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rigid while lifting at the bleu the rosy flame
flamingo…beyond in the shadow the mystery of Flandres
bells of polyphonic chorus expand
in grey in sharp amplitude and raw slate
quimera viva! vlan! launches through infinity
the curved beak and the flight bows over the desert.
descends into the sand. herald the tall restless type
real…and the ridiculousness of Carlito’s step
cars pass. women come and go. bashful
the afternoon flaps the wings of the flamingo.
high tides of lux. and Flamengo sunday
opens in the sky what isn’t in Rio: roses
an open cry collapses on the universe
a badalar…an open cry on earth
in bands of ais…prophetic wailing expands itself…
walks freely in the world the omen of misery…
apathetic job baba the bitterness which devours him…hirta
the crowd that disappeared abel…
a cry…and life excessively infinite!
clamor! no one understands each other! a god doesn’t come!…ba
babel! an open cry over the confusion
of races! babel! the bells in pitches!
bellicum! badalar dos bells! crowd
hirta! blazed jerusalem…rebate!
babel! jerusalem! jorobabel! babel!
batem os bronzes bimbalhando! poor job
goldless, crowd devours and baba the bitterness!…
an open cry from miserable beings…
“my heart snaps”…
what truth-less image.
but I had no intention of lying…
was it the nerves, the soul?
what does snap even mean!
I’m not even Father Vieira…
O, tiny dictionary!
XLIV (rondo do tempo presente)
noite de music-hall
no, there’s sun. it’s noon
time for the factories, digesting
the elastic street stretches like a clumsy clown
ironic paulistan fogs rustling
the sun so powdered it’s unrecognizable
seeing the baker we meet early in the morning
when from debauchery we head to the bakery to eat bread
noite de music-hall…
the blink-blink gaze of applauding men
how well people sing in the streets of s. paulo!
the retrograde are mistaken.
it wasn’t lack of pitch
it was modernist plurality
afterwards the imitators
peer gynt goes to the office
with the deceptively wrong within the authentic nail
virginal public officers
astonished by the cars’ jazz
the mexican cadets march like horses
the music-hall is packed!
prostitutes profiled by the friezes
watch your right
watch your left!
glaring looks everywhere
but the free salutations of my kepi
won’t be wasted on unknown gallons anymore!
a thousand times I’d rather salute the curumins!
the prodigy-boys walk twentieth-century
without rubbing shoulders in the crowd’s confusion
broadway century of gigolos, boxers and pansexuality!
such unpredictable stages!
smoking is allowed.
dress as you wish.
noite de music-hall…
Ana Paula is a Brazilian writer, editor, curator and translator based in Brooklyn, New York. She's a member of Belladonna* Collaborative.
Mário de Andrade (1893–1945) was a Brazilian poet, novelist, musicologist, art historian and critic, and photographer. He was the driving force behind the Week of Modern Art, the 1922 event that reshaped both literature and the visual arts in Brazil, and a member of the avant-garde “Group of Five.” At the end of his life, he became the founding director of São Paulo’s Department of Culture, formalizing a role he had long held as the catalyst of the city’s—and the nation’s—entry into artistic modernity.
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