THE LOST TAPES Vol.32

[PT/ENG] 

   Céu nublado,
   Navegando o Opalão laranja modificado.
   Óculos de sol recém-comprados no camelô,
   Copaço de chá gelado,
   Rasgando a Presidente Dutra. 

***

   Rock bar repleto de hillbillies brasileiros,
   “Pabllo Vittar tocando no Lollapalooza, Anitta tocando no Lollapalooza. Uma porrada de gente falando como eles representam bem o Brasil, mas eu te digo uma coisa,” falava o homem calvo de meia-idade, cuspindo enquanto falava, “a mim ele não representa. Meu presidente, Jair Bolsonaro lá em cima, ele sim me representa. Mas um frango?” 

***

   Portando uma camiseta do Rolling Stones e a calça rasgada comprada dez anos atrás, ele sobe no busão. Óculos-escuros na cara, cabelo desgrenhado, chinelos Havaianas pretos, antes azuis-claros; com certeza acabou de sair do banho na ducha suja da oficina. Está indo para o centro da cidade. Deve ter sido dia de pagamento hoje, e vai gastar à vontade nas lojas de importados e outlets de roupas com defeito. Talvez até comprar um novo fone de dez contos para escutar a música rock no seu mp3 que conseguiu num rolo em que saiu perdendo. Passou por mim e o cheiro de queijo e cachorro molhado me fez lacrimejar. Lobão. Nem me reconheceu, nem olhou pra ninguém. Olhando só para o teto, queixo dele lá no teto também, provavelmente imaginando a inveja que os outros sentem das suas roupas perfeitas. Que figura ele. Terror de pessoa, do pior tipo possível, mas preparador mais ágil que ele não há.

***

   “Don’t you think it’s a little cliché for someone as dead-looking as you to dream of becoming a mortician?”
   The tinder date looks up to my eyes with her two dead-fish eyes, like cold, hard black marbles; holding back a wintry kind of feeling in a morbid kind of way. They say nothing, but everything at the same time — the dark circles giving prominence — like the sombre infinity of space, and I cannot keep looking so I blush and look down to my food. In spite of that, she’s smiling. A beautiful large smile of many-a white pearls, that do not match the rest of her face, or body, or personality. She smiles while looking at me, notices my blushing,
   “I do think it is. It’s what destiny’s put ahead in my path from the moment I was conceived, that’s why I look like this.” 

***

   The leather craftsman is a friend of ours, and that now is looking at us with a “what the fuck have you done this time, you freaks?” kind of look. Priscilla couldn’t hold the laughter, and I, I try to present my most innocent-looking face while explaining why there’s a chunk missing off the leather skirt, with very clear teeth marks around it.
   “But you fuckers know this is a fucking Burberry, right? This shit is so expensive, and you took a bite out of it. You know that, right?” He says completely incredulous, looking at me like I killed his dog. “This doesn’t add up, asshole! This is a fucking sin!”
   And now was my time to laugh my ass off,
   “I’m not kidding, you two, I’m done fixing your shit. This beautiful thing just lost it’s value completely! and all because of your sick kinks! It’s like you spat on a fucking baby! Literally the same thing...” And after a while of judging us rolling on the floor laughing, he gives the ultimatum: “You disgust me...”, grabs his coat and walks out of the store. 

***

   Wearing the nylon slips you bought me
   I feel insecure, too shy, too red.
   This feels so revealing,
   And I bet it’s just the way you wanted,
   And a no would still not come out if I tried again.
   Your eyes are like weights, your voice is piercing;
   I don’t even have tits for this,
   But you insist, and exclaim:
   “Don’t hide yourself”
   Every time I instinctively hide myself.
   When will I be allowed a pint of gin?
   [To open up my legs,
   To close down my eyes,
   To walk over the water,
   To be satan’s daughter,
   And a doll.
   Bow down to you like the trees.]