Nós, d’outros.

Das dicotiledôneas aspirantes lá fora
Aos recônditos pulsares que afloram no nada do ser
As aves deixavam ovos enormes para o esquecimento
Na concavidade, o nutriente.
Na alimentação, o princípio da existência.
E antes disso, a respiração.
E bem no meio, dicotiledôneas.
Dando-nos o benefício da rinite.
E alimentando em nada as aves e a nós.
Pelos abraços de asas pequenas das espécies miúdas, a procura.
Algumas deslocam os dias e cantam na madrugada.
Mas na espera da próxima estação, nós.
Sujos nas bocas, cabelos e barbas.
Defecados pela miséria digerida e despejada nos céus.

                                                               Cesar Domity 

Broken Lauren

When one evokes fantasy to fulfill reality and thus smooth the absurdity of everyday life, there is a degree of tolerable acceptance; although humans, mostly when lacking of proper mental tools, hold a general tendency to do so, these fragile creatures do not have solely physical ways to bear their inner pain, for they may, likewise, create imaginable relief. And in the same sense nonetheless, they can deeply disorder themselves. 

Eyes were all around as flies in a fish market bewildered between satisfaction and indecision, and, in the middle of the small restaurant, was Lauren with her long black hair, in her long red dress and, consequently, providing a contrast with everything in such a mighty and silent manner that any distraction in order to pretend her absence was the only choice left to those inside the place – or at least so she thought.

She ate fast and in fast steps left the place. The sun was about to sleep and a red atmosphere was painting the faces, houses and moods with such delicacy that Lauren began to consider the sunset the end of her life. Of course, not peacefully. Insider her mind, this dreaded thought walked amidst her other thoughts, became stronger and suddenly it was the whole reality, something twinkling in her delusion, and her heart thus was beaten under the immutable decision – somehow, she was going to die in a red sunset.  

It was Sunday and barely no one was walking in the streets, cars were seldom being seen, and every noise sounded like the last bell of her ultimate sentence. She thought for a moment that her spine was moving, trying to come out her body, but she realized that it was something in her own skin; from her back, quickly, all her skin was agitated, vibrating according to the wind and synchronized with the pumping of her veins.  Faster she walked but then even the birds were observing her, quietly, as if the species, including the smallest ones, were vultures waiting patiently for her death. One car passed in considerable speed, coming from behind, she did not look at; until it had been seen in front of her, every subtle variation of its sound meant that it would go directly to her to finally smash her small body against some wall. At last, it passed peacefully, not caring about her by any means. Veins in her fists were in the last beats of despair; she tried to keep her walking unchangeable. Not more than one minute had passed until the second car had emerged from an absurd nothingness about two squares behind - or so she thought - and accelerated as a fresh and excited lad towards his lover, tending to a furious state, having in this moment the decision of his life, or, better assumed, having in this moment the most proper chance to let his genes into the big game he is in, so-called survival.

At length, she reached her house on the fourth floor of an old, grey/yellow building which seemed like a geometric block within her imagination, surrounded by an awkward dusk that should not be there in a sunset, and fairly illuminated by the red eye of the fading sun. She took more than 5 minutes to perceive she was shaking in front of her door, holding the keys, narrowly looking at the numbers and, fascinated by their sounds, repeating voiceless 3-0-7 unaccountably. She could not recall the last time that the living room from the doorway had been seen by her, and yet afraid of every wall, she walked up to the sofa which was facing an unused television. There she sat and, abstracted by her anxiety, Lauren slid her hands over her thighs, pressing them as if it was the exact action necessary to cease everything in all times, in all ways and then, while her eyes were trapped in a horizontal line going from a big window - leftwards – to the kitchen, she started to touch herself imagining being observed, rationalizing that, when done, all things would also be done. Still dressed, almost in the right point of pleasure and feeling her hand rigid with a sort of pain, she lay prone, having her waist slightly lifted and the right arm going under her body to euphorically touch her nether regions. It was then that she noticed a dead cat on the carpet; fat, paws up but retracted, tongue out, one eye half open and the other closed and she started to fancy that sexuality could indeed emerge from that fluffy carcass too. She stared at the cat, hasted as fast as she could, and in that position, half-open mouth, pale, glazed eyes, the orgasm was finally achieved and her reverie broken. For a few seconds, Lauren trembled a bit and, bearing a somewhat malicious smile, kept her position until a sudden sensation of uselessness appears, and, then, her being was gradually absorbed by it till she was nothing but remains of her existence.

Undressing herself, she walked over to a large window in the living room and sat already disrobed while lightning a red cigarette. There, she rested, looking at the outside, smoking slowly and watched the night covers the city, still alive.   

                                                                              Cesar Domity 

The Name of This

　　　I want to exist in several modes. The wind on my balcony is not enough to pacify the somniferous cadences of my own turmoil. Nevertheless, now all is floor. The whole of it in front of me till dissimulated stairs which seem like a walking and conscious thing coming to extract from me, to beyond, my own life. What an irony, I laughed, unreasonable critics of reason... Touch! It is soft; also insubstantial, paradoxical and colossal. They said, what would be of the greatness without its obscene obstensiveness?

They had some rustic bicycles used in their intrinsic rides, with imaginary dogs and sudden happiness. I always had the arrogance, that essence of all which is appreciable; the megalomania’s principle and of everything that is superior and progressive, alive and pulsating, terrifying and beautiful, the chaos in its most splendid form, worthy of a perfect anachronism. Thus, I have been able to dirty all my clothes without using hands – They were clean and my terror was walking I do not know where. They called me before the dawn and accused it of having being involved with the dread of life; rather it than the puritans on their bicycles in a half done lap and their quintessential easy smiles. A nebulous moralism grieved our pestilential viscera, but is widely known nevertheless that in these mornings the sun presents itself as a major general commanding a bright army charged with the matutinal happiness’ duty.

Infernal window with total absence of iron in its constitution,　loathsomely diaphanous and clear, that comes to stealthily obfuscate me amid semi-same walls although was I many, in myself. Tell me: Do the owners of a unilateral will walk far? At that instant, my volition could not reach a third dimension as it was not modern either. Resembling gullibility. Too lame and lethargic. I move through the cosmos in my very own time, I belong here and to all accessible doors of my tortuous consciousness; where this one may be, by the by?

End of the road. One hundred seventy four I count now and the door at last. Which me is arriving? Let us call it ignoble, obnoxious, daft, vile, despicable, wanderer of the lack of my drunkenness. Windmills! There ought to fall thunders while I dawn out of phase with my continuity. Mitigated and hardened, I come see valuable views of vainly vertiginous vortices of volatile personalities which are still my camouflaged selves in delusion and high on reality; forsaken in the apartment doors.