I sleep on the roof, dogs bark through the weary stars
Head to sea, land to feet, halfmoon to the side body
I spin on the hard floor, unsleeping, unwriting
The child sun greets me, but my smile is merely implied thanks to a swollen lip (thanks to some winged bloodsucker) which I adorn with ointment of elderflower, or something akin, gifted by the second old lover in exchange for my words on cotton rag, a red shirt, four fingers of hair.
But worry not, I also received a decorated dress, sometimes worn as a shirt - skirt tucked to slacks.
But, the material exchange was never meant to be equal.

But, I was meant to write a song
But my poem hand runs long
And even with seeds of worlds and reads and ink spill
My knotted heart grasping still searches
This clouded mind bearing short hair and a long braid searches
I am left drawing circles descending from a crude heaven shape on a dirty page.

~
What is the shape? Golem? Roof?
I draw from my pocket a second tower
I reconcile my worth between the two.

~
Ou,
~

Qual é a forma, o golem, o teto
Tiro do meu bolso a segunda torre
Divido o meu valor entre as duas
Divido o forro, a camisa, é despida
É só morte acanhada no areal quente
É só cio lento
Ou, only stilldeath on sand
the tower’s second hand.

O café está queimado de novo
O braço fica preto no degrau de madeira
A língua vem buscar-me na árvore carregada
Levanto a voz até à altura da torre
Arqueio as costas rumo à torre
Acho histórias na mente vazia até ao topo da segunda torre
Aceito o meu descanso na torre também...

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A group of boys sung on the train, on their way to the casino, I think. An older man fingered a wooden cross and held a plastic tube for rolled papers.
I stopped feeding my ears, listening instead to worldsound.
I am pulling threads together, maybe.
~
In the sun I want to cry but feel it distant.
Confused head, or maybe I am hungry and running late to seeing a friend I love.
~
26 - With a divining rod, one doesn’t know the reservoir until they’ve found it. I feel sturdy. I will find what I seek.
I had a kiss.
I bled from the head.
Bare feet at times.

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Sun becomes daily now. I venture to the beach in the morning, sending my belongings back to the city, preparing a move tomorrow. Nine flies stalled airborne in this room. I sit legs out, hands pre-blistering from carrying bag and brown suitcase.
The bellysnake creeps back when I think a week ahead, much less months, years, & whats passed. Fear slipping back into the whirlpool.
Much laid before me acts bigger in the head. Actuality is a simple task.
~
That I am holding myself braced, structured, careful, millimetres above soft grass. That I can let myself fall. Unguard
~
The ticket collector opens the small train window. Earlier on Rua Luís de Camões the trees lining were a bright green after months unarmed - a world restarting for the year.
Left a note with a guitar pick and a pressed flower.
It is warm wind and I am accountable nowhere.

In the Algarve drinking wine listening in Dutch, shredding my grandfather’s papers. A hole miscut in the side of the shirt while removing excessive tags. Printing words on my grandparent’s HP Envy 6030e, feeling this leading path. Playing guitar in mind of sharing. Playing my songs well.
In the breadth of the full moon where I have my visions - even with clenched jaw, even with ground teeth. I act not for the completion, with mind empty of the next step. To the full moon I look with my grandfather’s binoculars, or, it is no moon but a cold star with a six mask.
My hands smell of oranges now.
I am just throwing
pebbles in the pond.

I reread In the Dream House by Carmen Maria Machado... Vortex words. Violating use of second person. Obsessive, I want to write your story. I am a folk singer and you the abused.

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~
21 I was sun drunk for much of this afternoon after riding thru Caparica. Looking at myself in the mirror I can already see my skin radiating a slightly browned warmth. In rumours of summer I feel a sense of belonging and kindness.
22 With M we birdwatched, for me, for the first time. I am used presenting the world surrounding to those I am with, so I felt pleased, albeit confronted, for this shift of dynamic. I wish to listen better, I wish to know more.
I watched Angels Egg, I will dream of white hair.
24 A ghost smell arrived briefly. These happen rarely.
26 A woman sits across from me on the metro, wearing headphones, eyes close, head moving to a rhythm I cannot hear but can imagine. She visibly chews on the sound.
27 I cut my hair to procrastinate packing my house, moving in just days now. My hair falls layered.
I watched Gasoline Rainbow.
Notebook fear.
~
01 Starting the day in anxious molasses, I know what must be done to move forward but am eyeing it with suspicion, opting to read instead. My shoulders are tight and painful after carrying too much yesterday.
I am pre welcomed by those at the guesthouse and already feel a kinship, community. Heart radiates forward.
Tentative, but there is a comfort here, I know I can settle. I have picked at my fingers all day. I have read and walked.
I am in the bedroom now, it is dark, but past the window there are trees and birds, this house feels like a place from home. E, my roomate, plays a game on his phone.

02 I am close to finding the language, whatever that means.
04 Slow train back home, hungover light, sleep hazing. The ghost of a feeling of needing to do, but knowing I can come back to the house with maybe bread and cheese and thats all for the rest of the day.
The sky haze, Isa saying it could be the dust from Sahara. I tell her old story from Greece of the desert’s birth, sun carrier & son.
Got high with E and floating about my room unpacking.
I will read some then sleep.
05 Belly full heart full.
~
07 Have been watching again my favourites of 90’s Japanese scifi. Wishing to write a story based on Evangelion. Thoroughly removed from the main plot - some small contained tale where the characters know not why the world has changed in the way it has.
08 I had dreams
And woke to sun
Well rested
10 I drew the chariot
~
11 I was hiking around Lisboa with my father, we top a hill & see one of three old quarries, like a hot blade cut diagonal thru the earth, like a rendering error.
Other hikers passed us, so we continue.
There are two old houses adjacent we look thru, finding food, a sweet made of a nearby flower or weed.
The other quarries are unassuming.
or
In a few other dreams of late I try to light matches who choose to stay unburnt.
~
I have been reading Hummingbird, Salamander by Jeff VanderMeer. I love his other writing, Annihilation and Authority.

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