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About Literature / Hobbyist leonorFemale/Portugal Recent Activity
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Literature
on being elastic
Every morning the body gets up. Or doesn’t.
This is a ranting about paradoxes - you are, but you cannot be. If you are not, why aren’t you being?
The world requires an answer the body is not yet ready to give. It is, after all, morning.
This is something written about self-love. Hello, how are you, I think my brain is alerting me not to love you, why does your face look so much like mine?
There are so many things we are supposed to tell each other. A question of movement, a question of standing still, a question of knowing when to do what, a question of expectations.
Every morning the body does, or doesn’t, get up, and wait.
Sometimes it’s noon and there is no time to shower. Once you were told about how some stains are tougher than others. Once you told me that as a justification for a black coat, or several. No one said anything about mourning. Mourning is, after all, more silence than color.
Every morning the mail comes. Or doesn’t. There is little to d
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:iconleonorfernandes:leonorfernandes 4 2
Literature
on, out, and on again
We are in a forest and yes,
the trees hide us.
You talk about the moonlight and the depth of your love for it,
your admiration,
but the race is always
always
against it: the shadows swallowing two bodies and two bodies being grateful.
You talk because you always talk.
The sore throat, and you talk. The tired eyes, and you talk.
The lights go out, they always do, and when the talking is over everything else is.
Lights steal what the shadows should offer,
and yet two bodies being grateful
because they still have movements,
the possibility of moving, with
and towards
each other.
We are in a forest but the trees were cut.
The cold blood where we dance on, the trees, bleeding, and yes,
yes,
we dance.
with,
and
towards
each other.
Always.
Or, I'd say, at least, til
the lights come back again.
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Literature
hands in the sky
There's a gun pointing at your neck.
Here it is.
Take it.
It's yours: a poem to prove it. The bullet through you. You through me. There's a gun pointing at your neck and yet the thought of drowning.
Nothing's ever enough.
These cracks and wounds have gone out of hand. Nothing's ever healing,
so here's the gun that'll numb all down.
(silently hoping,
nevertheless,
that rigor mortis doesn't go too hard on you)
Here's a poem to prove a gun.
A sewn into my pockets kind of poem, so you won't read it,
but I kept you, too, there, darling, so you might as well do read it,
my poem to prove a gun
poiting at your neck
These cracks and wounds: saliva will have to do.
No more kissing the neck for me.
Certainly, no more kisses in the neck for you.
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Literature
modern art
why would you kiss the
walls, when you can have my lips
instead, darling boy?
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Literature
While angry or On not making sense but then again
I made you pretty in my head.
Just like I make everyone pretty.
All ribbons and glitter and gold and velvet and everything else:
caring, mostly,
endless awesomeness that ends up
being not-so endless
but very-so awesomelessness
I don't know: how many times must your fingers get burned?
how many times do you play pyromaniac?
Some fires shouldn't just be lit, baby J. Morrison, some fires shouldn't just be lit.
Bitterness
is
cyclic.
They say:
people come
&
people go.
They same:
and some stay.
They forget:
some is more like one, probably more like two, but never more than one, never more than two.
And I
should've known
better.
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Literature
Marble, Moss, etc
on resting on graves:
you are a sleepless morning
and therefore, I am
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:iconleonorfernandes:leonorfernandes 5 2
Literature
Corpses, etc.
I went to the Louvre to
exhume you.
I found,
instead,
a coffer full of gems.
oh, were you glowing, babe
were you glowing
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Literature
September came as a bad night out
September came as a bad night out; I was dancing then while you sang,
don't stop,
keep singing,
and you were opera, you were punk, and as for myself,
you begged me to be the blues. I wanted jazz, so I danced, danced, danced, dress floating and body stumbling, dizzy with passion, drunk on love, etc., & there you are, you chest-burning melody.
but oh, no, no: it's okay to forget to take care of your plants.
sometimes, the devil sneaks in and let them rot,
decompose, as you sleep, barely
& so then comes the funeral: Marcha Funebre for les fleurs du mal,
yours
& isn't death supposed to be
poetic
&
pretentious
&
just golden, rusty, just champagne in New Year's Eve,
the overwhelmingly beautiful,
tragically beautiful
celebration
hide the corpses, love, hide the corpses,
get the fancy red velvet box
& hide the damn corpses under the diamonds.
another toast to
morbid beauty: dead plants with the pretty
allotropes of carbon
September came as your plants left: I kept dancing, as you
burned the co
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Literature
A song your voice would sound great singing
bare bones, uneasy flesh
and there you stand: covered with flowers, still.
once upon a time there were nights without you
and insanity within the nights without you
and you without yourself, yet inside someone else. a win-win.
back then there were no flowers to cover your body with. you begged for saliva
and I prayed for skin, for goosebumps, for
hearts racing twice as fast
here's a photo album: you facing the mud, you biting your nails, you getting a haircut, you smoking a cheap cigarette, your underwear on the floor,
here's a photo album: burn it
burn it with the
cheap cigarette.
here's a cheap cigarette you forgot to smoke:
get the matches.
your flowers must die.
bare bones, uneasy flesh,
watch me leave
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:iconleonorfernandes:leonorfernandes 5 3
Literature
Down
tame your lungs: you martyr, you pitiful Atlantida,
you cheap titanic,
you sinking bird;
it is time to dive & die.
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:iconleonorfernandes:leonorfernandes 8 2
Literature
Pulse pressure
you moved.
you wanted a bigger room and a better view,
and you moved.
tell me about the scents: fresh ink, new furniture,
cleaned sheets, spilled wine.
you moved - tell me about your bed: too big for a
love(r)less body

so there's a bed,
and there's your body resting there.
your mind: restless.
who do you think of?
your box of jewels, your secret gardens, your rotten flowers, your buried treasures,
gather your collection of lovers
and
pick: don't be
too picky.
which memories warm you up &
with whom &
how do you get to choose fairly because they were all so
lovable
with all their lies, Vernon would sing.
tell me about the new flat:
did you remember to change your heart, too?
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:iconleonorfernandes:leonorfernandes 3 4
Literature
Poems, problems, pianos
There was once anxiety and
there was once suffocation - the good kind.
There was chaos to run to and misery to die for.
To sleep with. To sleep in.
The white walls weren't white, we didn't care. you got them dirty with your cigarettes,
I didn't care.
No: you were a poem I profoundly disliked. but you were,
nevertheless,
a poem.
A dirty god in disguise.
A burned cigarette on the white wall: me,
not so white anymore,
a bit more grey,
a bit more
blue.
There were once the 'I can't wait's.
The 'please, come home's and the 'I'll die without you here's.
The 'I miss your scent's and the 'I hate you, let's go to bed's.
The summertime sadness
The wintertime sadness
The springtime sadness,
and let us, please, keep the Autumn memories glowing.
But the walls,
they can't paint themselves to look pretty again.
And poems,
they can turn into satires.
Enough talking about old pianos: there was once an old piano,
there isn't, anymore.
Grab your diary and your diamonds,
there is
nothing left
to
do
here
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:iconleonorfernandes:leonorfernandes 6 0
Literature
on stillness, storms, stillness
your arms were never long enough; you'd stretch them towards me
and they'd meet nothing more but a ghost
within a ghost
within a ghost; you'd wonder. i'd whisper: your name never burned my skin.
there were never ashes.
there was never dust.
just ghosts. within ghosts, within ghosts. and short arms
that wouldn't catch bodies.
you'd whisper back: fuck metaphysics.
yet we did not dare to name anything for each other.
the train would pass and that'd be it: a train passing and no way of naming it.
same with people, I'd whisper.
when I left I took the words.
you had your arms and I had my ghosts.
to be numb: changing positions - I kept your arms and you still won.
to be numb: not minding changing positions - I kept your arms and nobody cared.
when I left I took the words. you learned to name things.
here's a heartache
here's a pain in the chest
here's a kick in the balls
here's a punch in the guts
here's a bad poem and a bad break-up sex
you'd come - back.
I knew you would because people are
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Literature
decades
I would,
for the sake of having your eyes burning my skin,
again,
try to understand
or even give a fuck
about the cosmos, and the stars, and the meaning
and the lack of it.
I only get the last part,
though.
Which is why you never
got me.
Which is why I never got
you.
I would,
for the sake of feeling it loved, the body,
again,
try to care less
about God, and the gods, read less
think less
do more
(for the sake of feeling the body
burning).
But what matters most
isn't how well you walk through the fire.
Only because Bukowski couldn't be right
24/7.
Nor could you be wrong
for fucking ever.
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:iconleonorfernandes:leonorfernandes 5 5
Literature
to bloom
here's a rotten beer to warm your
bones. the cold and the words attached to it.
there's nothing to words when
there's so much to honesty. you just let it flow
so you let it go.
here's a rotten beer as cold as your
flesh. the words and the truth and the rope
and the guts.
closed doors and no attic to climb to.
here's the honesty
that'll die within you.
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:iconleonorfernandes:leonorfernandes 3 0
Literature
I don't know
I will not hear about your haircut
your future
your happiness
your sex life
or your lack
of it all. I will not hear about anything
until you see me crawl.
but I know the dirt all too well,
how it tastes and how it makes my cheek
bleed. how it gets under my nails and
how it's still the biggest need
I have, right after you. and even so,
for knowing how it is
(to have your mouth tasting like blood
and your guts lost in the gutter)
I've learn that your name
does nothing but make me
shudder. and if you own me for the first minutes of dawn,
you'll know the ephemerality of it all.
because some minutes last a lifetime
and some lives last a minute
but ours (both lives and minutes) are gone.
morning orgasms will do,
but the dawn will eventually break
through. and we will, too.
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. everything for me becomes allegory.

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Activity


ugly shoes step on my spine, I am back writing nonsense over here. and yet.
Every morning the body gets up. Or doesn’t.

This is a ranting about paradoxes - you are, but you cannot be. If you are not, why aren’t you being?

The world requires an answer the body is not yet ready to give. It is, after all, morning.

This is something written about self-love. Hello, how are you, I think my brain is alerting me not to love you, why does your face look so much like mine?

There are so many things we are supposed to tell each other. A question of movement, a question of standing still, a question of knowing when to do what, a question of expectations.

Every morning the body does, or doesn’t, get up, and wait.

Sometimes it’s noon and there is no time to shower. Once you were told about how some stains are tougher than others. Once you told me that as a justification for a black coat, or several. No one said anything about mourning. Mourning is, after all, more silence than color.

Every morning the mail comes. Or doesn’t. There is little to do with a body. You learned, as a matter of fact, that there is only one purpose to it, which is fill it with things that make it larger.

Every morning the body gets up, until the morning it stops doing so. No one said anything about mourning. It has nothing to do with color and, more than silence, it has everything to do with weight.

This is a ranting about paradoxes but, above all, a request for an autopsy.

Get them out, get them out.
'We know how the light works,
we know where the sound is coming from.
Verse. Chorus. Verse.
I'm sorry. We know how it works. The world is no longer mysterious'

.   .. . ... . . by Frozen-photo

The Curse by manuelestheim

Dreaming as the days go by.. II by AlicjaRodzik

just back by rmalo5aapi
  • Listening to: Philip Glass
  • Reading: 'Crush', Richard Siken

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leonorfernandes
leonor
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
Portugal
little ball of trouble
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:icongioarturi:
GioArturi Featured By Owner Aug 18, 2017
Happy Birthday, magnificent Leonor!!! :rose: :cake: :party: :sun:
Thanks for your fabulous and so original compositions!! :heart: :love: :love: :kiss: :hug:
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:icongioarturi:
GioArturi Featured By Owner Aug 17, 2015
Happy Birthday, marvelous Leonor! :rose: :cake: :party: :sun: :heart: :love: :kiss: :hug:
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:icongioarturi:
GioArturi Featured By Owner Aug 18, 2014
Happy Birthday!! :rose: :cake: :party: :sun: :heart:
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:iconmldzz:
mldzz Featured By Owner Feb 18, 2014  Professional Photographer
thanks :)
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(1 Reply)
:iconunspecifiedunknown:
UnspecifiedUnknown Featured By Owner Dec 6, 2013   Writer
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