By PEDRO PAULO ROCHA*

Fictional letter about audios of a supposed president who pretends to go crazy during the elections of a real country called Brazil

Card 3

Right-wing civil disobedience is the mad horse of the fascist vanguard! “We lost the dispute for the immediate past”!

Voices between cuts of these #upresident audios that pretend to go crazy to make transparent the real brutality of fascist vertigo. We are the ones going crazy!

The message I received was multiplied by the conductive air of the shocks: “Armed Christ!, machine gun grenade! now on screen! news! The return of a vengeful Christ! the armed Christ of neo-fascism kapitalism is mutant! cruz while the banks profit blacks in the prison of the slave ship”.

The information spread further! Infernal Real, our Upresident, close to death, found his soul mate, in delirium he said, I heard with these ears of mine, this: “Ustra is me, Ustra is you, Ustra, my twin brother, come closer, look at our pit, if I die, you die too! Look at our grave, we'll die together, but I know how we can live. First let's pray: we two are one, and many at the same time! Take my hand! Have faith, sing with me: God forgive the torturers! Look at our death my brother. We will have a glorious end.”

I start this letter here about everything that has been happening for a long, long time, and I already wish for it to end! “Apotheosis of the Unspeakable”. I steal that phrase from someone else. I won't say from whom.

I feel in my body the teeth of a militiaman who eats human flesh. It was last night that happened even when I ran by a thread, I almost didn't die. Today the ghost is still here. The wound marks of his lead teeth. The Mouth that still shocks me makes me tremble even now, I remember that the seconds didn't pass… the militiaman's kanibal… it's over, I thought to myself, it's over… The tongue that hurts has burned me! The snakes used by the torturer U were inside an aquarium marked “financiers of violence”. When I look at the marks, they hurt, I touch them, they're all over my body that I've lost, they make me think about what I can't say. The existence of you before me that I disappeared... I don't know anything more than I was, I myself forgot. I don't know how I'm alive. It could be a double dream, until I woke up, I don't know, and I'm still being tortured by reality once again.

What is the great torturer called now? The great Torturer has many masks! As I write from this crater called from somewhere I try to avoid what I should say.

I have nothing to do, I'm going to need to write this third letter, I'd like to leave this real screen now – it's impossible for it to be like that, or attracted before realizing that I'm always here, I'm coming back here without ever having left, where do I find you? something else I never know what it was.

What I didn't do may be more vital than what I see myself having to repeat. We need to anticipate a difference. I start because here I am again without having left to continue forgetting what keeps coming back. So I can't get out of this echo message.

Vicious cycle. Any strange thing that might arise is the escape itself before or after – now of each sentence that comes out of itself – it takes you, it takes me, through another machine, which I will never tell how it works.

The real machine! The fake priest with a rifle prayed in the fire of the fascist insurgency! The pictures look like something unreal!!

A film in Trance that, when approaching its end, always returns to the beginning. The real canvas on the eye sets the imagination on fire. Real cinema catches fire in the imagination. Imagination loses its breath. Normal reigns in the shadow of your Sun. I don't see anymore because our eyes melt into the iris of the concrete alarm. Even concrete melts in the submerged iris. We're past the next sentence now. Now it's absurd. Today transforms faster than yesterday and tomorrow because this now is endless.

How to paralyze time against tragedy? Will the Catastrophe be deflected?

This letter is the most difficult of all because I would like to bring about a total dissolution of fiction and reality. Everything is instantaneous that an ever-slowing time disconnects existing parts. Because the Real strikes me as so absurd that fiction needs to saturate itself with it immediately, emerge from within its veins, revolt, invert itself, infect itself with reality against reality – the imagination provokes, suffocated with reality, its now intense perenniality.

What can change in this endless loop? It is not madness that has become real, it is reality that has gone mad with its law! The normal took place, split the concrete frontier in half, imposed its violent logic. Things that are the way they are try with a factual force to colonize the imagination that struggles against these bodily sensations that make the body a new animal. What animal am I?

What time is it? The Upresident's voice rips through the room of that house, the still air that freezes us: “Firearms will guarantee our freedom. I'm fleeing to the center of the Earth. But I'm still the biggest commander! The lists of traitors are growing! There are already more than 56 million ex-Brazilians who must be thrown into the sea! We have to kill them all!

They will not be able to destroy the future of our children and their families. What is at stake is Brazil, it is the life of God, which they want to kill! God destroy everything! Either we kill or we die! It is no longer possible to retreat. We are in war! Stay tuned for the orders! All our cells know exactly what to do. Commands will be given at the right time. Keep going, just keep spreading the truth. The truth will blow us away! Now everything will disappear... don't worry, our enemies don't know anything! We are stronger! I will escape to the center of the deepest Earth! If I am God, I can also be the Devil!”

As soon as I heard another voice, it broke the glass of my sphere: “Brothers! Armed Jesus has arrived, I have come to announce war! My root is planted. We have hate! The larva of God is in every hole in my body! The divine worm in the torpor of my death. I will win like an assassin for the glory of the freedom my corpse communicates. The judge's ass painted an atmosphere of holy pedophilia for my president. I sing for you, my myth, my earthly God. Against the evil that strikes me down I will set you free. Let's kill The Black Cape! This will be my victory! I don't give up! I will plant my gesture! With this grenade of Christ in one hand and the machine gun of the Cross in the other, I will baptize all of you with my blood, the blood of someone who did not surrender. Planting live, in this act between life and death, the seed of our fight for freedom. Let's fight! United the people will never be defeated! If I die for you cowards, I wish from the bottom of my love, which is divine, that you too will die for me. You bastards! Weak!! Sold! I'm with the president until the end of my days, but it's his fault! Either this president reacts or we will have to make him move… even if he dies, even if you die, having to die for people who don't react will be my greatest curse against everyone, against enemies and against friends…”.

Does the cell phone machine never turn off? “Your revolt will make you pay with your life, your strength is insignificant next to our weapons. Our violence is infinitely more violent than yours. All will be exterminated, killed, thrown into the oblivion of history. We got it wrong last time because we didn't eliminate their stocks, but now we won't let anyone pass! Your only way out is conversion, it is your fidelity, faith, the word of God$”.

I'm going to delete all these audios! Those endlessly fed memories. Sealed echo boxes. Play them! I can not stand anymore!

At midday the sky was falling when I saw more than 10 Brazilians with machine guns, rifles and grenades being broadcast on the internet, signaling from the ends of the beaches. From some windows near here a lot of black smoke rises from the throat of the earth. From different cities, thousands of caravans of armed motorcyclists leave for the interior of the country.

I felt that the Earth was going to open in an inner earthquake coming from me. Something inside made the whole Earth shake. And without waiting, the neighborhood exploded, disappeared from the map. I don't know where I am anymore! Help!!!! I write without a body, without language, with almost nothing, with what I have left. What you read now is an involuntary reflection of what I am no longer.

The dead will never move from there. The memories fled with the survivors. No time will come back. Was there ever a place there? The hole of that missing place is inside us. The Earth that is where you will find yourself remains alive. Destroy. It was a crater. The secular span. The Collective Wound.

The crack in an imaginary animal fossil. The hole is here in the Earth's chest. It bleeds In the Sphere that breaks. In the eye of the stone a river. The Talha screen. The Earth made of craters. Murderous mud! One place has disappeared. I don't know where it went. Nobody else went there. May what you seek find you.

A neighborhood exploded, I don't know how, but an entire neighborhood disappeared. In the center of the void after the explosion, I have a cell phone in my hand. The cell phone looks at me with neocapitalist eyes. The battery will run out. I should let you die. Damn you. Beloved infernal machine. I look at you too! Do you know what eyes? With the eyes of anarchists from the future. Want to throw a cell phone at a computer. My eyes burn!

Does the virtual ever wake up? Never slept? Profit insomnia will hurt you! Will a sentence escape the verbal control of conscience?

Now I'm desperate with the explosions of information raining down on us. See the most lucrative show on Earth. The virtual ration of necropolitics now wants to feed you like another rat enslaved by its garbage. Even more condensed concentration camp. Sucked, chewed and vomited. More than a thousand times. Over a million times. Over a billion times. Again, listen for the signal, once more now. Is tired? Let's go to the limit! Your weariness does not pity me. Even dead let's explore your body! Death is worth more than life!

I heard these phrases inside the machines, now these voices speak of the mutation of men in arms. “We have a pill! Kapsula U, here's Ustra, you too, come on, open your mouth, here's your kapsula U! We can transform into whatever we want. We will be the living dead! Take this medicine of eternity. We're going to start getting into the boundary between freezing and moving. His arms stuck together – until the cast iron pipe, pierced through the middle until the end – will pass through which @ particle boiling at high speed – In this way a Great energy of action will accumulate in this new body. The glued brain and gut guard the arsenal. Think of the metal generated from a gun in this one second before the trigger. The temperature cools down! The whole body contracts, bends. Screaming metamorphosis from man to weapon. Now the bullet itself enters through the hole, the machine that shoots enters through its larger hole, it is ready to be shot through the metal mouth of God. Dead iron in the hands of men of wealth! Look, brother Ustra, we are the cold weapon in the hot hand of the system. We are standing in the hands of someone in uniform or clandestine. A shot. Two shots! 3 shots. 7, Ten shots! U! Hear the sound of your voice now! Iron iron iron lead hot in the flesh pierces the particle of god comes out of the bone of capitalism”.

Fragmenting is a way of making the linearity of the frightening order bearable. Everything starts again, this cycle is infinite – how to break it? How to break the cycle if we are perpetually inside it? Turning turning. I am taken choicelessly into infinitesimal repetition again. I look at you with me, hypnotized by the return to the vanished point. Are we going to struggle, try to get out of here?

I didn't see what was coming, going, going, impossible, we were going without knowing. Dragged, many people, their bodies magnetized by an attraction zone, carried away, trapped in the virtual, circulate around a strange nameless atmosphere.

The real never stopped burning my skin, piercing my eyes, penetrating my ears, touching my stretched canvas until it tore me apart in waves of communication leaked through the channels of capitalism.

The ghosts hit me from the future, but I dodge in an unexpected gesture, and leave here in another way. A difference was made and the tear became a timeless passage. This way! Come with me…that passage in the tear is the most real vertigo that exists.

I no longer believe in the end of the night. Tomorrow devours yesterday without being born. It's now 22:52 pm and I get lost starting this, thought torn apart by time. If before I doubted where my thoughts could go, today, in this letter, I do not doubt the animal in me that thinks without God.

I'm from the place that exploded. I'm where everything disappears from. It never landed in the same place after the last big explosion. It was successive, and without ceasing. It doesn't stop happening. Don't stop not writing. Where I am now has not yet been inhabited by any human. It's not death, it's not hell. It's the Real – I looked at it with the feeling of a canvas torn from my body. Out virtual nerves ripped out by the market for the devouring of Hybrid War.

The hunger of capitalism is stronger than the hunger of the people. Hunger that is killed with our bones chewed. The social, the great virtual room of profit and torture. The extreme future anticipates itself in catastrophe, anastrophe, an echo coming from the past and the future, it wasn't a ghost from the past, it's not even a ghost, it's not coming from our mind, it comes from the world, directly from it… in it you look!

The mirror sucked up the spectrum of the body looking at itself and disappeared with what it reflected, now it is the one that projects into the void until it shatters into a thousand kakos of kaoz

with the intensity of a thousand information bombs. We no longer exist, we are nothing, hollow semiotic dolls, commodities in exposed flesh consumed by mega machines of a God$ that vomits all the shit of humanity.

With the mirror broken into a thousand fragments that reflect ghosts, it is now impossible to leave the simulacrum. And the megamachine continues to sing.

I resolved to run away before it happened again. The cell phone suddenly rang - Hello? Hello? The bot voice said: “– You are on our list! We know everything about your life. Where do you live. Where do you eat…what time do you go out, who do you go out with! We know everything about you and your family, there's no way out. Last night could happen again… remember? If you want to join us you will be forgiven. If you convert, we will pay you for it. Come be our brother you too. Me and you, everything to be!”

The head boils water from the virtual sewer. Nothing I write will be more fictional than in the apparent news is not just words. It is a struggle with non-human beings. Yes, it's not a body fight. Weapons only.

Language, more than a weapon, a machine of acts, virus variants of the senses, an information machine. I look at the surface of Mars, I look at Africa from my cell phone. The bruised black skin. The leaded white mask. The face of the everlasting Christ. On the open Earth someone screams.

The capitalist machine that announces the propaganda of its necropolitics for the consumption of subjectivities. Every click can be a shot. A lynching. Mechanisms whose technique became invisible. Real fascism of a crazy virtual.

The fragmentation of a real phantasmagoria rebels against the visible organism – it shows its teeth until it sticks to living flesh with all its might, hungry, angry, eyes closed, skin hot. When I tried to pull away, the pain was so torn apart, a piece of me remained in the divine mouth, chewed madly, walked away drooling. I swallowed my piece and came to take another pan of the open meat. Before he got too close with his teeth, the stone, which I took from my vertebrae, had carved a crack of bone into his skull. The militiaman fell, he bleeds now a scream of pain, from his head a gas of torture leaks, takes up the space, I already felt myself falling, the President was dying there, I myself was alive, I was burning with pain, I was still looking at that face of mouth on the head open, its image upside down rotated in a film in the square without screen projected nameless the hand of god that tortured before the end the words that threw everything again in its new beginning would it stop continuing?

Signed X

*Pedro Paulo Rocha is a poet, philosopher, filmmaker, transmedia artist and schizo-analyst.

To access Letter 1 click on https://dpp.cce.myftpupload.com/upresidente-memorias-de-um-doente-de-sascismo/

To access Letter 1 click on https://dpp.cce.myftpupload.com/upresidente-memorias-de-um-doente-de-fascismo-ii/

The site the earth is round exists thanks to our readers and supporters. Help us keep this idea going.
Click here and find how