Fragments XI



eight short pieces

election time

but the less devout
but it appears to me manipanso

[the boat goes]

I make it known, to anyone who is interested in the choça, that what doesn't stand up anymore is every election to see that son of a bitch from that little boat from the ca — of the charon going up the fucking last arm of the Amazon to hunt down the last vote riverside!

[debunk II]

I make it known, to all who may be interested, that it has a limit: there are people who get to vote!


My brother turned his back on me. He couldn't take any more of the mockery. I gave him mine too, I couldn't stand the slaves anymore. With a frown on our faces and tied to the house, we live in sullen corners, each with its urn, each urn with its ashes.

rain sign

There are mornings so absolute that they almost make us fall on our knees at the feet of Time, regardless of whether it has already been deposed, stripped of its former majesty, and we bow down to the brief interview; so sovereign that, crowning the world-of-god thus discouraged, they make us feel, even a subject, less unhappy; so absurd in themselves, distributing grains of light gratuitously to all beings, that they seem to care little about being pissed off; such superb mornings that it is even conducive to intimate effusion to open the diary, despite the universal ills, and run it aimlessly, not to miss the lost pebble of a lost politician from a lost province of a lost country who wanted to be buried standing. "Since he never bowed in life, he never bowed in death!" The mere idea of ​​the heel sunk into the heart of the earth… I closed it quickly, the trench of types, and I had the impression that the ingrown toenail was throbbing. Rain sign.

Sad Venise

It's hard to believe it's sinking. It all looks so solid. From there to here, from here to there, stopping, comparing, they parade blushing, decorated, decorated. Sink how? where the blush of the damned? Anticipating the sea of ​​foam, the beautiful owner waves and shakes her hair. The firm and strong madame, like a good and superb foundation, dangles fearlessly from the top of the pile. The gentleman who, full of himself or others, commands his planned offspring to the bow, just needs sculpting, rocky and rough. It is true that the smell of the market is daunting, but the background music, from the melancholy of the spheres, calls for a reaction. The rumour, the rumour... Well, the rumours, and he continues to hesitate between the gondolas, until he stumbles upon her. When in doubt, he takes two bottles, taking advantage of the offer.

mild disgust

It was not the case. He played, yes, on the inside, but lightly, without ever coming to blows. What was he going to tell the doctor? who got bored for nothing, sometimes watching TV, sometimes reading the newspaper, sometimes going out to the window or at night and wandering aimlessly, searching the cosmos or more comfort, among cashiers and gondolas, sometimes even spending the day with his beloved Horácio? She had come to think that her eyes were the problem. She would then close her eyes, and for a few moments the mild discomfort would pass or seem to pass. When she came to feel that so and so it still wasn't unwrapping at all, she had to admit that she wasn't going to be able to jump for joy anymore.


It was all of a sudden, excuse me, I think I was watching the evening news. It locked. They think it was the stroke and not the TV. And it doesn't unlock anymore. I did everything. I even thought about plastic surgery, but the doctor himself, I don't know how to say it, smiled. The final solution, I also thought about it, but just thinking about what they could do to my face… That's the only reason, please, don't smile, that's the only reason I smile.

*Airton Paschoa is a writer, author, among other books, of see ships (Nankin).


See this link for all articles