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Manual da Profecia Biblica - Abraao de A igreja cristã, desde o monstro Nero ao cruel Deocleciano, foi perseguida, pisada, torturada. cia devia tê-las tornado invisíveis num curto espaço de tempo, mas elas permane- sangue, sexo ou violência, planetas a explodir e lançando monstros. \huge enorme. \Huge monstro ist—s são €—r—d—s de t—˜ul—ção podem ser feit—s so˜re linh—s invisíveis ™om. \kill no fin—l d— linh—F.

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Monstros Invisíveis - Chuck Palahniuk

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This kind of subservience is a cage made of unspoken vows As they tune their third and fourth arms with pleasant Moves of the wrist, placid, wide-eyed, staring Holding a strand for many seconds long. Learn, my dear, learn with these servants of men. Listen to their tiptoed masks and wave to their distant bogs.

Let you carry no idols and bury no gods. Gods may tread here for too long and get lost. There are no black barred saints nor tarpaulin rosaries, Only the ticking occasional bell yelling Before purring an infinitude of words that sound like prayers.

There are no dead people over this reddened tapestry Nor half-finished, undersized, overly sculptured saints, Nor Lady Mary finishing her ni Houlihan coffee break, But rushed elegies halftonguing a murmured liturgy, Dirges for solemn, deterred, halved, crippled gods, Both peasant and pebble buried in a reliquary with a rod.

While we wait for our passing this is all we see, So that a question arises amidst such scenery: Is this indeed all that we beasts are meant to be?

If this great man, composer of our innermost desires, can be made weak, If he can fall, should we be worried that our humble, gullible mistakes Might lead us all to a bedridden, sickened and craven state? If this great man can hold his hands with lady death What about our souls, will they also be reason to laugh?

Will they be scorned and defeated until we give out and burn, Is this our hell, then, to give all our life, and still lie inside an urn? Ah I wish I could be a swan, I would not get enough of that. A null, dumb of a fool, tiptoeing his way through valleys Alongside a lame horse, behind them an old, blind mule; Is there a better life to live than this? Could there be a greater aim?

All these questions are nothing, to this indifference we cannot tame. Should we trust to them our fates, to weave and cut like the morai? Nay — let us accept our destiny as only a fleeting gasp in the rye; There is no greater misery than trusting in a comfortable lie — I fear the gods who hold us in their shades; I trust my fate To the evershadowed glade.

Was it not made from fragile clay This naked tapestry you wove? O do not trust me with your shadow. Do you want to leave your works unfinished, Inside drawers, underneath beds, irretrievably lost? No, that would bring us back as wight or ghost, I will not be part of this coda as host.

I am a Banshee, gone home, up yonder, Thither, where we crumble to dust, as stone returned to tower, We arise, born anew, aware that this is not the Hour! The Body of Taste I prefer the good, oldfashioned slap, Or the erogenous, idyllic negative stare, Perhaps even the nervous, apprehensive run, Or the disgusting, menacing pun, To that new-century fashion or lifestyle Which beholds silence as a new kind of guile Keeping men ignorant of their silly thoughts, When their piteous existence has already been forgotten.

Keeper of fire-hearts. Inventor of a spell-born dead Favor that died once in the beginning of the century.

I prefer this woman to the new breed of children-like virgins. Marriage might be an accessory, but it ends my life with a circumcised misery. I drink with joy from that which I believe is sin, Taught by priests that sin means hell Believing only half of the blessed sentence, Dragging the lifeless body of my dearest love, Born at the same time as me, We had a chord between us, And throwing it out of the window, spitting on the glass, Invisible to my sottish eyes, A remarkable example of a body in pain.

Far away, my love, your bodiless soul cries. Dewdrops gloss the drafts of our cosmic shear And the train rolls onwards, trapped around her sphere. Personal Sisyphus Do they know what it is to be mad? To fail in every way by winning, As if every life is a cross To lay down on us, the burden I cannot even begin to end. To end all bards and singers, Tell-tale livers where freedom hails from , To accept with faintest interest both man and bread. You, in youth, banned to an exile you have come To know as your true fate, that forge where we Write in humble arrogance the story of our madness.

Dissidences - An Excerpt of a Cinematography Shame He failed to understand what we know Is a hideous truth among rats and fairies.

Drive As if every road leads to home, As if every home leads to itself. Melancholia There is no greater end than Wagnerian strings Holding that note, on that frequency, bland, Burrowed from a dark valkyrie unknown to men.

Beginners A chair is no less gay than you and I, Except that its wooden structure may rise From hands far superior to our undeveloped callouses, Envisioning rock where rock bears no existence. Albatross Would that we could become the burden, Fate, vile masochistic maid, yearning For one fantastic allusion above goddess.

Yet, for Sam, we hang this neck. As with albatross, sin, forgiven. Her legs were wrapped around a blanket A blanket was wrapped around her legs. I held them both to postpone an educated death. Django never showed up, he never did, oh no!

So why wait, anyway, for his sleep-like essence?

We undress as if to tether our more than mortal presence. Allow no more of this.

Chuck Palahniuk

Rich, blooming magnolias Turning brown and ever still. Ah, you speak of time as if it once existed As if the hours were as natural As that beautiful hill of daffodils. But you know better, fellow love, Time is ours to control.

Allow yourself the pleasure of its odor. Fall once more for love, and feel its shudder. You are bodiless, Numb and morbid. As the clock beats, my heart beats Trapped in a natural cave.

She Never a movement to flare her ways; Just an exercise on measure, From man to boy to rat, Just a nightmare of pleasure. The Watcher on the Scaffold Fate, could you tell me whatever happened to that Fool of a man, who was unlike any other man, And in his foolishness let his sorrows find end? Cease that poetic justice, source of spear reborn Words from time forlorn balance truth in string and thorn.

II But what of that other man inside of this dog-man Voice of calamity, lost in chaos, as chaos is Nothing more than several crossroads in between their Woman.

I beg thee, kindly undress this wall Seven feet tall, eleven inches thick, no more than a fence Singled out among the meadows, hence among objects lost Whom so often find their way into the shadow, unseen. Pity, in his stead, those who came before, if their shackles were untrue. Yet all shackles are untrue for the men who roll their boulders Upwards.

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In this quiet state I plead. My journey is at an end. VI My dead body dances. Can you see the hand which once Sailed through numberless pages of order and reason? Centuries past, the same Hand, condemned for treason Considered by a people to be a man inside another man, A soul apart, bearing the weight of stiff, cold arm Now that the trapdoor has its boned spirit trapped. Dancing slowly, slowly dancing, a conundrum of lies, The condemned dog payed off his humbled debt, mocked, Now that the trapdoor has justly been unlocked.

God forgive what I have done. Mad pups, yes, but free. Stolen from this cage of living, source of spear reborn The christ denouncing truth, balancing men with string and thorn. The Train Station So he told you to shut up?

Blessed with a vest of guile, cotton nude roses Softening the eye, a threshold unbarred with hoofs Beaten down by the non-lack of the improvised Beat, Salt tailoring the air with the scent of a symphony. Burroughs brought the first of machina bruta, A paperboy holding back his neo-Jungian roots Clutching in his sweaty hands randomized news, undated: Shotgunned barking dogs, wet cigarette butts, Wifening the mechanism, a sort of beatitude.

I remember a day when I, the fetus, Having read a classic by forza bruta of dear father, Let epiphany tickle the back of my brain, a tsar Waking my anima and all sorts of ghouls, Promptly daring me to put a fire to the pile, A fortress of cognitive empiricists burning down.

I, Ajax, no longer Ajax, just the disciple lark. For what does reason owe to the reference of wit? With this I took my leave and abandoned papa dear, But, dear Father, did he sob, wanting to save his rebel kin. Would you drink it if you knew such fountain of youth Was born in the forbidden pill inside my breast pocket? Nothing too revealing, blurred by misconceptions, Kneeling to the religion of K. Kerouac Kubelik, A fleet of boats nibbling the facts off the great cloth, Guilt bound to a staircase of organic novels Imprisoning itself to a naked cobblestone, in innocence.

All men are martyrs of their own creation. I am blunted by yours words, O Burroughs, You have castrated the talent out of me. For I know that truth resides in joint or head And not in fake prose or falsetti belli.Assim diz o Senhor: There are no black barred saints nor tarpaulin rosaries, Only the ticking occasional bell yelling Before purring an infinitude of words that sound like prayers.

This kind of subservience is a cage made of unspoken vows As they tune their third and fourth arms with pleasant Moves of the wrist, placid, wide-eyed, staring Holding a strand for many seconds long.

Sabe, e entende: Ah, you speak of time as if it once existed As if the hours were as natural As that beautiful hill of daffodils. By douglas oliveira. A constructor and a holder of a lie is a controller of a system and a death itself. Um judeu?

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