“O grande Pã morreu!”
A Flauta Vértebra
A todos vocês,
que eu amei e que eu amo,
ícones guardados num coração-caverna,
como quem num banquete ergue a taça e celebra,
repleto de versos levanto meu crânio.
Penso, mais de uma vez:
seria melhor talvez
pôr-me o ponto final de um balaço.
Em todo caso
eu
hoje vou dar meu concerto de adeus.
Memória!
Convoca aos salões do cérebro
um renque inumerável de amadas.
Verte o riso de pupila em pupila,
veste a noite de núpcias passadas.
De corpo a corpo verta a alegria.
esta noite ficará na História.
Hoje executarei meus versos
na flauta de minhas próprias vértebras.
VLADIMIR MAIAKÓVSKI
Penguin Cafe Orchestra (BBC Broadcast ’89)
Ô fossa!
Wanting to Die
Since you ask, most days I cannot remember.
I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage.
Then the almost unnameable lust returns.
Even then I have nothing against life.
I know well the grass blades you mention,
the furniture you have placed under the sun.
But suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build.
Twice I have so simply declared myself,
have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy,
have taken on his craft, his magic.
In this way, heavy and thoughtful,
warmer than oil or water,
I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole.
I did not think of my body at needle point.
Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone.
Suicides have already betrayed the body.
Still-born, they don’t always die,
but dazzled, they can’t forget a drug so sweet
that even children would look on and smile.
To thrust all that life under your tongue!–
that, all by itself, becomes a passion.
Death’s a sad Bone; bruised, you’d say,
and yet she waits for me, year after year,
to so delicately undo an old wound,
to empty my breath from its bad prison.
Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet,
raging at the fruit, a pumped-up moon,
leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss,
leaving the page of the book carelessly open,
something unsaid, the phone off the hook
and the love, whatever it was, an infection.
Anne Sexton
The Severed Garden
(…)
Do you know how pale and wanton thrillful
Comes death on a strange hour
Unannounced, unplanned for
Like a scaring over-friendly guest
You’ve brought to bed
Death makes angels of us all
And gives us wings
Where we had shoulders
Smooth as raven’s claws
No more money, no more fancy dress
This other kingdom seems by far the best
Until it’s other jaw reveals incest
And loose obedience to a vegetable law
I will not go
Prefer a feast of friends
To the giant family
Jim Morrison
Em um sábado melancólico…
“Andei como o diabo! Enfim… eis-me de novo aqui.
Quero ver se descubro se já me descobri.”
Carlos Mariguella
Ilust. por Bill Brandt, “The Adelphi” (1939)
Jusqu’ ici tout va bien
Essa é a história de uma sociedade que cai…
Ouviu falar do homem que tomba de um prédio de 50 andares e , para se reconfortar, diz a si mesmo a cada andar:
Até aqui tudo vai bem, até aqui tudo vai bem, até aqui tudo vai bem…
O que importa não é a queda, mas a aterrissagem.
La Haine (1995)
Mathieu Kassovitz
R.E.S.P.E.C.T.
Mais de 50% do partido Panteras Negras era composto por mulheres…
(obs. a grande maioria andava armada)