Civilized Pleasures Poem by Felipe Gastão

Civilized pleasures

For lovers of illusory pleasures, and therefore illegal, paths lead to the neighborhood of delights, known by those who hate dreams, as neighborhood prohibited. All pretend never heard of, but with insight and a dose of charming malice, you discover where it is. Taking a taxi, is getting noticed by the growing decay of buildings, the junk smell of libertinage, the bitter and wet whiff that comes from the brothels, the laughter of ordinary old hoes, abandoned by Aphrodite, and engaged in unexplained expedients to continue their work. Miserable boys, which recently emerged from hell, roam with astonished eyes and restlessness in search of fallen angels. Slave horrific, with features rot by the heavy load of the world, whispering in the ears of the mysterious and beautiful passersby the price of illusions. The pleasure in civilization can only be in illusion, the reality is, to the civilized, boredom and torture. Now I understand, mother, the necessity of delicious escapes for you mentioned, and I appeal to them. Once, in the usual speakeasy, deceived by Bacchus, everything seemed to be resolved, and if it had not, i would not give a fool, fear not frightened me anymore, and loneliness, was no more than a wishy-washy friend, who laughs from all you say, but never makes you laugh. I realized lately a fuss, girls screaming, euphoria, begging to be chosen to spend the night with a mysterious frequenter. Who is he? - I asked. 'It´s a demon or a god, I do not know, who knows the difference? It is the death disguised of life, a noble young man who kills his lovers with so much bliss. His love is not human, his sex causes a pleasure that can´t be experienced by poor mortals. They say the orgasms are fatal. The young girls once proved the pleasure of the gods who live in the Olympus, refuse to go back to life, and praise for death. He kills them so painless, being much admired for that. All of us dream of this death, and fiercely compete to have it.' Even though being pleasure the origin of the most deadly and enduring slavery, which destroys you with the delicacy of poetry and songs, I do not mind being its fair captive. With the dawn of the sun, the light causes crying and yelling. 'It´s the end; ', 'The furor is over'; 'The light leaves us horrific, what an horror, the reality is so insidious'; are phrases said with despair. Like vampires, all return to their catacombs so that their alabaster skins do not burn. It is strange, but I feel that in this hell I shall find love.