consolation prize
viva
dead forgiveness
hard and curly
warm cold
could be a baguette
but it was a girl
Palestine
and carrying it diagonally
could be a french
but she was a Palestinian
but it won a prize – the photo
Long live, sorry, dead, sorry, long live the aunt and dead the niece
and the girl didn't win anything?
won a bullet or a bomb
from what is known
but no chocolate
Irony Stories II
Gaza covered himself with gauze, as much as he could, a leaking gut, a wounded gut, a terminal gut. Who will remember you? Tattered, forgotten alphabet. But we saw it! We follow live the genocide that swept you away. But who will believe in us, who also passed and let it pass?
dead dog
children play among rubble
dogs wag their tails
when there are
dog tails
men on the edge of the abyss [play?]
mothers peel potatoes
you have to make them eat
words are useless
appeals too
the hair is from a dead dog
the tail is the same
Bach blue
Don't you look up? Can't you see a foot in front of your nose? Commit such and so many atrocities under him, blue, cloak blue, chapel blue, corner blue, chest-swelling and chest-bursting, bach blue… If you look up, yes, how can you not? No one is made of iron, he can see beyond his nose, and well beyond an inch — even he can see himself (still breathing) with a telescopic sight.
De Profundis
How many times have we achieved nothing except by listening to Bach breathe... Our lungs fill, as cathedrals fill the organ of losing our breath, and we ascend, gothic, grotesque, a palm above the earth, the ceiling to which we aspire can, bursting, be so shallow and shallow. Then, return to the cold slab, exhaling.
Lucky in life
There are reports that bury you under the covers and if you sleep like a rock – with luck. The legend of the street, of redemption, of revolution, of revelation, or whatever name the hope of otherworldism carries today remains in Russian legends. Another world sounds progressively supernatural… Another whiff of capriciousness, hooray! and they lift you up and take you and put a stone on top.
At dinner
Do what down there? The person waved nonstop. What? I looked up to see if it was really me. Nobody. And the person waving, what? as if my presence was essential. I looked down more closely, to see if I saw anything different. Anything. Poles, buildings, air, everything was still, not even the cars were moving. If he jumped, he would start the movement again, who knows, and answer the call. But what to do down there?
*Airton Paschoa is a writer. The author, among other books, of Polishing chinelo (e-galáxia) [https://amzn.to/4at8YgM]
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