Fragments VIII



seven short pieces


Everything looks the same and changed. More or less as always happens, and it happened when the bells fell silent. Everything looked the same but changed. A refraction of skin, of waves of air, of hair. Like the phone that doesn't ring anymore, or hasn't been ringing for so long that it stopped ringing. When remembering in passing, not the touch, I wish! that rang, I answered it on impulse — longing for waiting, for chance, for what was ready. Even mute, even dead.

morning girl

Why does it carry promise without rest? Why do I leave at night? Why eternal reminder of creation? Why does infanteque speak the language of birds? Why does it grow and not age? Because it lights up and warms up? Why call? Why do we need, desperately need, desperately need to open the curtain and reveal even a glimmer of light at the end of the tomb? Or why does it carry, the morning, the girlish faith of a day, who knows tomorrow, to finally be noticed?


This lazy morning that invites you to go for a walk without conviction — This morning that one gets rejuvenated a million mornings ago — This morning, a girl and that we don’t pay attention to — the body in a hurry — This vain and lazy morning — This morning that one undresses and asks for nothing but our epidermis — the surface of the skin — This morning — razor

blue vain

I think of men, so small, below the blue abyss. They avoid spying on him too much, for fear of missing, who knows, with such an order of magnitude. They lower and touch, disobedient, obedient, neck and tiredness. Oh my blue, main blue, sky blue, serene blue, cerrado blue, we don't even know what to ask for or forgive again. We lower and play, without the head, with the belly. More and more buried, less and less touched.


Sobbing, hugging the neck of the poor horse with a screed and covered slash, in the image and likeness of any tormented christ, whispering to him, god knows what word, confused prayers at the foot of perplexed ears and looks, did Nietzsche not do what, in the face of suffering creations, of suffering creatures, does the decorum of pants stop us, which in fact only serve to cover shame? They are worlds of necks and worlds of horses. The tears would end in a flood and he would start all over again in the eye-popping valley, with the whip, the coach, the coachman and the smell, one pulling the other.


the noise of the streets
at the foot of the scum shell
of bubbles and curdled leaves
new notes news
factitious fictitious
of the weary craft
the new time forge
and always and never
going out — a sign of fortune?
from the fateful workshop


warm balloon
autumn morning
teach me
pass like this

of me
from below
deaf world

*Airton Paschoa is a writer, author, among other books, of the life of penguins (Nankin, 2014)



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