SUBINDO AO CÉU PELO SÓTÃO

Texto de autoria de AustMathr Viking Dubliner e Inglesa Luso-Chinesa com direito autoral protegido pela Lei 9610/98. 

DEDICADO AO MEU PRIMO JOSÉ URBANO FELTRAN - 1951 - 2019

As nuvens noctilucentes descem, Inoportunas aos mais lindos veranicos de maio, Para sorver os docinhos, E os derramam sobre a água-furtada, Unindo-se ao silêncio e à doçura da noite, Rezando suas ave-marias, E redescobrindo sua alma humana, De sua infinita mansarda, E seus escuros e sinuosos meandros, Como os recortes da costa de um mar faiscante, Abrangido por um vasto horizonte, Lá fora, O jardim tapetado com uma camada de pétalas, Uma última folha de paineira que deu lugar a uma flor, É levada pela brisa de encontro à sua porta, Murmura como onda solitária lavando a praia, Ainda não tem seu sono imorredouro perturbado, Deitada sob o recanto esconso, O desvão do telhado, Infindo para andorinhas e corujas, Altivo e inconquistável pelas enchentes, Sonha como um rio eterno em direção à imensidão dos oceanos, Resplandece o rosto sob o olhar de um anjo que te assiste do alto, Sente seu amor nele manifestado, Desperta sua esperança, Faz jorrar sua alegria, Vem te ensinar a voar, E subir ao céu.   

LET IT BE AND LET IT BLEED

Texto de autoria de AustMathr Viking Dubliner e Inglesa Luso-Chinesa com direito autoral protegido pela Lei 9610/98. 

Paul, What?, You asking me for wise words and unlocked boxes stuffed with perfumed pastilles, Like full of air fussies!, What about that mouth thing?, What is this setup of a Catholic wax worker hanging wicks to make candles to God and the Devil? If you face hard times and need to go upstairs for a ride, Count me out, No fellatio on me, Please, And it is no use supplicating to Virgin Mary, Her bowels are an exclusive asset of the holy spirit, As for Jo Jo, The male one you said he thought he was a woman, Well, He is really a she, Always keeping all the doors open, She only closes them for her literary verve if you pull her leg, But you can rest your weary body on her lap, The basement where she lives has plenty of space, In addition to medicinal herbs and compassion for the unfortunate, Now, If she is right on those 365 days of a lap around the sun, Full of luxury gushing blue blood, Then try Bernie the Turkey, Wronged member of Tupiniquim snobbery, And not so badly lacking a scrotum torn apart by Mademoiselle Decô, Shooting for a second-hand would-be Barbarella, The one who didn't read you and didn't like you, Who throws away your book because she didn't like the cover, Paul, If you need a shoulder to cry on, Shed your tears on Aristocles' scapula, He can have a chat with your whimpers in his corpus platonicum, Now, If you need someone to dream on, Sleep with Graciliano, And show him your knack to unite in imagination and outside of it, If you need someone to feed on, Play a song for your soul, But don't irritate it with John Gilbert’s New Shit, If you need to get bloody damn high, Ask Mr. Tambourine Man to play a song for you, Now if you need someone to cream on, Take Bozo's invitation, Feel free to go to his share of the housing assistance paid with your money to exchange fluids with a woman without or with a penis, I'm in doubt as it is said the fascist is a limp-dick, If you need someone to bleed on, Let it be, Adelio's knife was just another sham.

DEATHWATCH

Texto de autoria de AustMathr Viking Dubliner e Inglesa Luso-Chinesa com direito autoral protegido pela Lei 9610/98. 

The haughty king had all that, A bag of chips, and his nabob life, Without rhyme or reason, The only two subjects, Taking the places of morticians, Mourners, Pallbearers, Gravediggers, Mass attendants of the seventh days, Pilgrims of the November 2nd deads, Now foot the bills, With nothing left, Not even a quarter to light a single candle, Not even a pale oblation of flickering light to God, The devil´s got a lot of them, In excess, All red and black, He gives them away, It pleases him a death that will not kidnap, At his zeal, His agreement with the deceased, Thus he deposits his stakes in the deathwatch of the sold soul, Not to give the tiniest chance to his arch enemy, He saturates the guard and the sentry with many red-headed vultures, Gifts that a potentate sends to another one, Sovereign keepsakes, The song chosen by the defunct echoes in distant ears, As if it is coming from an ancient greek theater accustics, It booms with stridence that annoys the two women, Thus it is hushed, Leaving room to the sound of silence, Stanching all nature voices, Like a landed UFO, In its loneliness we do not know, And this evening will be shortened, Antecipating the burial, For the account of faltering sleepness, and imprudent absences, Except for an intruder, Who remains invisible, And all he gets from the boomer is an indifferent look, Since in life, He did not notice the multiple bankruptcy of a foolish, And in the end, His replies to prayers were never heard, So the long-suffering whiners have nothing else to do but improvise a gregorian chant as their farewell, That moves the deuce, And as a sign of cynic respect, He lies his lips on the moribund´s forehead, And a stink of carrion spreads across the surroundings, Like the odor of a corpse rotting six feet under, Just another departed one who was never part of any statistics, How many ordinary citizens of the ancient roman empire died without a name? All of them! How many slaves to the glorious Athens went down to the annals of history? None of them! How many servers and usupers of the present days will continue existing for posterity?