Nota preliminar sobre um texto achado, sobre um inglerrado e aportu-guisado irreal e esboçado...tomem pelo valor do seu desvalor caótico...or else, tô nem aí...beijos e abraços. Aí vai verguenza.

A ouvir Eminem when Zim, gone, Dr Dre, Cleaning the fucking closet and more,
I peacefully felt asleep as if the real slim shady was to give a fuck about.
Thinking about the launch site at French Guiana, Kourou, I wanted go to 🇸🇷 Suriname also and see the fucking sinked boat florest I used in the novel, un-finished un-threaded, that will never see the fucking daylight.

Suddenly I found myself drunk in Brazil.
So far so good, nothing new, not only a few,
Drinking at a bar with loud music standing over series of skoll and some whiskies talking about nothing and snorting white Brizola a little bit yellow

The best sometimes is due to the process of purification with synthetical cuts like methamphetamine (bad, worst than crystal), whatever, fuck the process, when the pasta as they say that arrives from Colombia or wherever, the cropped setup, transformed in that shit like plasticina or massinha which is malleable I forgot the proper Anglo Saxon word. Base, it's base, or base is the next step, forget that is healthy, 

Base for the chemical processing into cocaine to be inhaled or injected, you know. 

So there is freebase, that thing that we like and fucks with many, personally, one prefers the 60/70% purity, good to inhale without hemorragies.
Fuck, I was asleep dreaming that was fucking higher that the Condor.
So I decided to retire or could lose it entirely and get a riot like violence scene,
Or end with five ugly/hot/ninpho girls doing imbecile sex or licking them all and drinking and eating and sniffing,
At the same time cursing and laughing, reciting poetry, world politics and economics of cyber industry, the usual devil’s deal.

When I oneirically leave, a missing coat is noted as absent of me, so I turn.
The garçonette, bartender,  a nice girl, hands me a jacket
That reveals itself an undersized shirt and, as I have decided to give it back, 

Some fucking military police menacing idiots stop me,
And point the dirt fucking corrupt fingers to some white spots that I obviously recognize as dry brizolax,
So I don’t relax and say go fuck yourselves, here everybody is embracing the others,
And there are more empty papers in the bathroom than moths in the garden, you fuckers. 

They seem to enjoy because they know they have me nailed at least to a night at a hole in the Delegacia,
Making jokes about getting cold at the stone or about 20 years at Bangu complex on the outskirts of Rio.
And getting their extorsion done with less effort.
Poor got spanked and their girls fuched, tortured and shit.
Richer got the nice, hear this story Senhor, version... 

Know, in the dream as I get frightened and at an insane mood, full of rath
In reality I have never been that frightened over those cheap killers,
Extortionists I have seen for years on a daylight and night like basis.
Fuck them.
Fuck them.

Admitting some became even friendlike guys,
Fuck you, I said. 

They had the usual automatics like Berettas and third hand Glocks or simple 38 special Taurus with hollow points (oh, so illegal🤣)
AK 47, cheap terror and error proof. 

I always looked directly to the blackened hole of the gun,
As dark desire took the wheel, oh so real the smell of gunpowder!


One day a couple of MP and two detectives were driving me,
My translation from Têrê to Bangu penitentiary complex, and they were joking about firing their AKs. 

Até nos aproximarmos do Acari.
Então os putos ficaram caladinhos como gambás antes de mijar fedorento...
Havia um amigo do peito, crescido dillando pacoleto para o comando no Acari,
Uma favela de tráfico e relativa qualidade do produto, vendido na sua maior parte em pacote carimbado com proveniências e preço. 

A mim ensinaram isso para eu saber que se trabalha muito para empacotar e carimbar aquilo tudo.
Tanto pacote, quantos carimbos....
Entre outras histórias menos claras.
Fodam-se.

Sempre vou ver as AK47 como uma história de adormecer que matou tantos,
Que se intender, agora me foder, vá,

Dispara, atira, coisa velha e passada, sou só mais um a sofrer o teu nefasto, injusto poder.
Sete meia cinco, toma o meu pinto, safado, cobarde, tu que operas sem alarde.
Sou apenas mais um cobarde despachado sem tortura nem fogo, uma sorte, nem arde.

Um dia que ainda viva saberá o que há, o que lá ou cá.
Uma tarde cantará, fica tudo nos entretantos,
Um sonho, um sabor de fodilâncias e perigos tantos…
Quem sonha o que quer nunca o realmente quer///
Ou me tento convencer, iconoclasta, crente, ausente de mim.
Como uma carmesim capa de satin cetin, sentado no pacto pronto para o sim.