória completa . . .
it’s hella cold this morning . . .
we lean on each other’s bodies, asking
for an alm of heat.
and the tram shakes tap-dancing on the rails
in search of sinister graffiti-colored barracks.
Mário de Andrade, intransigent pacifist, amateur internationalist, tells his fellows that against his will, besides his sympathy towards every man on earth, besides his ideals of universal fraternization, he is currently a soldier of the Republic, interim defensor of Brasil.
and I march tempestuous noturno.
my soul city of bloody strikes,
inferno fire INFERNO on my chest
insolence blasphemy bocagens on the tongue
my eyes razoring the detested life
the view is reborn on the beautiful morning
paulicéia downstairs rough epiderme
made amber by the vigorous sun
with the blood of labor running through the veins of the streets
on that house lives,
lives, let’s say: guaraciaba . . .
the one of fiery hairs!
the tram my close friends
that accompany me daily for
[work . . .
my house . . .
everything caiado again!
is so big the morning!
is so big breathing!
is so good liking life!
even pain itself is a happiness . . .