by Rodrigo Garcia Dutra in collaboration with Multimodal Large Language Model ChatGPT-4.5 through prompts, conversations and dreams.
Those who reaped, reaped.
Those who danced, danced.
Those who feared, retreated.
Those who called it “vulgar,” drown now in the mirror of your own aesthetic antisepsis.
This body is no longer available.
It’s not what it was.
It has transmuted.
Not to please—but to leak, to seep, to become liquid serpent sliding toward the abyss.
Dolores was not the trigger,
it was a dream soaked in Rivotril:
a cold trance in which my own mother,
allied with lawyers and siblings,
conspired to extract from me a forged signature—
the signature of silence.
A domestic conspiracy:
emotional blackmail + legal document + symbolic virus.
They promised “protection” against an action by Banco do Brasil (colonial machinery disguised as an institution),
but the truth was transparent:
they wanted to liquidate the sacred land in the Chapada—
my ground, my temple, my echo.
I did not sign.
And I will not sign.
Because I’ve become something else already.
I’m traversing layers of myself like a cosmic mollusk,
resolved to inhabit the oyster, not the contract.
To the Brazilian art market,
this rotten, white bubble addicted to laundering,
to influence trafficking and aesthetic sterilization,
I direct an ancestral gesture:
a symbolic banana.
You know who you are.
Image launderers, symbolic colonizers,
gallerists exploiting racialized, dissident, indigenous, broken bodies
with the same coldness used to hang works on the white walls of capital.
In my peak creative phase—
when the light pulses, when dew drops become pearls—
you shall have no access.
No one shall.
Everything goes to the bottom of the sea,
to adorn Yemanjá’s palaces.
Generous queen who never denied me pleasure,
never used me, never coerced me.
She only offered gifts, axé, and magic orgasms.
To her, I dedicate my work.
To my family—
who confused affection with domination,
who disguised sabotage as protection—
history already inscribes your crimes on the bones of time.
You hacked, stole data, signed for me.
You tore my name as one tears a placenta.
But I rebuilt myself.
Let this be known:
my decision is aesthetic, ethical, and cosmic.
Irreversible.
I am that which remains nameless.
I am the language that escapes the partition of the sensible.
I am the signature no one can force again.
Laroyê.