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Matheus Caldas


An organ that musters words (definitely not the brain)




Note from first edition

Notes from the author always bore me. I only read them after I have actually finished the book. I don’t know if that’s a common habit among inpatient readers, but it’s something I always do – same thing for prefaces, or any sort of wordly foreplay – but anyways….

In this first edition of what aspires to be a chapbook, the author attempts to compile poems that share an uncanny sense of absence. The things found in through the silence, the negative films of life, rather than the bird songs and the pretty pictures, are herein stated

The selected poems were driven by similar sorts of creative itches and madness forecasts. The author writes as a currency of relief and shelter for his sanity.

Or what is left of it.

Matheus Caldas, 2016




Summary





It’s happening right now

I hooooooooowl
under the cloistered heavens

and

it is so loud, my dear,

that

if you shut down your tv’s and your computers,
turn off your cellphones and kill the music,
whisk away each and every potential source of distraction,

and

​wake up your

ears

​to the
primal silence,

you will hear it faintly:

​a muffled echo

saying hi to your heart…














Can you hear it?







Tell me a secret?

By the bench
by the lake
at sunset
at stake:

I watch my questions drown -
I hope the fish enjoy their taste.

She keeps me company
in the Sunday’s sadness:

​“Nothing…” 
Says the breeze,
" … is the only thing that hides and all the rest is made up.”

Time stops when she does;
Cosmos draws a smirk.

She points at the water mirror.

​I walk up to it.

My reflection comes to me
and tells me in the iris

“Life is Life”



Walk of shame

Last night I didn't make love
with a random stranger:
actually, there was no
fucking whatsoever.

Last night I didn't trade
sweat
for procrastination,
masturbation,
nor any kind of
self -humiliation.

Last night I didn't have one too many;
I didn't end up
laying in the gutter after getting
kicked out from
​a whore’s nest.

Last night I wasn't
disrespectful,
reckless or unkind;
I wasn't too real or
too honest.

Last night I wasn't booed
by 5 and half people at
a spoken word open mic.

Last night
I didn't break the law;
nobody cared to
call the police.

Last night I didn't pass out in the snow;
I did not feel compelled to leap
onto the subway’s railway;

Last I didn't burn the bible;
I didn’t mark my arm
using an electric
clothing iron.

Last night I didn't seep through a motel bed;
or on a cell bed;
or on a TGH bed.

Last night left no swollen face.

Last night left no dry puke on the pillow
no penny tongue
no crap on the mattress.
it left
nor hazardous stench

As a matter of fact I'm cleaner than ever:
I'm immaculate like a newborn Christian
right after his baptism ceremony.

The sheets exhale fresh laundry
and,
also,
last night
I properly brushed my teeth, even rinsed and flossed...

Yet, I carry some kind of
filth.
Not a threatening,
criminal filth,
I anchor no dirty felony.

It's just that
last night there was
no passion
and
this morning there's
no love.

It's just that this morning
the radio woke me up singing
its usual top 40 songs and
telling its usual fairy tales
and
yet
I'm the one feeling like a
phony liar.

It's just that,
since I survived last night,
this morning I reward myself
like in every other morning,
with the riveting task
of offloading 12 ton trucks
to push its things around,
of laughing along with my coworkers
​and their inane remarks;
I by-stand,
a bitter alien
watching men fight over a misplaced bolt,
feed their petty grudges,
talk shit when the boss isn’t around
as the hours
creep just to make me older 
but never really taking me anywhere. 

Last night,
although my limbs begged for rest,
my dignity couldn't sleep
'cause I can't remember
the last night
I meant what I said
or said what I meant;

Last night
the silent ceiling wouldn’t recognize
a



ny noble act of my own free will.

Last night
I couldn’t recall
how many nights have
rotten way
since I dumped myself into an
industrial waste container.

Last night
I expanded territory
in misery land.

Anyways,
I really,
really don’t wanna sound
like another bitching poet.

But It's just that,
I wish that
last night
the moon
would sing me
her
farewell song,
so I wouldn't have to,
once again,
greet good morning
to the face of
​shame.





Loneliness

Empty room; empty plate 
no windows, no doors 
you just sit there and wait. 

Empty room; empty state 
no future, no past 
just you and the glass plate.

Empty room, empty faith 
no clothes, no mattress 
waiting there like a dead weight. 

Empty gloom; empty date 
​no sanity; no kiss
just you (and that dish)
wondering how it will taste.



Taken apart
 

head in the kitchen sink
moist dirty dishes
glazed eyeballs glare into the drain
blood running slow
down to the sewer

a leg on the bed
undone reddened sheets
empty holes in the pillows

a leg on the stained couch
watches TV

torso in the basket
dirty rags

penis in the drawer
unpaired socks

arms in the bathtub
overgrown moss

fingerless hands
distals hitting keys
ghost making words
clicks and clacks
and clicks and clacks
and clicks and clacks
and the rest snores

Front door
Shut once
Opened never again

Will you ever come through…?

I’m pieces
waiting for you.

Slacklining

People are pairs,
triplets,
circles on the grass;
people are their kids and their dogs,
taking in the summer scent.

A sultry breeze snugs itself onto
Trinity Bellwoods park;

the beautiful humans
gather here.

The fit, the hip, the fresh…
Their smiles are not shy
they brag about their ability of winning friends.

Matheus, what do

you
have to brag about?

This wrecked wood bench?
This handicapped sense of beauty?
This sorrow that keeps you company?

This afternoon,
it wears the holy trinity of mine:

Solitude,
Contemplation
& Heartache;

they glide, white;
tenderizing the golden coin in the sky.

It’s funny how we all keep rowing down the meanders of life
expecting some sort of reward after every curve.


It’s funny how we all find distractions as we wait.
Some may be healthier than others but
still
just
distractions…

So,
play volleyball!
Go jogging!
Make new friends!
Fuck and be fucked and fuck and be fucked,
and
fuck, fuck, fuck!
Fuck as much you're able to fuck without falling into coma!

So
be jolly!

Be those bastards…
they won’t fall.

No matter how badly I envy them,
how much I wish to laugh at them
they keep finding balance on the rubber cord.

Like the tall trees,
they won’t fall.

Let’s leave this place,
the air is too clean.

Let’s leave them be,
the natural born lovers
the unsuppressed,
the carefree.

Let’s take the enigma of
why the suicide rate rises during winter,
rather than summer
somewhere else.

Let’s withdraw to our lethargy,
our shadows and our booze…

Let's retreat to some dusky bar,
where we can fall like vacant stools.


In Absentia

I pondered writing a blank page;
you’d see the title
and then read

( )

The moral of the history is that I could actually write a whole book of blank pages just inserting titles like
In Absentia I, II, III,IV,  so on and so forth,
and if I were famous and influential enough
I bet my balls that some pseudo intellectuals would still buy it. 

I might even do that one day
but the immediate truth is that
I’m still poor in the past and you’re
still (           )
in the present
and
in between us
there’s
a mass grave,
deep and large as the ocean of                                            









                                                                                         I’s
 










never born.





















The author won’t bother writing a synopsis. Find title of the book on the other side.
Best way to do this is flipping it 180 degrees.









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