Buca' s Birthday Guest Blogger: Fabi Borges

NO MORE REALITY
I WANT TO BE A DREAM
WITH ALL KIND OF MOON

NO MORE BORDERS
I WANT TO BE THE PASSAGE
CROSS ALL THE SOULS


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I THOUGhT IT WAS A THOUGHT
BUT IT WAS I THING
I THOUGhT IT WAS A fight
BUT IT WAS just An OBJEcT knife







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Los Nadies - de Galeano, celebrating Waleska Reuter's new show

Sueñan las pulgas con comprarse un perro y sueñan los nadies con salir de pobres, que algún mágico día llueva de pronto la buena suerte, que llueva a cántaros la buena suerte; pero la buena suerte no llueve ayer, ni hoy, ni mañana, ni nunca, ni en lloviznita cae del cielo la buena suerte, por mucho que los nadies la llamen y aunque les pique la mano izquierda, o se levanten con el pié derecho, o empiecen el año cambiando de escoba.

Los nadies: los hijos de nadie, los dueños de nada,
los nadies: los ningunos, los ninguneados,
corriendo la liebre, muriendo la vida, jodidos,
rejodidos.
Que no son aunque sean.
Que no hablan idiomas sino dialectos.
Que no profesan religiones sino supersticiones.
Que no hacen arte sino artesanía.
Que no practican cultura sino folklore.
Que no son seres humanos sino recursos humanos.
Que no tienen cara sino brazos.
Que no tienen nombre sino número.
Que no figuran en la historia universal
sino en la crónica roja de la prensa local.

Los nadies.......
que cuestan menos que la bala que los mata...

PS: A exposição da WR se chama Galeria de Nulidades, ao lado da Galeria de Celebridades de tribunal

pangs

or maybe those bells from the Bow church
instead of the image of cut shish in Anatolia, Mare Street
the train I never catch - bubbles in the brain
i cut my finger opening cheese
pang, or maybe i revel
a direct line from London Fields to true grit

Leminski enviado por Lus

alguém parado
é sempre suspeito
de trazer como eu trago
um susto preso no peito,
um prazo, um prazer, um estrago,
um de qualquer jeito,
sujeito a ser tragado
pelo primeiro que passar

parar dá azar

Reading Rude Rhyming in a Grand Library's snack bar table

there are some aspects of thought
that ravel
i shiver, crumbled and fray
that strong bone amid the weak mud, or is it a tower?
i hear the sounds of the bubbling cities in the desert
my hermeneutics got overpowered by my trembling
that travels and carries nothing inside, chants, indigestion
all the noise that follows from moving outside inside
or the usual angst and fear of angst of the tide
or accommodating fear and angst of fear
i rebel

maybe I was meant to be the Brighton Pier
or i would be happy with a tidy George Michael
too many words in a library and we're left with the sheer mumbling
i speak as a worm, without worm words
without the wit
in the absence of the absolute-demolishing love

telling what life is these days

It is a big o, one after the other
changing intonation, accent, punctuation and length.
I figure everything is almost like an open treasure,
a treasure that treats me as a black box
I square, do you square?
The big o, the box, the Böks:
Snobs who go to Bonn for bonbons know how to shop for good corn or posh cod.
Or the small vocal, brief, contained, sheepish...
the o that almost doesn't leave the mouth,
a river of impossibles
that nevertheless floats underneath the turmoil of things
like a whispering earthquake
or a hidden terror attack
with no victims but the potential cogs
of the blackest of all boxes.

By Hamdy

This is Hamdy's work mentioned in the previous post.

Ahmed Bakheet glows

In a beautiful piece by Hamdy Reda currently exposed in Art-el-Lewa, Gize, Egypt, one reads in the gorgeous calligraphy crafted by Sameh Ishmaeil (rumours have that the traditional calligraphy schools in Egypt are to get no new student anymore, no more Ishmaeils, is it acceptable?):

Take it easy
It is not here
It is not there

There is an eerie pun there in the Arabic original tells me Monica Udler. It is a sufi poem. It glows. By Ahmed Bakheet.

A plog and the spiders

quickly, type something in this plog
a poetry log needs to be reinvented everyday
even when the computers fail, the world disconects wide and wild
or the web is taken over by immortal spiders

they are beyond any straight line, those spiders,
beyond the straight lines of the Peruvian government
and even the bent lines of the Egyptian government.
they have no deadlines
they're never dead
because this would be a straight line

they make me stratch from scratch

Around Umayad

so there were those colours of Syria haunting me?
predicted, hidden
my guts never at ease in Damascus

around Ard-Al-Lewa in a toktok

It's a small four wheeled car, enough for the maze
in Ard-Al-Lewa, toktok
the sound of Cairo
but then again all the cars play the Noise (beep beep fon fon).
In the neighborhood, car come out any hole
and advertise themselves
streets full of people
smells full of people
there is a gallery in number 19. houses
of Hamdi
Big bottles of colourful cleaning fluids stand out in small parlours
they clean everything with their bright secondary colours.

To a magic carpet (going east)

December in, a year almost out
Me in Hackney Central Library where
there is a wifi connection and a crowded study area
i flirt with discipline.
The crisis reported in the other post in this blog?
Well, I met a person who gives poems for free in the Embankment
they all come in different colours
and the crawl in the floor like a magic carpet
indeed the set up is itself described as a magic carpet
and it is indeed a magic carpet.

It took those moods away - send them westwards
and i'm going east.
Ah, and, my friends, my scaphoid is now allegedly in one piece...

Relatório da Crise

Biblioteca local de Homerton
Novembro, antes da neve
11 horas, passam as horas,
passam desconhecidos na rua,
vivo esta vida porque nao há outra,
este dia sombrio porque nao há outro que passa

minhas colegas de biblioteca, a negra gorda beija a cambojana recatada
elas inspiram
mas os mediadores entre elas e eu
paralisaram
– galopo esta tristeza, nao tenho outro cavalo.
Todas as minhas estruturas derreteram
queria procurar vagalumes