Nuno C Cuco - Poems. Shorts. Scripts. Songs.

Sixteen [short story] - Can send through email if requested.

sexta-feira, maio 25, 2012

Every Corner's Excerpt

How dare you throw petty comments. You have nothing, for I seek no desire in feeble compliments that would make you blush momentarily as you pleasure those surrounding in a petty attempt to seek recognition. For purely existing. Your actions deserve only to be reprimanded. Your egotistical ways that show only the immaturity of your shallow ways. As you blow kisses, you conjure only for those receiving to feel disgust towards you. Go on. Continue to stock up contempt towards you, which is all i feel you'll ever accomplish. Meaningless words to give you that one second bliss you aim for. And just watch the hours fall over, as you awake in anonymity.

terça-feira, janeiro 24, 2012


When ups and downs are constant u loose grip of past as it dilutes itself in every moment u live. For grasping the true reality of the word allows a welcome loss of the common definition of memory. There is no fear. There is no ecstasy. Only awe for all.

sábado, outubro 22, 2011

Letter to the Old

A "letter" to help move on. To seek certainty that what is just... is and there's nothing that can be done. That things are as they are and we should live without having to think how the past will affect the future. It shouldn't matter. We all made choice,s now we should live up to them. I write this to say goodbye and hope you understand why we need to part ways. We were, but understand we cannot be any longer. All written is an opinion. It's not absolute truth, just my opinion. And at this point, nothing can be done to change that opinion. There should be no resentment, only acceptance.

Letter to the Old

Forgetting is useless when the past haunts you with the possibility of re occurrence. So i must write away the truth so logic can blissfully redeem what i believe so true. I find myself counting days for a new encounter that i erased and you seem wrongly right in ideals you so conveniently created to your hypocritical benefit. Words you throw at others without a true understanding of anything i thought i taught you. You distorted all words and only build up a hate towards (what you've always failed to understand) what i loved. My criticism towards a decadent society come from my love, my need to see them grow further. Emerge from all the bits of negativity i pin on each and every one. You wish wrong to all. You'd deny ruling for you find they do not deserve it. You'd rather erase them all and start all over with your irresponsible and ruthless guidance. But the mirror should have told you, you are not fit to judge. No one is. But that word follows you like the heavy frown you carry around. Judgemental and pessimistic lies that you justify with seemingly contradictive (for those without the proper insight) words you easily distort. And you cannot realize your own faults. For the lack of realization of where you were flawed and the impossibility of being told such (like when we so many times criticized the same in others) is what brought my pending decision to a certainty. You are no longer, we are no longer to be acquainted. The hipster, or pseudo-intellectual, we always criticized has grown to a point where it shrouds your understanding of the truth. That there is none. That one should accept one and all. We can say anything we want as long as we think of bettering ourselves and one another instead of rejecting and judging what we aren't fit to. Darkness grows. My arrogance comes from defending myself from others misguided actions. Yours comes from hate. And hate alone, for not accepting what is. I denied you not because of your cowardly fists that run from truth. For i do not care for injuries. Even ones caused from stupidity and denial to hear your place, your wrongs. But from the negligence to own up to that runaway punch and the idiotic need you found to create such an event. I no longer believe in growing with people. I believe only in distance and second intentions. For even at great cost and effort to me, all those who created meaning have abused that same meaning in some way. And the one who was taken in under my roof as a brother is the one who cannot face the fact of his faults and though he (you) say you do, your actions, your words to the air say otherwise. Hypocrisies of the never loved. Of he who rejects the present which was given through our past. I help your present, you destroyed our present. I choose now only to get along. And choose those who allow. Simply allow, without judgement and misperception. Who look for enjoyment and won't create irregular nights and days so often with unjustified violence and misdemeanors towards all those who come with me to where i go. And apologize without intention of keeping ones actions as a one time mistake. Who chose to repeat to exhaustion drunken disruption. And i got exhausted. Exhausted of being the only responsible one. Exhausted of making sure everyone got along. Exhausted of making sure everyone was happy when in return i got nothing but hate and hypocrisy repeated insistently until the doors of Spain. And there, once again, i, after i long ceased to care for you, followed my own wishes without guilt, and you just proved me right once again with childish egocentric behaviour. Not seeing things as they are because it just didn't please you to. Nobody understood and even the ball that would so easily role down mountains with anyone, concur one minute with you. Finding disruptive, irrational and primitive behaviour in the actions that never truly saw repent from the causer. You. So i write to tell you i left the past. For there, i only find sorrow, contempt and judgement. I write to tell you that i chose not to leave you but to only be around things that can actually make me, me. Why be around someone who seeks pleasure in your downfall and proving you wrong? You did what we'd criticized Many to do so often. I look not for people, but for those who care. You no longer did. So you see, my choice, was truly yours.


quinta-feira, fevereiro 10, 2011

(outros) 3 Fragmentos

The lack of success brings great minds to fall under the veil of sorrow, 
One's actions blurred into the incoherence of acceptance. 
Not what we are any longer,
why are no more. 
We do now, only to be seen, thought of. 
Though no longer in the mind, the desire proceeds,
the longing does not forfit. 
And you stay in this bottomless pit that is my heart. 
My cold and hardend heart that bleeds nor breathes any longer
Meu pais de esperança. 
Apenas a ilusão de sensações 
que se assumem nunca terem sido 
num pais de distracção. 
Onde o mar nem se aparece a si. 
Onde encontrava a eternidade, 
agora fragmentos de sonhos ancorados nesta praia 
que se engole a si 
para não enfrentar o medo de se perder. 
Nunca se tenta encontrar. 
Já n és o que foste. 
Sinto a distancia que nos separa 
como a imensidão que outrora representavas. 
Temo já não te ter...

Vem o gosto pela complexidade. 
Que e’ sempre existente na novidade. 
Na musica por ouvir e nos olhos por ver abrir. 
Terras por conhecer e vinho por beber. 
Sou um boémio de vidas por viver 
e poeta de palavras por escrever. 
Amo o amor e a compaixão 
que vejo inexistente no homem. 
Mas deambulo na esperança de um dia a encontrar. 
Em ti talvez, cara desconhecida. 
Para poder escorrer nesta, a verdade por fim. 
Assim o desejo.

terça-feira, janeiro 18, 2011

Project: The Critic (Series)

[My objective: Better, less cheesy, smarter version of Californication]

Premise: A cynical man in his early 30's wants to be known for his literature work but do to his fear of failure being greater then his thrive for success he only has a few unpublished short stories, poems he writes on a note pad and a lot of ideas. He remains at a content level, work wise, by having a column in a few magazines where he writes reviews of contemporary TV shows, movies and the latest albums in the indie music scene. The serie's action relies on his constant seek for recognition (or his anger towards society for not achieving it) and a constant dwelling over "true" love while he ventures through the city of Lisbon.

The main protagonist lives in Lisbon with a very close friend who has his own independent life, not having much interference in the character's (lets call him John) life besides joining him occasionally for drinks, mostly in the evening. Other characters will include a fellow writer and close friend that has achieved greater success, with published work but continues to have great respect for John, and even though he's happy for him, he's somewhat disappointed because he sees himself as a more talented writer. Their will also be a love interest that lingers through the show and other interests that will cause a conflict between love and lust. All actions of the character will be chosen with great reasoning as he ponders on the importance of love in modern society and even its meaning in ones life. This man never chooses to hurt people for his own benefit but in a conflict of situations and ideals someone always gets hurt and mistakes are always made.

During an episode we will have John narrate a critical column he is currently on of a show or movie he has just seen.
We will join his modest ventures through the nightlife of the metropolitan area of Lisbon as he interacts with people, men and more importantly women, and as he and his friends dwell on the day to day events, and life philosophies and beliefs of each. This will be sprinkled with situational humor and sarcasm. As in real life, things will go wrong more often then right. But no matter the arrogance he demonstrates towards others, he and his friends are always happy with whatever it is they achieve, though their hunger for greatness is never satisfied.
An episode will commonly end with the narration of a poem he is thinking of writing that recaps recent events or thoughts. 

At the end of the first season, due to miscalculation of his economic situation and being fired from one of the magazines due to verbal hostility towards one of his commentators he has to get a job at a supermarket, arranged by one of his friends who manages a store.

I've come up with a lot more details that i refrain from posting at the moment. Just wanted to share this info with some.

I also have many other concepts for shows, movies, books and even video games that I'd like to one day share.

Thank you,
Nuno C.

quinta-feira, janeiro 13, 2011

A Travessia do Cabo

O que me resta se não esta paisagem. 
Esta vista que deslumbro de noite 
e me cativa o sonho. Mas não suponho 
que estarás ao meu lado para desfrutar 
da imensidão do que deixastes para trás. 

No fim só restaras tu, 
oh mar de desejos por concretizar 
e viagens por realizar. 
És meu sonho 
mas em ti só me encontro em pesadelos recorrentes 
duma sociedade que se mostra incoerente 
ao desejo que lhe tenho. 
Ao prazer que lhe demonstro. 
Mas este mar trás raiva. 
Estas ondas ecoam gritos que fazem ensurdecer. 
E aos teus pés perecer já sem alma, 
só com esta gente que nunca o foi. 

A calma já se foi. 
Só resta a tempestade. 
E sozinho luto, 
já sem qualquer vontade de te fazer frente. 
Oh lenta e tenebrosa sombra. 
Não tenho vontade mais...


Quando a escuridao nos assombra, 
utilizaremos apenas o brilho de verdes prados 
para nos lembrar que nao es se nao ausencia. 
És noite. Faça-se luz.

When darkness shades us, 
we shall use the light of the green prairies 
to remind us that u are not but absence. 
You are gloom. Let there be light.

Inconsistente; Rancor; Um Fim


A incorporação do imperfeito 
na idealização dos meus actos perante um ser inacabado.
Um gosto tórrido por uma sensação inconsciente quebra o raciocínio, 
controlando os meus braços em actos indesejáveis.
É a teoria do interior que se exterioriza nas alturas erradas.
Um monstro de noções barbaras.
Os talheres parecem ter mente própria 
e a sanidade escapa-se por entre os abismos do garfo.
Tens controle sobre tudo.
O meu mundo moldou-se e sinto-me incapaz de o controlar.
Guia-lo longe de ti.
És a morte. 
Num corpo corrupto pelo qual anseio


Quem es tu que ousas criticar minhas plavras? 
Que palavras jorast tu no papel que possam ser comparadas? 
E entao se nao chegar ao nivel do mestre? 
Culminarei no meu auge. 
Procuro ser apenas melhor do que fui 
e que cada palavra que escrevo 
seja melhor do que a que escrevi.

"Um Fim"

O tempo passa 
e a linha que nos une se torna imperceptível ao olho humano. 
A concretização de actos fúteis cada vez se torna mais isso, 
na idealização do que uma vez fomos. 
Torna-se inútil lutar pela sombra dum passado inexistente. 
Salve... Memorias enubladas de desejos por concretizar. 
E jaz aqui teu sonho. Por fim.

Saciar a Sociedade (satisfying society)

No meu sorriso se transparece uma realidade de outrora. 
Não sou o que fui. 
Resta-me apenas um rancor 
por uma sociedade corrupta que não me larga. 

Desejo o carnal. Desejo satisfação! 
Quando na altura precisa da felicidade 
que não pode coexistir com o conhecimento, desejava o amor. 
Agora possuir-te e corromper teu corpo. 
Saciar minha vontade na curvatura da criação divina que sois. 
Vos... Plural pois é pela multiplicidade da coisa que anseio. 
Serás. Não, emendo. 
Serão minhas as vontades que não vos foram escolhidas. 
E uma a uma colho os frutos dos pecados que semearam. 

Não merecem se não o meu toque frustrado 
para que eu emende a pobreza, 
a podridão que enxerguei no meu coração. 
Desejo libertar-me do sentimento inexistente. 
Para que a felicidade te caia sobre os braços 
como um toque leve sucedido pelo meu suspiro no teu ouvido
que te diz calmamente, com minha mão sobre teu peito: és minha. 
Foste minha. Agora e para sempre num passado... Longe. 
Cheio de gente que me foi conhecida.
Agora resta nos a solidão amarga na liberdade doce do nosso reencontro.

Satisfying Society

[not that great in English]

In my smile transpires a reality from another time. 
I am not what i once was. 
All i have left is this rancor for a corupt society 
That does not let me be. 

I desire the flesh. I desire satisfaction! 
When in the precision of my happiness,
that cannot coexiste with knoledge, i desired emotion.
Now, posses and corrupt your body. 
Satisfy my will in the devine curvature that you are. 
You. Plural. Because it is the multaplicity of things that i crave for. 
You will be. No, I emend. 
They will be mine, 
The desires that you haven't chosen. 
And one by one i pick the ripe fruits of the sins you've planted. 

You do not deserve but my frustrated touch so i can fix the poverty,
the rotten that i have dipped my heart in. 
I wish myself free from an inexisting feeling. 
So that happiness can fall upon you 
like a slight touch complemented by my calm wisper, 
with my hand on your chest: your mine. 
Were mine. Now and forever in a past... far away. 
Full of ppl i once knew. 
Now all we have is this bitter solitude 
In the sweet freedom to reunit once again.

terça-feira, dezembro 07, 2010

What tomorrow will bring (PT)

Criei este inferno no teu olhar. Uma fuga duma realidade na qual me encontro. E nela volto com o meu desaparecimento quando o tempo assim o diz conveniente. É relativo ao espaço. Quando lhe procuro, o espaço me aceita para me fazer retornar ao passado e voltar a querer sair do presente lugar onde me encontro.
Vejo-te mil vezes nos meus sonhos e em todos a tua face mais pálida do que no sitio anterior. Onde vivi e no desespero, te quis encontrar. Numa situação impraticável te falei e dos suspiros criei uma vontade de ter apenas o que não quero. Ir e voltar. Procuro apenas o que não sei. Quero apenas o desconhecido. Te criaste sem emoção. Morta ao toque duma marioneta cujas mãos e as palavras ocas anseias. 

Volto ao teu olhar: Porque tantas faces. Porque tantos enigmas se és sempre a mesma. Falta-me a vontade de lutar pelo que é meu, então me desleixo na simplicidade do platónico. Pois é mais fácil não ter de enfrentar a verdade (que criaste, que obviamente criaste) do teu olhar.

Evito a repetição na constante procura do êxtase que és. Corpos nus, mãos cheias de dor que transmitem o sabor da vitoria do teu consumo (porque minto? Onde há vitoria num acto tão efémero? Na trivialidade de conseguir apenas aquilo pelo qual o esforço és nulo? Sou um hipócrita de acções egocêntricas. Vivo na contradição das minhas palavras para que a felicidade se mantenha sempre 'a distancia do meu braço. Para que eu me satisfaça ao conceber, ao realizar que nunca poderei obter o que me esta estampado 'a frente.. Magos e feiticeiros são a minha justificação para não dar um paço em frente. Assim não me poderei ver livre do meu objectivo. Pois não sou ninguém. Quem sou eu para dar o passo em frente se não me foi dado esse poder? Se deus me deixou paraplégico de sentimentos? Assim vivo, "feliz")

3 pequenos fragmentos

Vou quebrar as minhas regras
para definir as regras que desejo cumprir.
Uma vida de oportunidades desperdiçadas, disse ele.
A do esquecer como uma irrefutabilidade 
para a concretização de se ser lembrado,
em sonhos angustiantes duma reminiscência distorcida
para se tornar um pesadelo recorrente do que se quer.
Quando nunca se teve estas mentiras nostálgicas
na qual me decido banhar.
Um dia te vou esquecer. Oh futuro.
Que me persegues e suspiras ao ouvido:
estou aqui, estou sempre aqui.
Temo a morte.
E na ausência da vida
temo esta monotonia do que não deixa ser. 
Receio a estagnação das minhas ideias, 
dos meus actos que me tornam são. 
Desejo as ondas de imensidão correspondente ao tempo que deixa pensar. 
Não esquecendo os prados 
onde posso deitar meus sonhos
e colher olhares de vidas por ter. 
E aqui jaz meu corpo. 
Peço-te o mar, peço-te cidade. 
Pelo amor de deus, peço-te vida! 
Pois morro antes que meus pés toquem nesta terra que julgo ser minha. 
Por favor. minha de novo...

Um conjunto de situações desfavoráveis acumularam nisto. 
Não posso deixar de concluir sobre as consequências dos meus actos
que tornaram o presente na sua antítese.
Nos desejos desaparecidos na facilidade
de se sucumbirem em desperdício. 
A contradição do desejado esta ciente de sua presença maquiavelica.
E de pensar que sou a causa disto. 
Que só existes por mim
e te causo meu tormento momentâneo.
Porque o tempo é meu amigo 
e outro dia me acompanhará a um inicio melhor. 
Da-me a mão. 
Larga o copo e toca no chão q pisas. 

quinta-feira, novembro 11, 2010

Bottom Lip

It’s always been your lips.

Why aren't you in the presence of my wishes?

To always be shown your departure

as sudden as the arrival of someone’s flesh.

Face, lips, a distorted concept of wishes unknown

to this sudden taste of flesh on a primitive reasoning,

feeling so fresh as my mind drifts to a sense of carnal dishes.

I see your face and nothing more.

And as you distance yourself

I crawl towards you begging for release

of this hold you have in recurring dreams.

I crave your lips and that is all.

For I wish for more but it seems all i long for is a kiss.

It is in your smile that an unknown kills me... So swift.



Words of discomfort,
misleading rimes
to compel towards a distance measured by time.
The choice to be appealing
when my voice tells lies
that cannot withstand the boundaries of this band that unites us.
For it does not,
not any longer hold tight to your grasp
for I unwillingly departed myself from such a task.
Feelings unheard,
words unfelt.
She is my third concept of failure.
You've dealt my cards and I only see dark