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luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

David Ignatow - I'm a Depressed Poem

You are reading me now and thanks. I know I feel a bit better and if you will stay with me a little longer, perhaps take me home with you and introduce me to your friends, I could be delighted and change my tone. I lie in a desk drawer, hardly ever getting out to see the light and be held. It makes me feel so futile for having given birth to myself in anticipation. I miss a social life. I know I made myself for that. It was the start of me. I'm grateful that you let me talk as much as this. You probably understand, from experience; gone through something like it yourself which may be why you hold me this long. I've made you thoughtful and sad and now there are two of us. I think it's fun.

Alexandria Peary - The Architecture of a Love Poemi

Love's balustrade, love's balcony

             a few iron words that can be seen anywhere still

in grocery lists, in laundry hung between two objects,

             an e-mail, in an apology, in a thought about the weather

these rusty words, these rusting gates

              before a breath, Standing in the cold morning

on a cold blue stairs, with a curlicue of coffee

              you look at the word Love written on the

side of the Pharmacy in cherry-vanilla flavored cursive

              because this is where a love poem once stood,

what I am saying right now is secretly built over

              a love poem, the fossils of a cupola,

pink buildings with red hyphens and dashes

              and three red dots, You, second person pink

with shutters you could open with a fingernail

              like in an advent calendar to see sticker scenes

of apartments inside: a radiator, a bare arm,

              two cups by themselves on a table

The mind of the attic still persists up there

              meditative water

and the chairs talking quietly to one another

              It's now pink rubble, rhyming bricks, and an illicit balcony

the heart had such a fancy elevator

              that it started to look like a bird cage

and once in a lemon-scented fog

               near springtime-fresh trees, I heard two people say,

"Yellow kiss-shaped flowers, telephone flowers,

              are falling from my mouth now"

Now, it's a set of blue and white checkered apartment buildings

              math problems that are eight stories high

a long division jutting as pollution into the sky

              laundry, cooking spills, gasoline shirts

commas, theories or arguments of boyfriends & girlfriends

              boyfriends & boyfriends, girlfriends & girlfriends,

all hanging out of the window that you opened.

Ólafur Arnalds - Ekki Hugsa

Directed by Arni & Kinski

Produced by Arni & Kinski

Choreography: Ásrún Magnúsdóttir & Alexander Roberts

Cinematographer: Jóhann Máni Jóhannsson

Camera assistant: Snorri Fairweather

Gaffer: Sigurdur Bahama Magnússon

Editor: Gareth McEwen, Arni & Kinski

Assistant director: Álfrún Laufeyjardóttir

Wardrobe: Rebekka Jónsdóttir

Hair and makeup: Steinunn Þórðardóttir

Production assistants: Atli Óskar Fjalarsson, Tara Njála Ingvarsdóttir

Dancers: Halla Þórðardóttir, Hannes Þór Egilsson, Felix Urbina Alejandre, Þyri Huld Árnadóttir, Una Yamamoto Barkardóttir, Marínó Máni Mabazza, Carmen Lea Einarsdóttir, Dagmar Edda Á. Guðnadóttir, Jökull Nói Ívarsson, Kolbeinn Einarsson, Uloma Lisbet Rós Osuala, Sigríður V. Gunnarsdóttir, Ylfa Aino Eldon Aradóttir, Þóra Dís Hrólfsdóttir

Special thanks to Iceland Dance Company (IDC) and Starkaður Sigurðarson at SÍM

This America, man.

McNulty: Let me understand you. Every Friday night, you and your boys would shoot crap, right? And every Friday night, your pal Snot Boogie… he’d wait till there’s cash on the ground and he’d grab it and run away? You let him do that?
Kid: We’d catch him and beat his ass but ain’t nobody ever go past that.
McNulty: I’ve gotta ask you: if every time Snot Boogie would grab the money and run away… why’d you even let him in the game?
Kid: What?
McNulty: Well, if Snot Boogie always stole the money, why’d you let him play?
Kid: Got to. This America, man.