Lisboa é boa*. Yeah, Lisbon is good
at very long distance of dreams.
The shivering traveler pulls up his hood:
it seems that the traveller misunderstood
what’s autumn in Portugal. Streams
of water run volubly down the steep streets,
the wind searches pockets and sleeve,
the sheets hung to dry do not differ from sheets
of rain… That’s what happens when fantasy meets
reality and both leave.
(port.) Lisbon is good.
As I sat in quondam agony and anguish,
The inimical air stales through my nose.
A teary, terrorising sting like a potent radish,
So envious of shared beds and emotions volubly composed.
Weakened by haste I screamed in ignominity,
Unaware of these eyes of judgement swelling my wounds.
I pushed away the triffid times. Silently. Cautiously.
On my knees i begged for repletion in ruins.
I stood up with broader clarity yet ponderous,
Awaiting the moments of interregnum once 'He' was king,
Looked up to the persed skies on edge with sights so wonderlous,
Trying to share such cogent details to you in the interim.
A Wraith. Such shock and surprise, I ought to follow.
So suddenly, the despair secretes out of my soul.
Confabulating the past while smiles start to nourish what used to be hollow.
Thankful I avoided the burking. Blandish with touch, sprouting to be whole.