Manual of Self-Flagellation for Saints and Capitalists (Thy kingdom in the ball of quotation marks)
Author: D’Bara Arruda

And now?
When thought gains sonority,
the word wounds.

When words are silenced,
thought forges curses
between the grinding of yellow teeth —
the glutton's smile.

When eyes speak,
the retina spits out greed
upon what it never truly owned...
Perhaps in times when eyes
hadn’t yet learned to fake.

Tears speak more about the state of souls
than about weeping itself —
see those who cry crocodile tears,
acidic as the bile of saints.

Yesterday, they got drunk on the nectar
of someone else’s misery.
Today, they vomit in the hangover
the holy share of intrigue
and the sacred sperm of hypocrites.

After?
— Glory be to the Father, the Son...
and the Spirit of Rot
(It’s all male!)
As if from thy cursed womb came the fruit,
and not even the bones remained
of the lamb birthed by the “virgin.”

Foolish sons of Bacchus,
in constant orgy with capital,
drunk on wafers and cheap wine,
they edit bibles as profit margins.
At the climax, they spit out prophecies
to crucify me within their dogmas —
yesterday, today, tomorrow and forevermore.

When fingers fast in hunger,
feet walk on sharp stones
of sincerity.
The mind empties of untruths.
After all, how many feet bleed
before learning to lie?

After all, who never feasted
in the brothel:
— drink of my blood
— eat of my body.
The brain is vacant —
and its new tenant may be the morning sun:
the fallen one, born bathed in absinthe
and soaked in sulphur.

It’s necessary!
Rip from my nostrils
the nails of crucifixion —
I only became a sinner
after someone wrote
the word "sin" in my rib.

It's easy to point to Cain and Abel.
But who witnessed that fratricide?
History?
Abel, the strong son,
crushed Cain’s fingers
in the barn door...
But the father wept only for the one who tilled the land?
And the mother?
Hung in the silence of obedience,
while washing her holy womb still in mourning.
But not for the alpha —
not to lie beneath Adam.

Thus was born the first sin:
perhaps from a cripple
who dared to survive
without the chastity belt
that patriarchy nailed into flesh —
and into knowledge.

A monologue that oppresses even moans
and stamps fear onto your eyelids.
“Eminence”... (Brown of what?
Of blood or silence?)

To inspire reason
before words suffocate me:
Every story is a corpse
that victors wrapped in purple.

Tear off the shrouds!
The dead reek of adulterated wine
and rotten verses.

“Amen”
(with the stench of child abuse,
walling up of Black slaves in churches,
and the genocidal baptism of Indigenous peoples).

Whoever leaves last, burn the quotation marks
and spit upon the lamb’s bones.