I threw the cellular phone for the garbage. I want to walk usually, not to be without life eternally. To win the attackers' present, to lose the future. In spite of many metric safeties that keep what doesn't belong them, the uneasiness is marshy. Many safeties, a lot of insecurity. Everything so uncomfortable, abundant.
The garbage is superabundant, the buckets of the filthy waters cook him. Colossal columns of sculpted garbage cans, stables of Augeias. Hercules was hired for the last thirteenth task… to end with the garbage. It would be pay with several gold fleeces. He didn't get, it gave up, he got loose furious because twenty-eight signatures were commissioned. The heart of my spirit tries to free of the surrounding disorder. The garbage anger joins to the tree dropped by the inhuman force. The flowerbeds got lost in the imposition of the concrete construction sites, of the new builder’s beloveds. Rudimentary genetic weltanschauung, truncated.
I don't know, we don't know, nobody gets to explain to me, to understand that regiment is this that governs us. I think it is a regime with the existent equalitarian governments' smells of all in the world. Universalized, stranded.
Passes not vulgar administrator's vulgar escort. A priest to cut, escorted of kindness, not to distinguish him of the plot that the doctors of our slippery destiny him inveigh. The escort of the fear, insecure, fearsome, it falls down in the unprotected, disguised enemy potential, that it disturbs, it inhibits the passage of the procession funeral. The priest is beaten, blessed for the power timeless. Immolated in the execution of superior orders, sanctioned by inferior. In the establishment of the satanic ritual, enchanting barbarism in the civilized jungle. The pilgrims moved of their shrines. The mabuba dried, the abó also.
It is one of their favourite music, insult for the sound to dislocate the senses, to elevate the cultural identity. To show the mythology no ancestral, but the actual, of the sheets oils-producing, of the field’s diamonds-producing, of the vast extensions of lands arable, starving. She unmasks in the body the dance, but forgot unmasking of the mystery of the Sphinx of Giza.
To hear music is as a great thunderstorm, they are necessary rumbling of a thousand thunders and the blindness of a thousand orange rays. Seasoned by the monstrous machines that hole walks, streets, terraces, that destroy and they rebuild the soils, to I sole and together of the escapes free from the fast ones motorized, authorized to challenge Jupiter.
To dance, to intoxicate, to drug. As Voltaire's father today would say: some children in prose, other in verse. The parents will always be called invalid and small vessels, because they don't feed their children's madness. No longer we have them. I doubt that somebody has them. Servants of Brutus, for they steal and they murder parents. For us to dance, they drink, and they sleep.
I looked at what remained at that house. Two fans that worked with luck. They were paralyzed, led of rust. The television worked to the blow. Because of the flaws of the energy electric, the freezer called, it turned off. The careless bed always tumbled in the hour of lying down. Of the roofs of the bath house, of the kitchen and of the corridor, the drops of water comfortably destroyed the dream of a home. They stopped being ceilings, they were snow flakes. The couple sexagenarian worked, it struggled for her homeland and for the homeland and family abandoned, it remains them the comfort of the musical sonority, striping of the romantic moments, of the idyllic final score.
So much petroleum and diamonds! How much more wealth, more poverty. Where the safes are very full, there is a lot of slavery. Technological slaves, of the new technologies. Slaves of the modern Horses of Troy.
The widows jump in the trees, showing the mantle of his song. I will never believe in the Man, while only one exists human being to starve. The guideless years pass, no representatives continue the tyrants.
Gil Gonçalves, in excerpt, Epic poem of the Jasmine of the Night, of the author.