My uncle’s Ass is in the corner
Going off braying the oak essences
That I hold in my little bottle firmly
At a time I put a written note that says:
-If I get lost and you find me
If you’re Vesta, I want to fuck you.
If Priapus, that others get your arse.
Iiiii – Aaaa
A Drop Of Lo’s Menstruation
My friend and me are madly in love with Lo, Loreto. Like Platos, not borings. She knows it well and does not mind. When we walk, we always respect a short distance, we of her. We like both behind and ahead from her.
We follow her when she walks her dog from Fuentecillas to Vega’s Square, and from Vega’s Square to the Puebla’ Street. I am more in love than he; and he, the very cocoon, has told it, exclaiming:
-If you will be gay old dogs!
She is endowed with the magical virtues of a female body, and has the face of a kitten with green eyes. It is, for me, a protective talisman, rather than the colour condom.
I know we will not be able to reach her, because she always surrounds herself with young fucking boys; That it will be impossible to benefit from her. Although we disguised ourselves as beggars. My friend and I are mendicant brothers out on heat to fall upon her, a nymph. Mendicant brothers of the women’s arse, we are.
In a coffee shop in the Puebla street, she left the dog tied to the leg of a chair, seeing she entering and going to the Roca’s services, with a body and face of period, hanging on she came out.
When she came out, we went and entered the ladies’ toliet. And, rummaging in the bin, we took the bloody compress she had left.
As Ulysses helped by Diomedes seized Palladius, a mysterious statue built by Athena, so we both got the rag. I said to my friend:
I took the bloody compress, which I thought was the tongue of his Cunt, squeezing it until a drop of the menstrual juice fell on the little bottle. Then I handed the compress to him, who entered to the ladies’ water, and made to himself just a straw with the compress that Troya burned, I say Roca.
The two go out to the to the bar of the cafeteria, ordering ones teas of mint, and me asking him where he had left the napkin; That I had not seen him throw it into the bin, and he replied:
-I’m wearing it; that it excites me and I feel like a titan or a protector divinity of herds and patron of whores.
-And your name is Francis, I replied, the “the Pan’s flute.”