Voyage to the Dantean hell of Alexandre de Moraes supporters

It’s my friend Guilherme Fiuza who takes the place of Virgílio and with me he enters the gates of this imaginary hell. With his portentous voice, the noble poet advises me to open my eyes, pierce the bubble and listen to the plaintive howl of souls expressing support for Alexandre de Moraes and his particular tyranny in defense of a notion of democracy so repugnant that even quotation marks refuse .

“The truth is that Alexandre de Moraes has the support of many people who believed in the narrative that Bolsonaro represents a threat to democracy,” he says. To which I respond in the best tradition of hyper-realist rebellious verses in Soviet poetry: “It can’t be!”

“Come and I’ll show you!”, invites Fiuza. It is there that the bard-gunner of the Aterro soccer matches takes my hand and, with a somewhat exaggerated bow, points to the great gates that open to that same hell portrayed by Dante in the fourteenth century. I get all excited about the possibility of exchanging a few words with I am a poet🇧🇷 But, as the Florentine has been for centuries in the Paradise reserved for those who glorified God by exalting the beauty of words, I am content to be received at the gates of hell by another poet, curiously a pun from Curitiba, my namesake. Things from Beyond.

Of course, to enter hell, it is necessary to bow to the bureaucracy and fill out five thousand forms, notarize, pay notary fees. And don’t forget proof of address, huh! The paperwork, however, is worth it and, with the addition of a little pixuleco, gives us access to the recently inaugurated annex reserved for Alexandre de Moraes supporters, where we can finally observe the suffering of this dark fauna.

sixth circle

In the outermost circle, called O Sexto, are the distracted, those who support Alexandre de Moraes outright or just because “I heard good things about him on television”. This mix also includes those who applaud everything that Alexandre de Moraes has done, is doing and will continue to do, going beyond all constitutional limits, just to win that crush, you know? (Do people still say “girlfriend”?). Like the frog that dies without noticing that water boils slowly, they are cooked in the soft fire of ignorance itself.

Or as one reads in Dante’s famous verses:

In that first circle, poor fellows,
the useful distracted idiots,
are made and unmade by the state,

suspended on a skewer are cooked.
“- Cooked? Not baked?” the dog lives
of baking idiot on a stick.

fifth circle

As we move towards the deepest circle of this infernal annexe, we encounter more perverse characters. Leaving behind the useful idiots, with their distracted alexandrophilia, we found ourselves, Fiuza and I, with the Machiavellians. They march endlessly through streets paved with flaming copies of the Constitution, wielding lead signs that read “It’s Wrong, But It’s To Save Democracy!” In order to quench the thirst for revenge that they mistake for justice, they drink gall.

Or as one reads in Dante’s famous verses:

There, the crafty ones. Machiavelli
he is even startled by such cunning:
sell the soul not to gain heaven.

In hell they swallow gall (see detail):
leftist demons in a vat
drown them in the feces of mother Russia.

fourth circle

Already in the fourth circle, perversity smells of sulfur mixed with pride. Here Fiuza and I meet psychotic anti-bolsonarists who recognize that Alexandre de Moraes makes decisions harmful to the country, but “everything is valid against Bolsonaro” – in the words of one of the condemned.

Who raises our eyes in the midst of his eternal torment: getting back all the evil he wished on his political opponents. Some are humiliated with memes and puns and quotes from Márcia Tiburi. And these are the ones who suffer the least. In a corner, a stool with nails that reads “Reservado para Janones” (Reservado para Janones) catches my eye.

Or as one reads in Dante’s famous verses:

Let’s go down a little further, my friend,
the circles are many. In this one,
the wicked receive their punishment:

from forehead to heel, a scalpel
shreds them in the most ancient way,
the evil they desired returns to them.

third circle

Gradually we advanced towards the central circle. In the third circle, the smell is unmistakable: burnt flesh. As we enter the macabre hall, however, the only sign of fire we see is the stinky little smoke that comes out of the orifices of the condemned, each one a small chimney of lost causes. They are the revolutionaries, those who support Alexandre de Moraes just because they want to see the circus burn. Or the jaguar drinking water.

Or as one reads in Dante’s famous verses:

The devil likes those, the firecrackers.
They just want the circus to catch fire.
Then the Dog puts the souls in the fire.

But it is special fire: from demagogue,
starts in the bowels, goes up the spine
in flames to determine the deceit.

second circle

We’re almost there and, finally, a fun circle. Here very close to the Alexandrian vortex are those who idolize Alexandre de Moraes, extolling his sagacity and courage in defense of democracy. They are those who even ask for a minister’s statue in a public square, in front of which perhaps they intend to ritualistically sacrifice their own honor and especially that Truth that is written with a capital “v”. Eternally condemned to play the equestrian side of the monument, the damned neigh and trot back and forth with a bald granite doll on their backs.

Or as one reads in Dante’s famous verses:

In place of the horse he put a donkey –
the statue of the little jeguinho with the beast,
but a demon says: – You, carry it!

And the beast takes the donkey on its head,
for all eternity it goes on.
Idolater, in hell, paste the xepa.

center circle

Finally we enter the dark cabinet that is right in the middle of the Realm of Hopelessness. Suddenly my guide and I heard that voice, with that accent. One looks at the other who looks at the one. Behold, the caricatured figure emerges from the pitch, with the unmistakable bald head that shines more than the intellect. In the face of our curious silence, the man sticks out his chest to celebrate the rotten fruits of his arrogance. The distracted, the Machiavellians, the perverse, the revolutionaries and the idolaters will forever be his slaves.

Or as one reads in Dante’s famous verses:

Down there, in the center of yourself,
in concentric circles of gas,
the big one, the biggest one, Zé Torresmo,

the one who commands and demands, the contumacious,
bald of knowing about misgovernments,
the greatest, father of all, Satan.

On the way out of the Dantesque inferno, a surprise: Fiuza and I met Rodrigo Constantino. “Come with me, Polzo! I want to show you something”, he invites with his unmistakable timbre of voice. Since I’m at a loss and can’t think of anything better to do at that hour, I accept the invitation.

After the experience through the supreme hell, I believe that Constantine will guide me through the Purgatory of the exempt or through a little corner of Paradise reserved for some improbable virtuous ideology. But not. We follow alleys and alleys and turn left several times, left again, left once more, left, always left, until we reach a destination as or more macabre than the one I just left behind: the hell to which petistas are condemned.

* The verses that emulate Dante Alighieri in this unpretentious Supreme Comedy of mine are authored by my great friend and even greater poet João Filho, author of the obligatory “Um Sol de Bolso” and also of the prayer-poem that serves as an epigraph for my space here at People’s Gazette🇧🇷 If you are a strange person, one of those who still appreciate poetry of the highest quality, be sure to follow João Filho’s work on Instagram🇧🇷

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