"Every day, supermarkets, restaurants and even small grocery stores and butcher shops throw away insane amounts of perfectly eatable food to the trash, just to keep the market spinning at the automated speed of buying and selling and production and waste that we've grown it used to.

 

Every day, Portugal, small and humble and dreaming country and so many times truly apathic, falls more and more into the trap of the european macroeconomy in which we were inavoidably inserted with the purpose of following the pressures of the majority.

 

While our agriculture fades away and rots, we forget what is natural and pollute our own planetary backyard; the bankers' claws take hold of the made-up money they move and lend at their own pleasure; running over the lives and illusions of those that never had the chance to see the world from the top of the privileged pyramid. 

 

This performance is a manifest, this performance stinks, it's sticky, disgusting even, onyric but ephemeral, it came from the trash but will go back into the earth, it will be buried at the hype of its mold in the front garden of the portuguese parliament when there's nothing else left of our nation, not even the distant memory of the discoveries, not even the poetry of the sailors, just the wretched stench of everything we were and everything we've thrown into oblivion in favor of a collective allucination, now global, called money. 

 

This burial march of protest will become a party, and before the cloak of control stains all of our hearts, let's riot for the right of beauty and art, against the mechanization of feelings and the faint memory of a smile's flavor".

 

João Meirinhos