When the hell begins to smell.

The rough cigarette still burnt expelling a thick infamous smoke, nearly to reach its filter. Despite the smoke, his fragrance was still around, haunting her feelings and senses as images of a past not completely done. There was only half an hour that he had shut the disloyal door, which stared at her at that very moment. It gazed her steadily straight on her breast, as if an embodied chest, animated by a being that queried her questions without answer. She could not move because he had gone taking everything away, putting all the belongings she most and only had.

Memories were raiding her conscience, causing irresolution, and pushing forcefully off all her last attempts of being. The seule thing she wished was she could be.

Three hours passed through her life as if nails being hammered into her nostrils, torturing, paining. The same continuous languor carried on. The cigarette became ash. The ashtray was about to be entirely powder. Her breast had being pierced a hole full of nothingness by the distressing door.

There was no longer sense on making up for dinners, concerts, plays that used to be watched with him. A sort of kindness, which she once pretended to play, was no longer needed to be sustained. Perhaps now the most important thing to be done was how to get rid of the ashtray’s ashes, maybe not.

When the phone rang, she had no strength to answer it. He could be trying to tell her that everything could have been wrong. He could be definitely departing. The thought of million possibilities may have killed her. Her body was found in the next morning, when the newspaper deliverer forced the door trying to get some tips, and saw the beauty pale lying toughly on the floor.

Golden broken chains, silver necklaces, cheap fragrance perfume, old yellowed worn clothes and everything else was left behind, apart from a disgusting mint barely chewed gum.

As we lie falling asleep.

- We are just two fools lying together on the same bed.
- What do you mean with ‘together’?
- I see, I could mean together in love, but now I just mean beside, close bodies, warm sensation; tenderness.
- Where do you guess we can go? I mean, achieve, get to.
- Perhaps nowhere.
- But nowhere does not exist.
- I don’t believe so.
- How come?
- For instance now, we’re lying on nowhere.
- We’re not.
- This bed just below us is nowhere. I mean we’re thinking of nothing but nothingness at all, we may be the embodiment of nothingness, and that means standing in nowhere, against nobody, talking about numb feelings, faded lives, which doesn’t exist as well as the other things I’ve formerly said.
- You’re quite capable of playing the meaningless.
- Maybe not when you make choices.
- But choices are entirely linked to chances, as well as likelihood.
- You ought not to involve likelihood; it’s something you don’t know about.
- We are going as far as nowhere.
- Shall we stop?
- Where?
- Where we are.
- Maybe not.
- I’ve got some slightly chilled beers.
- I don’t like it.
- Why not? It is just beer as it’s ever been.
- It’s not the same, definitely.
- Ok, temperature urges you for drinking or not.
- Absolutely.
- You fagot. I’ve either got water.
- No, thanks, I’d better drink nothing. I’d rather remain lying dully on the bed.
- Beside or away from me?
- It doesn’t matter.
- I’m asking you, would you like me gone?
- I’ve said already, it does not matter.
- It should matter. I wish to know.
- Yes, you can stay.
- I can stay or you wish I stayed?
- Hell, I’ve said, no matter.
- It’s not the same for me, maybe just like slightly chilled beers are not the same for you. Has anything changed since then?
- You can’t ever know whether I wish you stay or not because, for me, it really has got no matter. And definetely things have changed in such a way that the chilled beer shall not be the same, for my consciousness is not the same either.
- Ok, I’ll make us some coffee.
- Yes. Don’t take as long as I can forget what we were talking about, eh?!

The flowers of mine.

My flowers haven’t got smell, they talk to each other, communicate amidst themselves with outstanding speaking skill. They speak in ‘petalish’, the language of the smoothest fibres.

My flowers were conceived to satiate, not to please, never to soothe, nor to rejoice, not even at all to beautify. They’ve rather been made to embitter than any other thing, if I could choose. But my flowers were created to pain; to hurt other people’s ever hardened indulgent hearts. To dig bottomless holes, puddles without mud or sewage to moisturise.

My flowers were made to satiate other one’s hunger, anyone, someone whom art belongs to even when ownerless. Flowers also make part of the wool within that button of the shirt, which was left behind, cowardly abandoned with no excuses.

My flowers were made to fuddle violent ruffians, unspoken, those unmentioned damn without ways and how.

My flowers, as I most thus refer to them, are not mine. They’ve already flown away. They’ve coloured and risen up other walls but mine, infamous distant walls.

Flowers, as I most attempt complicating them, are just flowers. So simple as singular words can be figured out.

Flowers, the ones of mine, are to finish the hunger of who does not feel it; create and undo the germ of wish, which does not desire; to paraphrase reality, to contradict the lie, to deceive mocking the truth, to dazzle the blind and to please the fool.

My flowers are mine because They are everything I’ve done and haven’t got.

Talbot guessed he would never be alone.

- Why are you telling me that? - Because I wish have got a sensible woman beside of me. - But I do know that, you don’t need to patronize me. - Ok I sweetheart, I’m just going for a drink with some bastards, do you mind? - You’re asking me whether I mind leaving you meet up your disgusting lovers, are you? - No, I’m not. I’m just going for a drink. - I’m sorry but I can’t believe you. Talbot leaves the flat, Natasha screams madly, the neighbours hear that and attempt to complain, but Natasha is irreducible. Talbot was not going to meet up any disgusting lover, unless his wearisome friends wish. Natasha was shouting random swears surrounded by unconsidered neighbours. Talbot was smoothly having a drink with his job partners, but it was all. Natasha could not comprehend and soothe herself. When he comes home the trouble is ready to depart. - I’ve told you shouldn’t have gone. - Why? - Because I didn’t want you to go. Do you think It’s fair leaving me alone in the damn evening, spending all that time with neighbours? - You did because so you wished, for sure. - No. - Every morning is the same, can’t you realise I’m sick of all? I’d just like doing something different. It’s not so hard to see me, is it? - Ok, you only need to let me know and maybe we can try those church programs to avoid divorces. - That’s quite foolishness. I can’t hear you’re telling me that. - I’m just trying. - So you shouldn’t. Just leave me alone. They go to bed. They do not talk at all for all the nightlong. And in the morning, new arguments were likely to come up. - Every morning you smile the same, you breathe the same, you damn smell the same, you kiss me on the same exact corner of my mouth, and then you ask me for not being faded, I’m sorry dear, but I can’t. - You don’t even try. - Yes, I do. Talbot goes to work. Natasha weeps. Talbot talks on the phone, while Natasha traces her wrists deeply. Talbot comes back home, there is no neighbour, and there is no difference apart the utter quietness. Talbot gets in his home. A few bloody stripes stain the scarlet carpet – but how?!, you ask me, and I reply: The carpet was not that scarlet, some kind of forged scarlet carpet. Talbot browses for the source. Talbot finds her (ex) wife’s wrists pouring down on blood. The matter was the same mint flavour every single morning; the same yellowed smile every single evening, the same damp kiss every single nightfall. Talbot is happy since then.

Start from the Beginning.

Change the matter, think of the places you would like to be within. But it does not make sense. It does not matter, I reply. Who replies? The insane coming yelling bullshit from the corner. But, there is no corner. Just inside your mind, because here I can see, can you not?

No, forget everything that is utterly wrong. What I should have done is not the most proper thing, but You could have regarded, at least, the important words; yes, those ones that were figuring swords penetrating your breasts as if the smallest grains of sugar would be able to do, but they do not. Only because it does not make sense, I realise.

Effectively, although the desperation caused, roused, inspired, by all the literature by the ancient, I do provide quarrel subjects to be discussed. Arguments are not available through along this shore, even because there is not any shore along the medicine paths.

She could be I guessing about books that have never been read. She could be just a sheep running away the hunters. She could be just a haunted life enduring her unbearable life despite the absurd hardships. But she has not gotten any hardship. She is just whom I ought to mind, at all: the only person. And I do, for sure.

London Reviewer Of Books must be coming to knock my doors shortly; I cannot deny I am quite excited to see what they have got to tell me. Maybe there is only foolishness, but I should not judge because I have never seen it so far. Perhaps I am just trying to be polite, because I am not. I confess to be exerting.

Days of grey sky are inspiring, or not, it depends on your point-of-view.

That is all I have got to say by the moment, but I promise I am going to attempt this language hardly as I expect some advance to be done. Maybe for the next text I shall be able of writing any either complete or sensible thing. Welcome to the illustrated Tiago’s land.

Commas.

I am quite addict in using commas. It is a sorrow because in written english people do not use it. I am trying hard to do different. My notepad is full of despising words with no sense. But once I get it, I am gonna never let it go. I affirm. I am sorry about my shelfish writting style as well.

The sofa with no sunshine and the lonely version of me.

There were only me and her. Sat on a luxurious sofa. Her kisses felt like hugs, huge outgoing arms surrounding my neck; her lips sometimes expanded reaching it, casually or not. I was trying to comprehend her geography, her body`s shaped field, her peculiar way of fitting. But she did not permit me, as if I were playing the vulgar fool. It was not. I just wanted touch and mesure her as my sensitive hands claimed in a complete tuning with my core/pulp/the weak deep inside. Cherry flavoured lips. Smooth, delicate hands; long bright black hair. The sofa, I and She causing confusion for ourselves. I could notice, once, she was wanting to escape for a short while, even toiled, but she succumbed losing control afterwards. Words became coming out.

"Didnt I said, darling, that You would be mine?"
"We`ve met long time ago and You should know it was just for joy".
"I do, but whether You wish or not, I`ve ever been sure that You would be delighting my sweet words one day anyway yet."
"Stop being so proud about yourself, so safe; it seems a demonstration of loser`s weakness, a necessity of self-affirmation. You do not realise what does exist inside my mind."
"Oh dear, I apologise for disappointing You, but You`re just a character struggling against your inner fate within a lovely story of mine which i`ve made only for satisfacting You. I can recognize or/and create each step You go ahead or any way to."
"You are lunatic!"

After the enjoyfull soft argument she left carrying with her a delicious bitter slice of anger. That hit me whereas I do love angry ladies.

I spent all that night long thinking about her, features, thoughts, and finally her conceptions about the world - something quite despise and flippant.

We were absolutelly diparate. She: a decadent girl from high class society who was not used to not having lots of money to fritter away with any sort of foolishness. I: a young guy steeped by old-fashioned ideas, in brief an indefinite contradition between straight and left positions about everything, as if it were really needed to take any place. Being boring but explaining better: I was not stood up on the middle. I never were there. My main achievement to accomplish always has been not being mediocre. The worst injury someone could proclaim against me was it.

Next morning before the sun shows itself up completelly, she wrote me a sorry message. Said she was coming as well for the breaksfast.

We talked about cottages, countryside, whitened fields, corpse`s heat. The meaning of all was passing. Just going away handed with the wind which did not blow everlasting.

It was such a harmfull thing conceiving love this way. I was not supposed to envolve people to throw them away afterwards. Therefore anything was capable to fulfill me. Emptyness was a person used to stating me everytime that would not quit. And I still needed to learn how to deal with it patiently, till the end of the days.

The Old Red Lion King.

Painful walls with scarlet wallpapers annoying weak sights. The furniture was dark browned with drops of golden lights. The waiter asked me a while whilst he took me the menu. I said he should not take because I only wanted a glass of his best wine. When I drank that all my intrinsec diseases were regurgitated from my sick throat.

Pictures.

You can see some pictures here , if you`d rather view portraits.

Plan to be a pleasant guy.

While walking around Oxford Circus, I met a beggar saying goshing words. He complained. The beggar told me about young laughing. Children smiling. Yes, it's different. You know that!, he was shouting to people (or to me, maybe) in a grouchy mood. But it was not offensive. I can not explain how something grouchy may be shouted not sounding offensive. That's it.

The old beggar. My sight. You look at me. No, you look at him. At the beggar. The sight is: The beggar, Me, You, The pigeons, and Me again. It's not complex. So, pay attention! What do you make? What can you make?! The beggar shoots a pigeon, kandles a flame of fire, on prime-ful Square; yes, now we are at Trafalgar Square, where polishes, hungarians, italians, libaneses, You, Me, the beggar, the pigeons, and some hidden rats bunch ourselves trying (or sampling) to be pleasant ones, or, at least, sensible people. But Me and other animals are not capable of being reasonable. There's no reason for us.

It's too late, when the night delays to coe, but arrives flashing any kind of live, the beggar eats his pigeon. You look at me sadly. I don't have a place to look, either to put my sores down, or a shoulder. It doesn't mind, i think, because ever will exist someone harmfully than me. But...but... pigeons have just gone. Only one stayed, dead. It's your deadline, i scream to reach you. Yes, you comprehend me, and I need to get along with myself, lonely. Hey!, i say, do not go far. You ask me to overcome insanity, because it can take me (us you wanted to say) over. I agree, but i inquire if you allow me to keep not being a pleasant guy. Of course, that's your answer, i don't like pleasant ones.

Treatise (Essay off-duty) about brazilian people living overseas.

It's a tragedy. They want only have fun-money. That's weird. No, that's not weird. Their fun is different of other kinds. Perhaps i don't comprehend them as i should, or i don't comprehend them, as well. That`s a hint to follow. Or not. Moments like this i take the royal care. That's ugly so. Maybe.

They live lost around the city. Dedicating their wishes of being to any not noble task. I am really sorry for them, for me, for you. They live dedicating their wishes of being to make money; to the make-money-machine; their lives sounds as a machine: making-money, making-money, making-money. A washing-machine: washing clothes, making money, washing clothes, washing money, washing dirty money.

Not that they steal, murder, or traffic; perhaps this way could be better. But that they lose their lives toward: making-money. It's ugly, i endorse. I can't conceive an ideia like that. Dirty money. Money-made with smashing people lives. People that survive and are not only alive.

Ok. Everyone needs money. But not so much. I agree. And also not to getting hungry to accumulate great exorbitant ammount of money. I prefer spend as a perdularium.

Brazilian people are, except us, the better ones, of course, as i would name like: 'selected people', despising. They're despising. I despise. You despise. He despises. She despises. It despises. The dog despises. We despise. You despise. They despise. Everybody despises. Please, i can not give my life to the smashing-money-making-machine. I am sorry.

Thoughts and words to the winds. I recognize I have no sense.

When the swifts come flying from east, I can see the clouds, the same clouds that witnessed our tragedy. You threw me away to the wind, or with it. But I didn’t care, or I could not, perhaps. ‘When the day becomes young, you will understand all your mistakes, then, don’t be sorrow’, I said. Hearing that she answered me nothing, but I know, and inside the plenitude of that moment I could comprehend she would feel my lack.

One month now is past, she doesn’t answer her phone when I try. She doesn’t want to talk to me, I still understand because she is weak yet. But the day is upcoming, and she will need to accept her happy regret, to fall down in love into my arms again.

I’ve never saw the tone, and I need to get across, to get off of the ground, thus I will fix my existence, or set it up into some kindness one. Get a job. Please I can do still the cases you gave me. People scream I was pretending to be without me. Those cases, bordered with affection, stuffed with single love, given straightly to me, I receipted and made other boxes, fulfilled with hard fakes that were complaining in my so harmed heart. So, that’s why, I ask you please, comprehend my situation and do not disagree, I need your hand as I never needed before.

I go cry in the old station, alone, with my clean face of memories, from my mom and my dad, from you, memories that are trying to be forgotten, and that I insist on keeping them safe. Memories that do not exist. Memories from what I have never lived before, neither ever.

Has you once loved me bitter well? I don’t know that by a dream, just remember when I was close to you feeling the most sordid depression, but even so, I love you.

Yes honey, love is the word, the word we tried with no success to express in a million times, is it gone? I fell down into the ice when god left my hand, just because I was shouting and inquiring what was this love so far. Listen, never forget you took me out of bed, I know that and I give you all the credit. Yes honey, love is the word, we have ever tried to explain, but we’ve never gotten say, perhaps today is the day we will comprehend its sense, love is the word, and you need to touch this meaning, as I’ve never got, as you’ve never thought capable. Touch and hold it inside your hands, honey, please.

When thinking about the feelings without sense to loose, I deal with the inevitable disorder, the chaos flaming my conception of life, world, reality, tragedy, poetry and absurd. All those meanings are strictly plugged into my existence, and I can’t open my hands for them. The soul is damaged, the men are dying, and I am going together.

That song.

When you sang that song,
Was to make me hard,
To make me feel harm.

But I know I am
The happiest guy,
So you won’t get
Make me feel ill.

When you wrote that song,
Was to conquest me,
As if you were trying hard
In a war battle victory.

So far I am kind
Feeling lonely and hard
Is if I were supposed
To make my heart being bound.

Yours is not under control
Mine is below a roll
Which compresses and
Make it bits slow.

So don’t be shy and give me your hand
I’ll take it with me to the kindness land
Perhaps you can find the real sense
Lost among the brightness ocean sand.

My miserable job.

The eyes, of that tramp that asked me some charity, looked like cinders, that could glitter the power of hell’s fire; I’ve never believed in these foolishnesses, however, in that day, I hesitated. The child who had just lost his father inquired me about his future, I could not say anything. I was a case worker, at that time, and I toiled with every kind of unfortunate ones, it was worthwhile that I treated them good. I had troubles and absurds happening that were wretches, lawless; there were things that I could not face, I could not toil. Sometimes a thought came up in my mind: I should tell them – all of those people – that their lives were absolutely disgraced, that they were miserable ones, and, if they wanted, I could help them with their suicide. But I could not do that, because state ‘trusted’ me the mission of saving and assisting their lives. State, besides of hypocritical, was inefficient, what everybody already knew. With its wrong politics, that were also tendentious and corrupted, state created these million of derelicts, marginalized, fucked ones, and state still had the stealthy pretension of putting me right there, to save those fucked lives, as if that were possible.

Mr. Florisberto was a “pedigree beggar” – as our kind chronicler Cuenca would say. Mr. Florisberto every day arrived in head office of case work brought, sometimes, by the police, other times by his own feet. He, in an exact reason that I ignore, used to drink liters and liters of any kind of the viler alcoholic beverage that he could find in front of him. He spent all day long asking charities, and when he got to join an enough amount, he rushed to buy a gulp.

There was Lady Carmelisa, a fifty four old nurse, who also worked there. She was a very wise lady. I had the quick impression that she was an angel, who had came to the world just to bring more love and wise for us, human beings, who lived in the Limb of our pretensions and ambitions acerbated. Lady Carmelisa was used to treat Mr. Florisberto with affecting patience and condescension. Lady Carmelisa always sad that some men were to cure, and others were to be cured.

Every fucking day was like an equal, I was, already, getting dead beat, consumed by all that heavy loaded energy that existed in that local. Absolutely were a convergent point of tramps, beggars, dammed, and miserable ones. And that was touching me deeply.

Volnei was a youngster who worked cleaning the floor, the doors, the walls, summarizing, all the building of the institution. He always commented with me about his indignation, and he dreamed with the day that all those fucking troubles would be solved. He was a Social Science student in the Federal University, and like – almost – every social sciences: he was an utopist one, a dreamer, an idealist, someone who had not gave up yet, even seeing all that distopic social reality that we could notice and check by feeling everyday. He was from a humble family, the unique employee that could support his life, while he was studying, was this one.

Frida, the receptionist, was a little boring girls, who had gotten pregnant prematurely, and needed to get a job to supply her child and herself. Her parents renounced her when the fact became known of all. She was a frenetic eighteen girl. She shouted, screamed, and complained with everybody all the time; fought with the case workers, nurses, doctors, and even the miserable ones. I hated her, because when she got me to talk, nobody could take me away, and she spoke a lot, with a renitent voice; she bored and irritated me. Except all those troubles, I still was supposed to suffer all of that. I could not anymore.

In a Monday, I came to the principal and asked my demission. He got perplex, because I was one of his most competent functionaries, the most respected, the most admired by everyone. In fact, I was pleased by all the staff, and the principal objected me saying that my job was very well-paid, besides of begrudged by many students of social work, my job was approved by concourse, and I would not get another better job than that. I said I could not support that anymore, my idealism had been decapitated, cauterized, and I would like to save my life, it had been fired by all those miserable ones that I helped everyday. Principal, finally, acquiesced. And I gone away, failed, frustrated, apathetic, coward. My fight in favor of the world was finished, I had no more forces. I could not deal to the hell anymore.

Dolores.

The walls covered with musty wall-paper, smelling cigarettes. Those so silent furniture, omniscient. That room had a lot of stories to tell, it had ever been witness of Dionysian orgies, personal glories and inglorious, drunken torpors, rusty shouting. Dolores was ever an old lady, outworn. She lived all her life inside those stale walls.

The door-bell rang scratching the tedious. Dolores ran to answer. It was Pablito. He came to call her to go out together. Their lives could melt down, join each other, perhaps thus could make it easier, their lives, easier to support their phlegm existential, common in that age.

All the life, after twenty years, Dolores had spent inside that apartment. The buildings of Madrid were prettier from that sought. There was a classic elegance on that panorama that was capable to inspire Dolores on keeping her insipid life. The worse her life was, the more elegance and classic she lived. She was too much feminist to ‘join’ someone. She was too old, she felt herself archaic, unhappy. So, she asked Pablito to go away, he opposed, but she didn’t want anything, anything except taking a long sleepiness.

(...)

Peter.

Today I watched a movie, It moved me, such as a dog running into me, such as when I wake up drunken with the sun burning my face. I swear I don’t care, really, whether you believe me or not. When I was a child I used to play with fire, mom always said it was dangerous, but I’ve never minded.
While Stephen could walk around his neighborhood, Peter felt alone in his sad bed. The days were not equal to both of them. But, even so, they could bright inside their inside.
Give my money back, screamed Peter to Jason, but he didn’t. Peter was a social sick boy, but he could not mind.
Once, Peter’s mom had made a chocolate cake, she wanted Peter to call up his friends to eat it at their home, but nobody has gone. Peter, since then, should know he will take a different life, a excluded life, and perhaps, he should dedicate his life to some nobler cause.


Sally.

Although her shyness for boys, she was some kind of bitch. But she’d rather be called as ‘solicit girl’. She used to give fucks only with frustrated ones. It was such a pleasure for her, make them happy. Once she met her husband, this way. He was a sad guy who was used to think only about science, he was a physicist and never had a woman.

Dean.

He liked shooting against walls.

Movie.

A movie can change our lives, but it does not mind. If you could live inside a movie, you would be different; you would be like P/B characters. They move on, they live, they fuck, and they get drunk with a very singular way: the P/B way. Rare people get to live this way, free, in a certain way. What i want to tell you is that life does not need be arrested inside an aquarium, we are not closed inside it. I need seing beauty and poetry in banal things, I need bowing my neighbors, I need see the days passing through me. All the world, life being included in that, is such a great problem, although, I love it.

Nothing is for sale. Nonsense.

Except all the money inside my pocket, I have nothing. Even when I tried to get some different place to go, I could not find it. Why is it needed so much money to go out at night. I just want wander around, not create problem to them, just walk around and see some bitches. Reah.
All the tragedy of my life is completely out of reason. Those old and blue clothes can not touch her skin anymore, just because she cries my absence. She needs clean words, and, i just have heavy words. I’m sorry, I said.

The underworld.

I walk through the streets, those streets that could listen to me other day. I hope them to have some drunken ones. They tell me about the truth, maybe all the truth. I don’t mind, I really don’t care about it. I feel melt down due to those words. I know, I can feel the vacant smelling of the air. There is no pollution, no alarms, no shouts. Everything touch my mind, and I melt honesty. If I could give her a kick, I would not do, but I would say some words, I could change her mind, if she wanted. As I am such a trouble person, I should imagine the future with no mistakes, but I can’t, I can’t get. See, all the days are passing through away, and you are just here, hearing my voice, reflecting about this idiocy of mine.