In the last two years I have devoted myself to the processes of aesthetic reformulation that concern the phenomenon of disappearance and comprehension of the humane aspiration towards vanishing. My desire to invert such aspiration (towards new, yet unimaginable directions) has designated the core of my recent artistic activity.Below follows a poem made for a collaborative work between me and a Tasca* waiter for a poem book.
The Boozer
The silence that arose in the street
Was only interrupted by the uninterrupted noise of the opening and closing
Of that artless gate corroded by time and borne by three large hinges
Its own sound emanated on that bridge
When a coarse face
Entered the boozer
Struck by a ray of light
And transpierced by an inane roof tile
Honing the red in his face
Whilst rehearsing vocal accord
Without any success among his peers.
Interspersing with Bacchus’ juice
Assailing the precious liquid
In a gruff stroke
Like a galloping horse
In the impulse of an abstract moment.
The ephemeris bohemian
Alights the glass of such medicine
And so continues the quarrel of
chanted defiance’s
Between pacifists and villains
Late into the night
Emersed rounds of booze
The oneness would not dissuade the dusk
And confused minds
Little drawn to the exit
That approached difficultly
At last that glass remained
Half full or half empty?
The eternal question
Jorge Cotovio, 2009
*Cheap Portuguese café’s being closed down due to European laws for hygiene and standardization.
Mobile Tasca in KanaleneilandTasca in process...
Closed Down
by
Standardization laws
Risco
Toda a forma expressa
Será um apetrecho
De simulação de risco?
Ah! Tão profundo e consenso
Se pensa em contradições
Assimétricas mal conjugadas
Correndo num ricochete de duvidas
Exorbitando um risco de fé ou ateu
Desacreditando a solução
mantida numa suspensão
de adrenalina desnivelada.
Risco ergue um simulacro
Infringindo a gravidade
Tão imprópria e crua
Da atitude que a põe em risco.
Jorge Cotovio, 2010
La Donna è Mobile...
Mobile Tasca, work in progress
Povo adormecido
Povo adormecido, meu país vencido,
antigo, envelhecido,
vou-me a chorar
levo na almada a esperança
a vontade de voltar
para dançar alegre
nas campas de quem te perde
Huilend verlaat ik
In slaap gevallen volk
mijn overwonnen land
oud,verouderd
huilend verlaat ik je
