Alma Novaes

 

There's no poetry

There's no poetry 

inside of us anymore,

fled, slipped away,

while the cat licked itself,

As the wind passed,

Not a single passer by

felt it at the time, 

its absence;

She disappeared 

into the garden,

Crashed to the ground

like a ripe fruit,

as in the dirty game of pushing,

of privilege and exclusion,

Standby surplus of the mouth, 

of the toothand the hungry,

just like the patient,

neither eats nor mourns,

fasting, bearing yoke,

In the routine of the accounts

taxes and rents,

being the fucking menu,

of the easement menu that

It will never be enough,

while you squander in delirium

in front of your equals,

demented society,

indifferent to the marginalized,

you are marginal,

because poetry gets sick like this, 

in the usurpation of powers,

in the ostentation of gluttony,

in turning away the face of hypocrisy,

Enchanted Nations

with the false prophecy

of ego and megalomania,

of the Ferrari and the iPhone,

the vulgarization of the name

what you give to your press,

We are minstrels of patience

pushed to the limits,

We are your appetizers

In the frenetic oasis of gold

that you do not honor,

And you want poetry to

Adorn and practice connivance

with the absence of virtues

with militant injustice,

No, that poetry 

doesn't go into that,

she goes further,

Poetry rivals

with a lack of commitment

of the leaders of the world,

The lack of sizo

Of the despots that multiply

such as clones and parasites

full of ingenuity

and dexterity in 

giving birth to inequality,

That poetry becomes a main

stayin the annals of history.

The Poetry Lady

 could lend you a memory

.But for this event,

There is no working capital.

There's no poetry in us anymore

and vegetable gardens and orchards

have been swallowed up

by the heat of the summer,

climate congestion,

Deposits and corals destroyed

and the devil on all fours,

And don't shake us

with community gardens

your hunger is surplus

of this indigestible gift,

the twisted cat's loin,

the horse, the cow, and the ox,

The Scarab and the Grasshopper

of the dog that licks your lips,

you eat all things, you drink all things

by the retort,

and you leave nothing,

that you will shave to the bone,

it will not reach you

for as much as you consume,

that you are a deception 

the one we don't see the bottom of,

All the aprils have disappeared,

simulations, airports,

Sewers and submarines

The elections, the plans

allocation of local government,

the destruction of health,

You are the diarrhoea of promise

And ides feigning sensitivity

putting on a compress,

And the moat of the world

It doesn't tell us about feelings

but of emotions,

of revolt, anger, and injustice

Neither the cyclone nor the volcano

When it arrives, it adds,

It's just aches and pains,

and mass graves

and your concern

Replace it with hypocrisy

Your creativity

Scapegoated

to whom you give proper names

This is your virtue,

trivialize the earth,

defile the habit,

too inhumane!

And this debauchery

Lean over us

Like a decadent anthemor 

an advertising jingle

than more ordinary

It was born out of precariousness

And as the poet said, 

where there are 

people in the world,

Real people

that does not violate the senses

that it does not hurt our souls,

that serves as an inspiration

To the Planet Concert

But your obsession and blindness 

keep corruption going

that doesn't clean our rivers,

That the fish in the air,

Intoxicated

they speak of plurality

of your interests,

by chemical compounds,

Go, humans of the interstice,

Do more fairsand gratitude balls

And don't be surprised by terrorism

Shove the money up your ass

When the grenade blows 

you up in feigned altruism

Poetry resigns when 

Who can help, shut up,

Permanent injustices

And this permissiveness

that of your silence,

It's the manure

wherein ye hide the truth!

We're rubbish that stinks

in the open, it just stinks,

and misery, it doesn't write poetry,

it just fucks us and doesn't prescribe!

There's no poetry inside of us

only injustice and insanity

and lack of authenticity

and unhealthy provincialism

and the glory you seek in wars

will be outlawed by a mature aesthete

You will set new goals of mortality,

Damn way to propagate poetry

And she can't for us

Rebuilding Humanity

and you continue to feed

of weapons and money

To the teeth the puppets

Unconsciousand it will not be long, 

you will see,

It won't be long before

those who thirst for your office,

of the vice that you have fostered,

foam with malice

and hideous madness,

of the hospices powers,

Blood and hunger bombs

blowing you up in the face,

you accomplices,

There are no innocents

of your ambition,

A machine gun in each hand

to exterminate,

it's just numbers,it's just names,

they're just cannon fodder,

and the living,

they will keep marching,

destitute jesters,

Completely Shackled

to the sound of your ideals,

Popes, bishops, cardinals,

masters, gurus, 

shepherds and samurai,

The military era that you planned

and that you can no longer escape;

Let's get up, second-class humans

in the fertile gilded cage,

we are guaranteed prison,

under the appearance of security,

and endless wars,

to the ends of the globe,

that interbreed and fertilize

In the drag of the decade

in pocket advertising,

You want to decimate us

Because we're a nuisance

For demanding return

on the issue of equality

And to those who do not accept the

unreality disorder,voluntary slavery,

We will serve as an adorn

mentin a charity home, which

according to prosperity,

In a being as inhuman as you can, 

we still have time

To the clean spot, 

in donor agreement

at any trade fair organ trafficking

On the corner of the nearest ghetto

It's a favor to align!

Poetry insinuates,

But it can't choose

If we're going to sell out

Or defend ideals!

Poetry is offended in venom,

in the absence of virtues

in shamelessness,

Poetry doesn't mix

to the occasional lies

with which you defend yourselves

Every days

peaking of everybody,

As if all

If we were the mirror

of your latrine,

and you want a rhyme,

a poetic pause,

A Passion for Gasoline

In our dialectic,

in castrated hearts,

where hope has been pruned,

Where life was decimated

precociously fucked the child,

and the agony of the man who

That's like saying,

Mutant, faker, debutante

in so many carnivals;

Poetry went into exile

of your constant lust!

how can there be poetry 

in the summer 

in the absent of August,

And we are now 

the sculpted shadow, 

the dried tear, 

the voiceless cry, 

the forgotten memory 

and discredited, 

like the atrocious story 

of Peter and the Wolf, 

which, in popular jargon, 

is on the lips of the people

We scream shrapnel before,

But it was failure, 

it was an open wound, 

we're the hindrance 

From the day we were born,

we want it to be done 

An entirely new man

fully human,

defeated the servant, the slave,

the last remnant of deception,

And others like me will step up, 

and neither plaster nor steel 

will shroud our voices

And poetry is only birthed,

When the howitzers are silent

and the vultures that you sponsor, 

And for there to be poetry within us, 

this seed must germinate 

that allows itself 

to be contaminated 

by a greater cause,

any melody,

an ignescence

a grain of faith,

A Stem of Childishness

A Solid Truth

Instead of this murderous 

sordid pettiness, 

who is happy when 

it discriminates!

We will give a stage

to the community.

Dear politicians,

skilled in demagoguery,

Your Compliance

Kills poetry

And it forces the hand

Writing is enough,

Enough The Frugal Sticks

of your offshores, 

Of the beautiful billboards

of your levity,

Ladies and Gentlemen of Politics,

Life is not academic,

It's time to shout no more prose,

To cry out the astonishment 

and the injustice

Even if it's to call thug

To this life without 

a threshing floor 

or border,

that the systemic 

approach be chosen

of our illustrious grandparents,

That we carry in our DNA 

and that ancestry

That it's not just an uproar

Inside the chest

Let covetousness end,

tidings to the scrutiny,

Let justice be done

And even if it's not your way, 

it's something that 

has to be done,

the deception, the plea,

No more blindness,

No more sameness

No more lies and

Of the said-that-didn't-say

No more money

Blown out in the alien

No more extortion,

manoeuvres,

of concords and parody

of hawkers and talktalk;

Between caves, hidden,

vertically

There can only be poetry

When you're gone

Real human

When Among Us

There's no difference

when this makes you

Grow Feelings

instead of the curse pronounced,

against everything and everyone,

against the colors,

against immigrants,

against the émigrés,

that you call them refugees

you too are strangers,

foreigners,

You too will see death

Your peace and childhood

and you shall call it utopia,

When you bury poetry

with your children,

Somewhere far from the heart

and stick to the barracks

to the barrels of oil,

animal carcasses,

to social revolutions,

We are all marginal,

some less and some more,

Do not expect from the

slavery poetry,

She's also born

In filthy cradle

that the fruitful become sterile

The lotus flower thus grows

What cannot be forgotten 

and forgets 

and shudders everyone 

is the immense rottenness 

in which society grows.

Give poetry a chair

so that she feels

And let her die of weariness

in the face of your contempt

for culture and art,

for the sustenance 

of bastions of war

To the Expense of World Peace

Poetry gets fucked cordially

for global inhumanity

for your ignorance

Do you want poetry?

Raise the bar of your empathy 

and extend it to the collective 

and its plurality.