Os Funerais do Coelho Branco II (em Linha Reta)

Sartre from São João, breath of cheap drink
and half Vila Rica crumpled in the pocket.
Devourer of memories of prostitutes and ruined,
the sweet pleasure of the last coins.
Today I will write the book of my whole life,
and I will exchange the manuscripts for paid kisses and caresses.
It was all a mistake.
A huge accident of chance.
And I ended up here, winner more defeated, with a trophy in my arms,
with no one to call me a hero.
Watching over my white rabbits.
(...)
People don't stay, they always pass by,
avoiding contact with the man and his disenchantments.
And I watch everything, like a fifth-rate movie,
without knowing why I do or say things.
In a dirty and sad cinema, women spit on me, the heart gives up
and I leave pride to the flies.
(...)
A toast then, to this odor of damp room,
to the TV that doesn't tune in.
A toast to Sunday, to boredom, to this filthy mattress,
where ugly couples fucked for days.
I'm nobody's hero and I want a room without mirrors.
A body with no name to embrace with my knees.
Because today I am what I am, the cowardly lion from the trash mouth
on the dirtiest brick road full of bugs.
I memorized poems, read Kierkegaard, Nietzsche until dawn.
And I only really met in life the dirty demons I didn't know.
(...)
Truth Fernando, I never really knew anyone who took a beating
everyone I met kicked me even when I was down on the sidewalk.
Holden I'm here, with buried hopes.
I cross, I cross the road and nothing ever happens... nothing.