Rodrigo Leao - All Dogs are Blue

You wait, I’ll survive long enough to expose this whole dirty game.

I got close to Jesus. From my cell you could see the Christ statue. They put me there to see if I’d die a little of shame for not believing in God. There were butterflies all around. The asylum was a place full of beautiful flowers, but rotten on the inside. The asylum model had to be changed. But how could my family deal with me wrecking everything? In lucid moments, I ask myself: what could they have done? On the day of the crisis, no one could do anything. And what can you do to avoid a crisis?

You’re a lost cause. You’re an idiot, you’re fat, and vile. You’re just saying that because I’m tied up.

Everything went golden. The sky was golden. Christ was golden. The ambulance was golden. The golden nurses were touching me with their golden hands.

Everything went blue. Blue kiskadees, blue roses, blue ballpoint pens, the troglodyte nurses.

Everything went yellow. That was when I saw Rimbaud trying to hang himself with Mayakovsky’s necktie, and I wouldn’t let him.

Why, Rimbaud? Let them hate us. Let them throw us in a flea-infested old dump. Let life seep in through your pores. Don’t kill yourself, brother. If you die, I don’t know what will happen to me. I think about you thinking about me. Rimbaud, everything will turn whichever colour you want. You can’t see the sea from here. But you’re going to get out.

Everything went green like the colour of my brother Bruno’s eyes and the colour of the sea. The sea. Rimbaud was happy and decided not to kill himself.

Everything went Van Gogh. The light of things changed.

Finally they gave me some glasses. But with the glasses I could only look inside people.

It was like diving. They took me out of the cubicle. Finally. Now I was walking around like an equal among equals. Some people looked at me in fear. Others asked me for a cigarette. If you ever visit an asylum, take cigarettes. Everyone smokes. Just imagine that bunch smoking a spliff, a nice big joint.

I felt as free as a butterfly taking its first flight. I knew it was the first step towards getting out of there.

Rimbaud appeared and showed me some of his new friends … Peter Perfect liked to walk around holding hands with Clark Kent. Demolition Man made out with Batman. There was free love in Rimbaud’s games with his little men.

Rimbaud, stop playing around with little men.

Fuck you, you don’t know how to play. I’m all about playing. I play, play and play.

Rimbaud took the Joker out of his pocket and told me, You have the Joker’s smile. I don’t know if you’re my hallucination, or if I’m yours.

I sucked the air of freedom into my lungs and left Rimbaud talking to himself.

Maybe I didn’t walk all that far in the dark night. It was just three kilometres in the pitch black, and what he saw was a black magic ritual. Then he swallowed that cricket. The cricket I swallowed is the same as the chip I have now.

He’s mentally ill, schizophrenic. He has delusional disorder, persecutory delusions. No one believes a person with delusional disorder and persecutory delusions. Even if they were actually being persecuted, no one would believe their story.

Rimbaud and his dolls. The Commander is fucking Barbie.

Get out, Rimbaud. I’m not speaking to you until you grow up.

I play, play and play.

I held out my hand for Fearsome Madman to shake. Fearsome acted like he didn’t see me. I went after him.

Why won’t you shake my hand?

You’re Daddy. And Daddy beats me.

So I discovered that I must look like or remind Fearsome of his dad. He was afraid of his dad, therefore he was afraid of me. I was happy. The guy everyone feared was afraid of me. Me, of all people, just quivering jelly.

I picked up one of Rimbaud’s figures and rubbed it in his face. Don’t you see that this is kids’ stuff?

I want to be a kid. I’m Rimbaud.

The Benzetacil cured my erysipelas. They started giving me medication orally. I’d spit it all out. I’d hide it under my tongue, and throw it down the drain.

They put me in a room with two others. Rimbaud, you sleep on the floor. But the other two couldn’t stand sleeping with me. I snored a lot. I started smoking again and then stopped. I threw up a lot. So I spent some time alone in a room with three beds.

I’ve wanted to sleep with my aunt. But I never could. I’ve wanted to screw my cousin. Cousins are tasty morsels. The most beautiful thing God put on this earth. My aunt was a stunner. She was five foot nine, big thighs and arse. I’ve never wanted to screw my sister. She’s so annoying that I wouldn’t even get a hard-on.

A bunch of ants came out of their anthill one by one. They formed a powerful army. They came into my room and took Rimbaud. Ants are more disgusting than cockroaches. Rimbaud kicked and screamed and no one did a thing. I went after the procession. It looked like a cartoon. I was going deep into the jungle. Rimbaud was stood upright by two witch doctors and when they cut his arm, I gave a Sioux war cry that I learnt from the Daniel Boone films. Everybody ran. It wasn’t the first time I’d helped Rimbaud out. He doesn’t know how to get out of his messes on his own. I always have to step in and save him. I’m his superhero.

The good thing was that I could spend my days alone in the room. Rimbaud and I spent the afternoons playing poker.

Rimbaud wasn’t used to modern stuff. He was a guy from another time. He had to learn everything. He’d never written another poem. But he was a good companion for wasting away the hours and for poker.

After a while a depressed guy came to my room. He slept all day long. He slept with one hand touching the floor. His hand looked like a snake, a cobra that would sometimes rise up and come to attack me and Rimbaud.

You must be wondering if my relationship with Rimbaud was sexual. Even though I knew Rimbaud was in love with me, I didn’t really encourage him, so that I wouldn’t break the poet’s heart. After all, I was just looking for friendship. Rimbaud behaved himself and never left my side. He was a loyal friend, a squire.

He liked flowers. Sometimes we girded ourselves with flowers. Sometimes we walked around naked. Me fat and him all skinny. We were like Laurel and Hardy.

One day I saved a house from its wicked termites. It was supernatural. The termites were encrusted in everything. I only left termites on the devil’s horns. Everywhere else was freed of termites. At fifteen, I already showed powers. I truly emanated transcendental powers. I’d swallowed a cricket that was wriggling around in my lung.

Like hell you swallowed a cricket!

You’re crazy. Good heavens, you need treatment.

He’s just fine. What he needs is a good beating.

They beat me with a stool.

That was the last time I took a beating, after I arrived in Rio. They beat me out of shame.

Do you think that’s manly, thinking a cricket got you? You’re a talking cricket.

I wasn’t friends with Rimbaud yet. If he had been my friend, he wouldn’t have let them beat me so much.

I had another friend, Baudelaire, who only came round every once in a while. But with him it was another story. Baudelaire never picked up, not even with me begging and calling him, leaving messages. Moody git. But that afternoon they were both there, Rimbaud and Baudelaire, talking about poetry and modern life. And all of a sudden she walked past me. She came in white, all in white, pretty and smelling of perfume. Porcelain white. I was invaded by the song,

she comes all in white, all wet and dishevelled

how wonderful is my love

Jorge Ben took me by the hand. And I watched the woman in a lab coat walk by. Rimbaud and Baudelaire disappeared. But then Rimbaud came back with a daisy behind his left ear, and danced and danced. I laughed with him and laughed at him. Rimbaud was a lot of fun. Many people must be wondering if it was Rimbaud’s fault that I smashed up the whole house. Of course it was Rimbaud who gave me the idea.