EMBARRASSMENT

 

THEY ARE GIVING US LONG they want to fuck us up the ass, laughs from Don Bwana, yes, wana, new Herod. Do you bring the reports? Iran, however, is going to give the Lvod tailor's son a hard time who played the piano with his dick, we are splashed with blood and shit every hour, the world smells of cadaverine.

That dog from the urbanization howls, war clangores, but here we are wanting to put it in the urn, so calm, while we dance in an absurd sea of debates and counter-debates; Perico and the witch. The witch and Perico ready to jump into the palenque to perform a little act. Good performance.

The horny stallion endures for an hour and the blonde cums screaming, sharpening her nose, in case of death. He is very long and curved, his nasal appendage from the lies he releases. His farts turn into shots in the belly. Do you add or subtract, sweetheart?

I rather go for the shade. All this political montage has the air of a tongo. I dance the waltz of the waves on the beach of the absurd.

The mountain burns and everyone stays still. The torious mares neigh, their zeal is something divine and I lie down on the grass of the sun supine. The mares become pregnant by the zephyr. The stallion that rides them is a caudiculine percheron.

  A steep three second and discharge, in twelve months the mare will give birth to a foal. And it's not a porn show like the ones that get laid with their chorbo and last and last like Duracel batteries.

We are hove to the events watching the butterflies fly. The figs are ripe. The fillies were born in April and trot around the glen, jumping up and down.

  Write to you without hope, my love. I smear paper, between puffs of incense from my pipe that rise to heaven from the censer of my thoughts. Attrition pain? Not even for those, although sometimes all of me is a long train of msereaturs.

  They tell me that the grandmother gave birth. That is a metaphysical impossibility. So the Ferris wheel by the pool keeps turning. This blessed life that the Lord gave us is a merry-go-round with a fixed gear. The buckets of this intensive waterwheel whose kinetics we do not know surprise us by dint of enigmas. Where is the engine? Where the charioteer?

  Who flips the switch? And if the automedonte forgot to guide or does not know the traffic code, then it will be necessary to say: "for bastard".

Surely it is one of the Sons of the Widow who wants to kill us; I already know that the murderers stand guard in the television ring, they are scammed with the murrias singing misereres, wars, destructions, desolation.

  But you, Quirino, go ahead, kiss the icon, light candles.

Eternal life is well worth a genuflection. Don't expect much from the fallacious world. This is the turn off and let's go.

Certainly, Quirino, I climbed a lot of scaffolding, handled the trowel and trowel with ease, sang my songs with confidence and complimented the girls in the neighborhood who saw me lay bricks one after the other until the wall was built.

  Once I fell and almost unguarded. Stone by stone, verse by verse, cathedrals are raised and books are written. But She was there under her, she put on her cloak and saved me. Aderita la de León was my fairy godmother in such tribulation