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The Man is to God as the machine is to Man. If the refrigerator does not know how cold produces for the benefit of Man Man does not know what makes for profit of God. /// O Homem está para Deus como a máquina para o Homem. Se o frigorífico não

I want to enjoy the waiting time and leave my idleness at almost eighty years I feel easily asleep in front of the TV and also in the hospital waiting room with a straight BLACK BUSH after lunch or in the interval of night's insomnias urination of

Lisboa sunny white city winter morning fado houses sleep on the old hills empty of fatalism till the night falls down. Lisboa of morning proclamations that don't come back anymore from chestnut and vegetable vendors flowers and fruit

My guardian angel turns over my tingling ears he wants to warn on the traps that wait and lose me or just tell that I exist in my diaphanous uselessness each time more ephemeral looking after the transfer from the nothing I am to the all I

I feel the sun in the wrinkles of my hands empty of light the shadows are on the fingers rings sparkling the morning. Sinto o sol nas rugas de minhas mãos vazias de luz as sombras são nos dedos anéis que refulgem

What I do is the question of doing nothing because there is nothing to do then I disguise seated before a typewriter AZT keyboard which I spell with fingers and the sheet of paper letter by letter teach me the morning emptiness. I still

The silence I talk about is not human only the astronauts know the wonder of the perfect abyss the solitude without fear the multidimensional mystery. O silêncio de que falo não é humano só os astronautas sabem do fascínio do abismo

Today I navigate rumours of cascade light that wonders me it's so easy to surf on golden sun vibrations surrounded by the mystery that leads navigators to find out the world immersed as astronaut's levitation where the blue planet appears suspended in the

TRASH Flowers born in the dark narcissus at the bathroom sunflowers at the kitchen roses at the bedroom poppies at the living room they grow up in the walls bloom in the ceiling rot on the ground then arrives the maid that piles

Avenida da República, I The Nick Cave's obsessions are also mine love God and death persistently walk along day's memory at the music's pace invented in the 9th floor of a building at Avenida da República where I hear sirens every

My garden is where I plant myself waiting for nature to swallow me. While I wait my eyes wander through multiple colours shapes and perfumes that sew me to the canvas chair where I sleep. O meu jardim é onde me planto à espera que a natureza me

For Joaquim Evónio Dear Joaquim Evónio sometime ago I said to you "Writer of unbearable beauty your comet' shine scintillates among friends who want you in a spatial orbit" in "SonhoGrafias", 2000 then I didn't know that your comet's destiny would

EVERYTHING WE LOVE FADES AWAY AS SMOKE OVER THE HORIZON BECAUSE BEAUTY IS MADE OF WORDING FUGACITY WITH WHICH LIFE IS DESCRIBED /// TUDO O QUE AMAMOS SE ESCAPA EM FUMAÇA SOBRE O HORIZONTE PORQUE A BELEZA DA VIDA É FEITA DA FUGACIDADE DAS

TO UNDERSTAND MYSELF WHAT I SAY I HAVE TO TALK IN SUCH A WAY EVERBODY UNDERSTANDS ME PARA EU PRÓPRIO PERCEBER O QUE DIGO TENHO QUE FALAR DE MANEIRA QUE TODOS ENTENDAM by Armando TABORDA, 2016 (post 1st edition, 2016; 2nd edition, 2021)

In some poets I read redundant and no-meaning metaphors they want to lie more than usually pretend. For me the clarity of the text is the one of clean running water through the municipal distribution network that just washes the bodies out of bed and

I run away with the water in a swirl of reflections to become perplexed almost asphyxiated by life' strangulations. Fujo com a água em turbilhão de reflexos e fico perplexo quase asfixiado nos estrangulamentos da vida. by Armando TABORDA, 2013

Light I think of you by dawn while my skin gets thick waiting for a new day it's the right time to tell you that when you reborn my solitude will remain with me and you away from this insomnia will illuminate my life. Luz pensar-te assim de

"Blue Landscape", by Manuela Aço (represented at the Art Gallery / Espaço AmArte), oil painting From the blue of the colour sprouts the ample landscape smile where the houses whiteness and the trees irony claim the contemplation's

I recover the remaining joy of the past days familiar and repeated embrace I hear the Keith Jarrett music at the Blue Note themes' variations written on the stave melancholy's impromptus for future days. (to read the original

Configuration of straight lines curves and breaks geometric figures of stone and lime thought when memory gets lost into dreamed substance and time to come is on the anxiety of the cardiac murmur fallen asleep in the sleep or in the illusion that

A boring saturday is a boring day. God Save the Queen! Who is able to save the common people' saturday? Neither this nor that cause the "Blood Sweat and Tears" sounds without justify the blood sweat and tears dripping down our revered and vibrant

BANQUET In Fatherland's anniversary the banquet is served tepid by ladies very well dressed frigid and plump everybody clamps under a Requiem's rhythm of plates glasses cutlery and candlesticks played to commend the souls of

PALAVRAS WORDS MOTS PALAVRAS WORDS MOTS PALAVRAS WORDS MOTS PALAVRAS WORDS MOTS PALAVRAS WORDS MOTS PALAVRAS WORDS MOTS PALAVRAS WORDS MOTS PALAVRAS WORDS MOTS PALAVRAS WORDS MOTS PALAVRAS WORDS MOTS PALAVRAS WORDS MOTS PALAVRAS WORDS MOTS

The body knows its requirements if the mind rapes it gets sick or suffers falls asleep or dies and the confused soul gets lost. O corpo sabe o que precisa se o pensamento o viola fica doente ou sofre adormece ou morre e a alma confusa

Painful reflections on fire the sky is an all time martyr in the landscape' silence over the horizon and our lifted heads saying a pray nobody hear asking the miracle everybody see. Reflexos pungentes ardentes o céu é mártir todos os

Under cardiac throb the seconds' pointer sums the minutes of the hours at the life's screen measured by the watch even if time doesn't exist and cheats us covering the space escape in expansion. O ponteiro dos segundos em seu

DAYBREAK You are the daybreak I breath. At daybreak a dewdrop escaping from night slips from my face to yours. (to read the original Portuguese version click on the figure) by Armando TABORDA, in monthly magazine "Azimute",

MENU OF THE DAY The news in the morning paper are the whole day repeated on TV. War famine genocide and pollution economical crimes drugs pedophilia and prostitution disasters accidents and namely

Glancing through the "irremissible" Preface-Poem, of VOLÚPIA, right after we are aware that, "There are women who write with their vulva/howl with their belly/scream with their breasts/exclaim with their eyes/and speak with their hands". And all these

I REPEAT UNTIL ETERNITY THAT LIGHT IS SO USEFUL AND PERCEPTIBLE AS DARKNESS AND LIFE BETWEEN ONE AND ANOTHER IS A SIMPLE FUGITIVE REFLECTION THAT NOBODY KNOWNS WHERE IT COMES OR GOES NOT EVEN IF THE WORLD EXISTS OR IS DREAMED BY GOD REPITO ATÉ À

Poetry is the subtitle of our life's movie or maybe not it should be the proper life if we so decide or maybe not but it will certainly be the last bright flame fading away into the voracious death. A poesia é a legenda do filme da nossa vida ou

Cold tears persistent diamonds or opala that runs on veins masses and nodules glide on the windowpane and get lost in the oblivion ditch I look and see flowers girls at window whiskey books and I think reality that temps and moves us isn't always the one

I write under the dense and sensual caress of the American sun half-laying down in the park where too many and concise birds perch and depart for a circular destiny. Because I love you I know my skin cools down in contact with your absence as God comes

In the long night veins nerves muscles scars and other tissues throb on me spontaneous sperm like a water spring drop by drop oozed on a stone's abdomen. Petrified in granite I shine quartz crystals will-o'-the-wisp over the sleep tomb where I

A-dos-Ruivos non-amazing weekend at the no feast village nor rockets excitement I rest at the porch surrounded by flowers wind golden dust heat of June cumulus clouds over the horizon useless flying insects as books from Fernando Pessoa and all his

The inclined slope is brief and fleeting in its declivity vertical trees at the background horizon insert themselves into the terrain drawing angles. A tired glance towards origin into the womb to the parched and paltry land where cattle flies

Seated on the coach the ideas rapidly get inebriated of sleep and fall asleep rocked by the background noise of the TV set noticing a difficult world to face with open eyes because it's more and more black and over warmed by nightmares retained at the

Expectant in the middle of the cornfield I feel myself hideous scarecrow shaken by the wind I see nothing around me so many birds fly in circular flight and perch on the mature cobs they are fattening due to my inability to scare them two more brave peck

Turning the corner I can see a tree a running over a broken bus at the stop a reflected face at the shop window the temptation of a pretty woman legs a face again yes of windy hair as if it was so fast as imagination. Ao virar da esquina posso

My friends not all motionless is silence nor the night solitude while we watch the shooting stars and hear the most crystalline waters. Meus amigos nem toda a quietude é silêncio nem a noite solidão enquanto

Sometimes photographs give an hallucinated look to the city and we have to learn to keep the lucidity dipped in an sudden and intense unreasonable moonlight that invades our privacy. /// Parfois les photos donnent un air halluciné à

It rains the Day of Dead is there the memory we keep of them becomes more liquid in this humid apathy at cemeteries flowers will stay exuberant for longer. Chove o Dia dos Mortos está aí a memória que deles temos fica mais líquida nesta

I'm a writer of little writing so I don't tire you with repetitions days follow one another and nights and tides as well we look to the full moon the sunligh the dark night and the tide line on the sand as it was for the first time if the world doesn't

An ashes halo around my eyes crowns the insomnia I get up from bed. Alone. I hesitate on the matter I am and I ask what is left for the explanation of my night's astonishment. Until when I look for the first smile at the day after and

At the quiet walls sky spills silence on the city hills a thrill of light goes over streets avenues alleys not ever intermittent cause night is not only made of stars. Na calma dos muros de silêncio que o céu derrama sobre ruas avenidas e ruelas

Ideas captured in the net I weave have a go on the swing of transparent threads I hear them lost while the spiders enjoy the prelude of the right poison on light reflexes lascivious at their faceted crystal eyes. I guess ideas and spiders at

Body exists in my shape and movement is there the soul transcends me any time of life perplexes masks look into the mystery through the mirror's images. O corpo existe em minha forma e movimento é nele que a alma

Suddenly by mid-morning I imagine and want you irremediably. The space separating us is from memory falling asleep to forget you by mid-morning. Coming up light into concentric circles egocentric of sun vibrate lubricious specters into my eyes. To