If I ONLY COULD

 Texto de autoria de Alceu Natali com direito autoral protegido pela Lei 9610/98

I spent all night long tossing, Turning and questioning, Racking my brains and my nonconformity, Searching for and anew, But nothing can be done about it, If I only could speak with God, I would make a deal with him, Lest your ruddy countenance turns into pale, Lest your look creeps out, So that you do not need to run, To stumble and fall, This feeling is pain that drives one insane but it does not hurt in me, Because I do not know how deep a bullet lies, This lament is a feeling that rationalizes with no reason, Because I know how impromptu fate surprises, I can spend the rest of my life, Racking my memories, But not knowing how to avoid my longing that I should long for before, I have tried to speak with God, To make a deal with him, But he would not listen to my begging, And his divinity was profane instead, And without any agreement, He left, And rose to the sky, This moment is late pain that only now suffers in me, Because I do not know what from the past is left in your heart, This torment is death that frightens but it does not die in me, Because I know how suddenly this ephemeral life is passed by and away.

ESTE VÍDEO FOI COLORIDO À MÃO POR 2.130 CRIANÇAS

SPECTRAL MORNINGS

Texto de autoria de Alceu Natali com direito autoral protegido pela Lei 9610/98. 

My morning glory, Has a Lord attitude, My morning story, Oxford is your patibulum, In Paris I danced the last tango, In Liverpool I sang beyond the grave, Eternal strawberry fields, Eternal surreal gave me birth, At the gates of our last dwelling-places, Wilde, Keats, And Yeats are yours, At the windows of narrated art, Woolf, Lessing, And Austen are mine, My aureole-like morning, Moss gathered in honey water, Does not gather moss on a rolling stone, My spectrum rises to the sky, In Prague my heart is Rilkean, In Grangemouth a Cocteau twin, Unparalled voice of Joycean verse, Unparalled flavor of Bordeaux wine, In the room of the first prayer to knowledge, I hope I die before I get too old, In the last portion of my existence, I hope I fade away before I die, My spectral morning, This state machine over your helpless beauty, Dies during an out-of-the-body flight, My glory is on the ground with no surprises, In America my pride is black, In Ireland it speaks in the name of love, The two of us in the street without a name and a gutter, The two of us with no one and no fear, I still smile in a troubled night, The sun must go down to rise again, I still float downstream into paradise in a sweet dream, The moon must spin to balance the earth, My glorious mornings, Mornings to where the spectra point, The future was a question made by curious voices, The future is what they made of it yesterday.

TIME TRAVEL

Text by Alceu Natali, copyright protected by Law 9610/98

REAL TIME TRAVEL: DEPARTING IN 2021 AND ARRIVING AT OXMANTOWN ROAD IN DUBLIN, IRELAND, IN 1903. 

BELOW YOU CAN READ AND LISTEN TO THE ORMONTOWNE'S ABSTRACT AND SONGS. 

THE ABSTRACT NAMED 'CLOSE ENCOUNTER WITH A SHADOW OF THE PAST' IS A REFERENCE TO THIS REAL TIME TRAVEL, TO THE PAST, WHEN THIS ROAD HAD ONLY SMALL FACTORIES AND WAS COMPLETELY DESOLATE. I MANAGED TO GET THE PICTURE OF THIS ROAD  WHEN I WAS THERE IN 1903 (SEE PICTURE ABOVE). THE PHOTO WAS TAKEN WITH THE BACK TO WHAT IS NOW THE KILDARE STREET.

THIS ROAD WAS FOUNDED BY THE VIKINGS IN THE 12TH CENTURY.  AT THAT TIME THEY WERE CALLED 'OSTMEN'. NOWADAYS THE NAME OF THE ROAD IS OXMANTOWN. THE VIDEO SHOWS THE DUBLIN BUS ROUTE 172 DRIVING ALONG THE MODERN OXMANTOWN ROAD TOWARDS KILDARE STREET. 

THERE WE GO

I'M ON A TRAIN TO DUBLIN. I'LL BE THERE IN A COUPLE OF HOURS. WHEN I GET THERE WE'LL CELEBRATE OUR NUMINOUSNESS ON YOUR ORMONTOWNE ROAD. DON'T STOP PLAYING. PLAY ON AND ON LEST OUR IMAGINATION DAYS ARE GONE. WE'LL NEVER SEE OUR HISTORIES COME TO AN END. EVEN OUR PROLOGUES WILL SEEM BOUNDLESS. WHAT HAPPENED IN 1903 DOES NOT SURPRISE ME, AS YOU KNOW WE TRAVELLED TO THE PAST MORE THAN A FEW TIMES, AND ONLY ONCE TO THE FUTURE, BUT THAT'S ANOTHER STORY. WHAT AMAZES ME IS MEETING WITH YOU AGAIN IN THE BEGINNING OF THE 20TH CENTURY, AND NOT IN OUR PRESENT DAYS, THE FIRST 22 YEARS OF THE 21ST CENTURY. THAT'S SOMETHING I CAN'T UNDERSTAND, EVEN THOUGH YOU LIKE THINGS THAT CAN'T BE EXPLAINED. YOU KNOW WHAT? WHOEVER IS READING THIS WILL THINK THAT I AM NUTS. BUT YOU'RE MY BOLTS! GOOD PUNNING, AIN'T IT? OK, JUST FAIR TO MIDDLING. RIGHT NOW SOMETHING CROSSED MY MIND. WHO'S THE SCREW DRIVER THAT FASTEN US TOGETHER? COINCIDENCE? CHANCE? WHAT ABOUT SYNCRONICITY? YEAH, THAT WOULD BE AS WASTING TIME AS TRYING TO FIND THE MEANING OF LIFE. FORGET IT! YOU'D BETTER KEEP ON PLAYING. MUSIC IS THE ONLY THING THAT MAKES LIFE WORTH LIVING. YOU KNOW, PEOPLE SAY MUSIC CAN CHEER YOU UP AND EASE YOUR MIND AND SOUL.. BUT IT TURNS OUT THAT SOME OF THEM INVENTED IN MY DREAMS TOSS AND TURN ME IN THE STILL OF THE NIGHT, GET ME OUT OF MY BRAIN ON THE 5:15, OUT OF MY BRAIN ON THIS TRAIN TO DUBLIN. YOU MIGHT AS WELL UNRAVEL THE MYSTERIES OF THOSE CREATIVE AND AMAZING JOURNEY DRIVERS. AFTER ALL, I'VE NEVER MISSED A TRAIN YOU'RE ON, HAVE NEVER BROKEN ITS RHYTHM, NEVER TOOK IT IN VAIN.

LOOKING THROUGH A GLASS ONION

Text by Alceu Natali, copyright protected by Law 9610/98

How does it feel like to be dead? How does it feel like making me feel like I've never been born? Now that a yellow matter custard is dripping from your fucked up and dead bitch dog's eye? What else the semolina pilchard has to brine? What else the Hare Krishna elementary penguin has to sing? Now that you let your face grow long? How does it feel like to be crooked? How does it feel like making me feel like I've never been straightened up? Now that you sunbathe in cast iron sand beach shores? What does it itch you there? What do you have left to give? Now that you let your knickers down? You´re a fucking pornographic priestess. You´re a fucking ecclesiastical bawd. You´re a fucking pedophile sacristan. You can no longer hide your dovetail joint in your pussy. And what a place to stick it up! How does it feel like to be a pruning? How does it feel like making me feel like I've never been flourished? Now that you are just a bent backed turban? Now that you can only fix holes in the ocean? Now that you let your onion stink? Where´s the next pigsty the piggy will stir up the dirt? You´re a fucking pornographic priestess. You´re a fucking ecclesiastical bawd. You´re a fucking pedophile sacristan. You can no longer close the door the thief will break you down. And what a place to steal!