Fragments XXVII



six short pieces

Cut the grass

There are things that bring us sensations of peace so, so relentless, come on, that we barely suffocate the desire to make mistakes while screaming. For example, mowing the lawn. And you don't need to have a tree, a park nearby, you don't even need to have a vast or showy lawn. The strip I cultivate is narrow enough. In fact, I even encourage you to take more and more care, cutting it closely, evenly, the tripinha. Try it, the emotion is priceless. Equivalent to trimming a dead creature's chin, I presume. And if it still continues to grow… Cut the grass! This is what I can humbly ask of them, when one day they pass by my side.


To Chris Hedges

Conceive, whoever can, the inconceivable – generating children to feed the current of death, not the philosophical death of human finitude, not the natural death inscribed in all flesh, early death, young death, adolescent death, girlish death, infant death, immediate death, expected death, considered death, because there is no other resource for trapped people who want to escape disappearance, decimation, other than to continue being born to continue living-dying-dying-living. How does such a mother live? How do you survive the demand to give birth to bodies? A living uterus in a dead heart, a living heart in a dead uterus, who is to know? Death in the lap, breastfed, pampered, rocked, served. Crying? Will there still be tears? Dry eyes are unbearable.


Sobbing while hugging the neck of the poor horse with studs and covered studs, in the image and likeness of any tormented Christ, whispering to him, God knows what verb, confused prayers at the feet of perplexed ears and looks, Nietzsche did not do what, in the face of the suffering creations, of suffering creatures, does the decorum of pants stop us, which only really serve to cover shame? World of necks and 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.

Divine & wonderful

I write crookedly along straight lines. This is not the only difference with the Creator, I want to believe. Nor the most relevant, at all. I also appear very little and am not recognized as Him… The sentence was misleading, but go ahead. My patience does not enjoy the reputation of being infinite. The difference with the greatest Almighty concerns the height –— less than 1,80 meters. I'm not very low, although I admit I'm far from reaching Him. As for the moral difference, I feel that it comes with time, shortening head to head and, if we counted eternity ahead, we would inevitably be paired up. Increasing figure of indifference.


The man inhales and exhales.
Between breaths aspire.
God sneezes.

Airton Paschoa

The rest is a Social Security deficit.
May Providence,
In His infinite fiscal wisdom,
Help our austere governments,
Immediately requesting repossession.

 *Airton Paschoa is a writer. Author, among other books, of Polishing chinelo (e-galáxia) []

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