Manuela Cardiga's Blog, page 38
July 30, 2015
AMOEBA AMBITIONI know I adoptedAn abstemious credoBut nat...
AMOEBA AMBITION
I know I adopted
An abstemious credo
But nature hath
Cursed me
With excessive Libido
I am sick and tired
Of this divide-ride:
I want genitals
And contraceptives
And gender-conflicts
And parades for gay-pride
Antibiotic-resistant STD's
And Beyonce video-tapes.
Talking about TAPES
Even tape worms do it;
I only want to groove it
I only want to evolve
Get involved
Exchange spit and DNA
Join that whole sexual
Reproduction craze.
I wanna be the world´s
First sexually challenged
Amoeba.
Is so hard
To understand
What I crave?
I JUST WANNA
GET LAID!
MC
I know I adopted
An abstemious credo
But nature hath
Cursed me
With excessive Libido
I am sick and tired
Of this divide-ride:
I want genitals
And contraceptives
And gender-conflicts
And parades for gay-pride
Antibiotic-resistant STD's
And Beyonce video-tapes.
Talking about TAPES
Even tape worms do it;
I only want to groove it
I only want to evolve
Get involved
Exchange spit and DNA
Join that whole sexual
Reproduction craze.
I wanna be the world´s
First sexually challenged
Amoeba.
Is so hard
To understand
What I crave?
I JUST WANNA
GET LAID!
MC
AMOEBA AMBITION IIor the agony of finding a soul-mate&nbs...
AMOEBA AMBITION II
or the agony of finding a soul-mate
when you don't even have a cell-mate
one soul-cell
ripped apart
each time
the need to confer
with a like mind
overcomes
the pain-fear
the tearing
the dying hurt
of giving birth
just to be
alone again.
Manuela Cardiga
or the agony of finding a soul-mate
when you don't even have a cell-mate
one soul-cell
ripped apart
each time
the need to confer
with a like mind
overcomes
the pain-fear
the tearing
the dying hurt
of giving birth
just to be
alone again.
Manuela Cardiga
SPELL FOR SUMMONING A KISSExpectantAnd expecting nothingS...
SPELL FOR SUMMONING A KISS
Expectant
And expecting nothing
Such a dream I had
Of your mouth
I long for our joining
And rejoice in our
Joyful separateness
I dream and long to live -
I live and long to dream of -
Awakening and falling
Into dreams with you:
Mine. Both mapped
And foreign territories,
Marked yours
I delight in our mirroring dance
I move/ you move,
In perfect concordance
Yet am enthralled
By our opposing selves:
Shadow and light
Contending.
Wrestling truths
And slippery limbs;
Fierce intellects
And biting
Languorous mouths;
Intricate webs of words
And the electric tangling
Of our tongues
Carving new meanings
Of amorous cruelty
And sharp kindness
Into each other.
Quickly... there are
Empty spaces in me
And burgeoning longings
To disgorge flesh-heat-blood,
And so give birth,
And devour you,
In a single act
Manuela Cardiga
Expectant
And expecting nothing
Such a dream I had
Of your mouth
I long for our joining
And rejoice in our
Joyful separateness
I dream and long to live -
I live and long to dream of -
Awakening and falling
Into dreams with you:
Mine. Both mapped
And foreign territories,
Marked yours
I delight in our mirroring dance
I move/ you move,
In perfect concordance
Yet am enthralled
By our opposing selves:
Shadow and light
Contending.
Wrestling truths
And slippery limbs;
Fierce intellects
And biting
Languorous mouths;
Intricate webs of words
And the electric tangling
Of our tongues
Carving new meanings
Of amorous cruelty
And sharp kindness
Into each other.
Quickly... there are
Empty spaces in me
And burgeoning longings
To disgorge flesh-heat-blood,
And so give birth,
And devour you,
In a single act
Manuela Cardiga
I know I am a-gloatin over something pretty small potatoe...
I know I am a-gloatin over something pretty small potatoes but my Blog hit 135.000 viewings today.
Which is cool since I post weird poetry an freaky prose not pics of puppies and kittens in da nude.
I am happy. 135.000 people out there are damaged beyond repair and my evil plan for word-domination advances relentlessly towards its culmination...
THANKS FOR THE READ!
Manuela Cardiga
Which is cool since I post weird poetry an freaky prose not pics of puppies and kittens in da nude.
I am happy. 135.000 people out there are damaged beyond repair and my evil plan for word-domination advances relentlessly towards its culmination...
THANKS FOR THE READ!
Manuela Cardiga
July 28, 2015
A STORY ABOUT A MAN AND A DOGSweet my love, I want to tel...
A STORY ABOUT A MAN AND A DOG
Sweet my love, I want to tell you a story about a man and a dog.
(I don't know why a man and a dog! Every good writer has a story about a man and a dog, so I'm a-telling you about a man and a dog.)
Anyway, here is how the story goes:
Once upon a time a lone man walked in the endless whispering desert inside his mind. He walked and walked, and the sharp edges of the cracked and calcified sighs and screams littering his life cut into his soles.
(I said SOLES, not souls. It's a frigging metaphor. And NO, he wasn't wearing any shoes... BECAUSE IT WOULD RUIN THE STORY!)
As he walked he left behind him a trail of blood-stains, the exact shade of clotted pain. It hurt too - you better believe it - but he was one stubborn dude, and so he walked that trail of shattered dreams for days and days. At night he'd stop and build a fire with left-over bits of old loves he found tossed and trampled by the side of the track; and sat as close as he dared and warmed his hands to the flickering embers. Sometimes a flame would fitfully leap out and singe his palms, and he would yelp, but never did he lean back. The burning of a dead passion was infinitely better than the cold encroaching poisonous ice of the desert night.
The next morning the pallid sun would rise - it's fervid sickly heat belying its leprous light - and on he would trudge. After a few days he realised he was being followed. Far behind him, almost lost in the vague shapes of the distant dunes, a shadow stuttered. Close one day, another day further, but always there.
(I don't know what it was, but since it's a story about a man and a dog, it stands to reason it's a bloody dog!)
One night he dozed off by the fire. Something he had never done before, as he feared some old obsession would overrun his senses as he slept. But somehow, that night he slept. And as he slept the ragged hesitant shadow crept closer and closer, and when he awoke he found an odd creature slept curled up to him.
(Yes, it WAS a dog)
It WAS a dog, but a scruffier creature could not be imagined: ragged coat, mismatched ears and snarly limp-tongued smile. All in all, not an animal to bring to mind any kind of warm cuddly tales about men and dogs.
It was - however - a dog, and so subject to the dastardly fate laid on every dog since the beginning of creation: the poor thing knew how to love, and so that is what it did. It loved. and since no better object presented itself in that arid land, he bravely proceeded to love the man. Now the man was most indignant. He tried to chase the dog away. He threw sharp-edged stones of polished scorn, shouted his harshest words, but the stupid animal would not be dissuaded from his dogged pursuit.
(Ye, I get the irony in using the word "dogged" to describe a dog's mindless devotion to an unworthy object of love, I'm writing this, aren't I?)
The truth be told, on the cold nights the man found the dog's presence quite useful. The gelid desert stars would throw down sharp arrows of ice, but the dog would stand above the sleeping man and snarl, and the frigid shards would break on his scruffy coat, and the man would sleep unharmed by the fierce stinging pain of old regrets.
During the day, the man forged ahead, and the dog would trail behind, trotting and pausing to sniff here and there; all the while lapping up the trail of blood the man was leaving behind. This the man found singularly repulsive; as was the dog's attempts at licking at his feet, or at his face, on which the tears ran a constant stream of burning salt. It seemed to the man the animal was feeding on his pain: his blood, his tears; and in the silent fearsome nights when the dog lay close, it seemed to devour even his fears.
This went on for quite a while. Days and days, endless chains of nights. The man walking his cursed path, the dog trailing behind. Oh but one day, the man found lying on the ground something strange: the monstrous bones of a snark.
(What do you mean: what is a snark? Ask Lewis Carroll, I don't know what a snark is.)
The dead thing stretched out on the ivory sand, its rib cage arched up against the sky; its cavernous eyes and empty grin seeming to mock the man. It was just too much, and the man sat on the ground and decided to die then and there. There was no reason to continue under these pitiless empty skies. At first the dog nudged at him, and licked at his face, his feet, and uttered plaintive whimpers; but the man would just lie there. The dog barked, he nipped at the man's heels, he even snarled.
The man pushed him away. "Begone! Fuck off! Go off and bug someone else. Leave me alone."
"I can't!" The dog cried, "I just can't!"
"Why the fuck not?"
"Why because...because I'm a dog! I love you - that stuff about Old Yellar and Jock of the bloody bush-veld is bred into us- and I am obliged to lie at your feet and die if you die; and let me tell you, I don't want to die!"
"Go away, I tell you, I don't want you."
"Well!" cried the dog in a huff, "If you didn't want me, why did you spend your entire life chasing after love?"
But the man, of course, up and died without replying; and the Love-dog howled a bit, and chased a few fleas across its shoulder before trotting off to look for another man to follow home. This time, maybe, one who would welcome the touch of its healing tongue, and savour the comfort of its warmth on a cold night.
(Yep. that's how it ends. Why didn't the DOG die? Well... I don't know. I suppose it's because its a Love-dog, see? And love doesn't die. Not naturally, you know. You have to kill it.)
Manuela Cardiga
Sweet my love, I want to tell you a story about a man and a dog.
(I don't know why a man and a dog! Every good writer has a story about a man and a dog, so I'm a-telling you about a man and a dog.)
Anyway, here is how the story goes:
Once upon a time a lone man walked in the endless whispering desert inside his mind. He walked and walked, and the sharp edges of the cracked and calcified sighs and screams littering his life cut into his soles.
(I said SOLES, not souls. It's a frigging metaphor. And NO, he wasn't wearing any shoes... BECAUSE IT WOULD RUIN THE STORY!)
As he walked he left behind him a trail of blood-stains, the exact shade of clotted pain. It hurt too - you better believe it - but he was one stubborn dude, and so he walked that trail of shattered dreams for days and days. At night he'd stop and build a fire with left-over bits of old loves he found tossed and trampled by the side of the track; and sat as close as he dared and warmed his hands to the flickering embers. Sometimes a flame would fitfully leap out and singe his palms, and he would yelp, but never did he lean back. The burning of a dead passion was infinitely better than the cold encroaching poisonous ice of the desert night.
The next morning the pallid sun would rise - it's fervid sickly heat belying its leprous light - and on he would trudge. After a few days he realised he was being followed. Far behind him, almost lost in the vague shapes of the distant dunes, a shadow stuttered. Close one day, another day further, but always there.
(I don't know what it was, but since it's a story about a man and a dog, it stands to reason it's a bloody dog!)
One night he dozed off by the fire. Something he had never done before, as he feared some old obsession would overrun his senses as he slept. But somehow, that night he slept. And as he slept the ragged hesitant shadow crept closer and closer, and when he awoke he found an odd creature slept curled up to him.
(Yes, it WAS a dog)
It WAS a dog, but a scruffier creature could not be imagined: ragged coat, mismatched ears and snarly limp-tongued smile. All in all, not an animal to bring to mind any kind of warm cuddly tales about men and dogs.
It was - however - a dog, and so subject to the dastardly fate laid on every dog since the beginning of creation: the poor thing knew how to love, and so that is what it did. It loved. and since no better object presented itself in that arid land, he bravely proceeded to love the man. Now the man was most indignant. He tried to chase the dog away. He threw sharp-edged stones of polished scorn, shouted his harshest words, but the stupid animal would not be dissuaded from his dogged pursuit.
(Ye, I get the irony in using the word "dogged" to describe a dog's mindless devotion to an unworthy object of love, I'm writing this, aren't I?)
The truth be told, on the cold nights the man found the dog's presence quite useful. The gelid desert stars would throw down sharp arrows of ice, but the dog would stand above the sleeping man and snarl, and the frigid shards would break on his scruffy coat, and the man would sleep unharmed by the fierce stinging pain of old regrets.
During the day, the man forged ahead, and the dog would trail behind, trotting and pausing to sniff here and there; all the while lapping up the trail of blood the man was leaving behind. This the man found singularly repulsive; as was the dog's attempts at licking at his feet, or at his face, on which the tears ran a constant stream of burning salt. It seemed to the man the animal was feeding on his pain: his blood, his tears; and in the silent fearsome nights when the dog lay close, it seemed to devour even his fears.
This went on for quite a while. Days and days, endless chains of nights. The man walking his cursed path, the dog trailing behind. Oh but one day, the man found lying on the ground something strange: the monstrous bones of a snark.
(What do you mean: what is a snark? Ask Lewis Carroll, I don't know what a snark is.)
The dead thing stretched out on the ivory sand, its rib cage arched up against the sky; its cavernous eyes and empty grin seeming to mock the man. It was just too much, and the man sat on the ground and decided to die then and there. There was no reason to continue under these pitiless empty skies. At first the dog nudged at him, and licked at his face, his feet, and uttered plaintive whimpers; but the man would just lie there. The dog barked, he nipped at the man's heels, he even snarled.
The man pushed him away. "Begone! Fuck off! Go off and bug someone else. Leave me alone."
"I can't!" The dog cried, "I just can't!"
"Why the fuck not?"
"Why because...because I'm a dog! I love you - that stuff about Old Yellar and Jock of the bloody bush-veld is bred into us- and I am obliged to lie at your feet and die if you die; and let me tell you, I don't want to die!"
"Go away, I tell you, I don't want you."
"Well!" cried the dog in a huff, "If you didn't want me, why did you spend your entire life chasing after love?"
But the man, of course, up and died without replying; and the Love-dog howled a bit, and chased a few fleas across its shoulder before trotting off to look for another man to follow home. This time, maybe, one who would welcome the touch of its healing tongue, and savour the comfort of its warmth on a cold night.
(Yep. that's how it ends. Why didn't the DOG die? Well... I don't know. I suppose it's because its a Love-dog, see? And love doesn't die. Not naturally, you know. You have to kill it.)
Manuela Cardiga
July 27, 2015
Oh Filhos do Mar, amigos Portugueses, emprestai-me as vos...
Oh Filhos do Mar, amigos Portugueses, emprestai-me as vossas orelhas...
Perante a eleição que se avizinha bateu-me uma inspiração!!!
Vou dedicar-me a uma crônica fascinante traçando os paralelos entre o nossa modestíssima Nação e a transformação que se operou na vida social e politica Portuguesa após a queda da Maléfica Ditadura Salazarista; e uma muito semelhante mudança que se abateu sobre ao Império do Mal - a União Soviética - que em queda livre se transformou na Nova Russia.
Será este um estudo de cariz antropológico seríssimo concentrado sobre uma pequena faceta da Sociedade Portuguesa: a Minoria Politica.
Este estudo irá revelar ligações ideológicas inesperadas entre a Nova Russia e o Nosso Portugal, especialmente no que toca ás crenças e éticas governativas.
Estou a pensar em baptisar o estudo com o título...
OS FILHOS DO PUTIN - AVALIANDO O DESENVOLVIMENTO DA CONSCIÊNCIA POLITICA E SOCIAL EMBRIÔNICA EM POLÍTICOS ORIUNDOS DE PAÍSES SEM TRADIÇÕES DEMOCRÁTICAS
Acho que nós por cá não subscrevemos à Fatwah???
PS: Desculpem aquilo das orelhas, Shakespeare a mais na minha adolescência perturbada.
MC
Understanding the root cause of a problem is one thing; a...
Understanding the root cause of a problem is one thing; acceptance is another.
MC
If you set out to find enlightenment slow down to a walki...
If you set out to find enlightenment slow down to a walking pace, remind yourself that this is a pilgrimage not a race.
MC
July 26, 2015
When in doubt get the truth straight from the horses’ mouth!
When in doubt get the truth straight from the horses’ mouth!
VAN GOGH'S SUNFLOWERSlambent amber sunslight winter-dark ...
VAN GOGH'S SUNFLOWERS
lambent
amber suns
light winter-dark
northern heart
Manuela Cardiga
lambent
amber suns
light winter-dark
northern heart
Manuela Cardiga
