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(To Ernesto Cardenal)

-Ernesto Cardenal

Poet and priest, politician

Liberation theologian

And GodŐs Lover

Where did you come from?

-From the Trappe, in Kentucky, brother

What has been offered to you?

-Have you seen my God

In Prayer and Mysticism ever?

-Yes, father Ernesto, yes, I have seen him

And I know the signs of him:

He is tall, dark and very bearded

Tall bearded manague

Christian and Marxist at the same time

A "Nicoya" like RubŽn Dar’o

Through the whole world sung

As Tino L—pez Guerra sang

To the great poet RubŽn

That the JesusŐ crucifix keep you

In a pine kerchief

Embroidered by Ileana, his girlfriend

Who promised to you

Embroider another

Until she was his wife

And that, with devotion, said him:

-I have waited seven years, Ernesto

Another seven I'll wait

If you don't come to fourteen

I'll be a nun.






         I am walking, with my friend Apianus, the RetiroŐs Park, in Madrid and already, in the Big Pond, in front of the monument to the king "Pacifier" Alfonso twelve, whose horse has fewer eggs than the EsparterosŐ s Horse, we see Chinese and more Chinese offering their  massage services with ŇTiger BalmÓ B‡lsamo de Tigre; a few other women send you play cards offering you a sexual plan; others, gentlemen or women from other stalls, offering you pipes, olives, chewing gums and caramels and, others, "Fresh Chochos", lupins.

         But, the one that caught our attention the most was a man who was blowing a little cloak held with one hand, attached to a doll that played the drum with a toothpick in each hand, pulling, under his feet, a string with the other hand ; doll caling with his mouth: ŇPeople, look at me: "Nicanor Playing his Drum".

         This  ŇNicanorÓ doll was in fashion and you could find it, too, in the Madrid Rastro,  in the Plaza de Cascorro (FleasŐ Market), , in the old traditional Madrid.

         This man was very funny to us, because, when he stopped playing the drum along with the doodles, he kept quiet and, making ŇNicanorÓ play the sticks on the drum pulling the string, singing:

"Chinito tś, chinito yo

Trump Trump

Chinito del Culo, Chinito de amol

Trump, Trump. "

ŇChinese You, Chinese Me

Trump, Trump

Chinese of Ass, Chinese of Love

Trump, TrumpÓ

         What made the kids sing, they jumped and more jumped for joy:

"From China

A virus is coming

Oh so bad and insane

Oh what a son of the beachÓ.

         A mother carrying a child in her arms smiled, while the child reached out, wanting to take the doll. Others, older ones, said to their maid:

-We bought one, that our mother has given you money.

         Once the doll was purchased, boys and girls opened a long procession and, with all their strength, sang the "Chinese You, Chinese Me", making all the people we met in that moment smiling in the park.

         My friend and I bought one. For us, this moment was the party of "Nicanor playing his drum", which should serve for the universal history of human entertainment. And more today, that we have lost our way and the star of dizziness.

         Before leaving the park, and marching towards the Puerta de Alcal‡ (AlcalaŐ Door),  my friend told me:

-I vote for such, Silenus, that I am sure that the Influenzavirus, or Asian Flu, the GB or Sarin, and the Covid19 - Coronavirus, all three came from Chinese asses, and everything that global human understanding tells us is no more than a Chinese fairy tale for unbelieving or delusional miscreants.

-I'm with you, Apianus. Although the death count, all of them put in the same Covid bag19, is not a story; the truth of their true deaths has not been confirmed. Everything in our lives is done and has been done by fools to deceive slime boobies and throw it at them.

-To me, you say the truth, Silenus.


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         We were kids and little girls, boys and girls, mischievous and unruly children, "chisgarab’s" (pipsqueak), about 40, from four to six years old, the only ones we had in the town of Ca–ete, in the province of Cuenca, Spain, who, tired of teaching based on stick and tentetieso (tentety), and the reed of the catholic national doctrine, we created a "rock" in which we worshiped the Donkey's dung, and its Hee-Haw.

         The Ass`Hee-Haw was our guide, and not that insipid, insubstantial and false Hee-Haw of the teachers, priests, doctors and mayors, the four important figures of the town, to whom we changed the name Ca–ete for Chiquiburra.

         We liked to tell ourselves that we were mulatto and black children or vice versa, or children of india and zambo or vice versa, because we felt longing for Cuba, since most of our grandparents had been in its war, and they told us good adventures and, rather, bad.

         When our heads hurt, our mothers would put slices of grease-smeared paper on our temples as a home remedy for pain.

         When we crossed paths with fellow countrymen or women from the town, and they asked us:

-Where are you going little ones (chiquitos)?

         We answered them:

-Mr. Mrs; Gentlemen, Ladies, "chiquitos" are the Indians of the southwestern region of Bolivia, and "chirapa" in Peru calls rain with sun.

         So much was our love for America discovered by Columbus!

         In lofts, corners or hiding places, or at the top and most hidden of a haystack, we looked at our bulba (chirimbolos)  and their flageolet(chirim’as), objects that we did not understand that they were used for anything other than pissing. Thus, the boys called the girls: "Las ojetes"(The holes); and the girls to the boys: ŇLos pellejosÓ (The Skins). Although, for us these two were instruments for touching and kissing.

         When we heard a Hee-Haw, we listened attentively, trying to see where it came from and how its master was called in town, to see if he was a good or bad man.

         Once seen, we followed the Donkey wherever it was, calling it Ň the Holy FatherÓ, and also was called ŇYouÓ, waiting with enthusiasm and passion, that come out from its arse hole, to which we saw opening and closing like a fig, throwing those half-spherical and warm, steamy dungs, taking them in our hands, and passing them from one to the other, sucking them as in a game of caresses. Someone passed their tongue to see what they tasted like.

         Some sparks or particles came to our eyes, blurring our sight.

         The owner of the Donkey was called "Uncle Chirigu‡n", because he looked like an Indian from the interior of Cochabamba, in Bolivia, and he was also a beekeeper, because he had hives, and they also called him "Uncle Chisquete", because, when speaking , spit was coming out of his mouth.

         This was in the afternoon, when we had already finished school, and our parents did their homework, and they went home confident that they would not have to put up with the kids.

While we passed the dungs from hand to hand, like the small change of money, we sang out of tune:

"Afternoon time

End of work.

DonkeyŐ Master

Don't pay your jobs

Based on sticks.

When breaking the day

You beat it

So what it cares your garden

And your ferris wheel

At dawn in the afternoon.

On top of that you hit

It gives us free dungs.

Master, You are lucky

For a donkey's wages


It does a great job for you

Without paular or maular

Without saying a word

Giving a lesson

To the world of work.

Your Ass is evening

The same as morning

Hours are of it

Although yours are

The orchard and the ferris wheel.

The Ass is your life

Take care of its dungs

That its light shines

All our paths and roads

For us to live

Always in its presence Ó.

         Sometimes, in summer, the Ass made us very funny, because "Uncle Chisquete" put on a top hat. We looked like a herd of goats and goats behind him.

         At night, we took the dungs, which we had brought, to the goshawk that spent the night with the partridge that flew after a not too strong north wind, in the stable of "Uncle Chisquete". Also, the chochas gallinaceous birds felt love and affection towards dungs, so much that they began to peck them as if they were bean or beans.





-You're kind of giddy

You scare yourself with very little

Some compare you to a snot

And they call you "turkey mucus."

This is what my beloved tells me

Well I was scared of a mosquito

That has entered through the window

And it's settled in the curtain

From our bedroom.

-What bug is it

That, although it does not seem a cynife

It has a beak

As harmful or more than him?

She asks me.

I reply:

I think it's a creek bug

What we call "Rio Vena"

Similar to those that fly

The waters of the Arlanz—n river

But much uglier

Well it's all black

Big head

Very long legs

And only two wings.

-Well, he's uglier than a demon.

He is a monstrous cynife!

She answers me.

And continues:

-Willn't it be one of those that come from China

Transporting the Coronavirus?

-No, I answer her.

It's a wolf mosquito

With eyes like dishes

And a sucking organ

Willing to feast

At night.

-Thank you have crushed him

Between the glass and the curtainÁ

She gladly answers me.




Today i come to the gym

But I don't want to do a single exercise

I want let the King of Heaven

Do it  for me.

My friend Gerineldo is on the bench press

Three turns circling the bar

Being able to see how his dick was rising.

By doing the four laps

We saw a beautiful girl, brown wench coming

In her tight gym outfit

Dark light t-shirt

Short black shorts

Under which it showed

Her two breasts and her dreamy chestnut

With sports shoes, of course!

The first thing the girl did

Was stand on the leg press

That, by pushing the platform

Gerineldo looked at her askance

Well she was by our side

Staying with the desire to say:

-Up those two thighs, lassie

If you said "yes, I want to"

I would give you love with my staff.

Afterward, she switched to the Bib Machine

That it was right in front of us.

At the end of the exercises

And go to another machine

He noticed that she had come

Well she was pretty tired

And so he told me.

But, healthy and alive as she was

Roding the exercise bike

What I do sayÁ to the Indoor Cycle

Gerineldo staying, seeing her

With his battered dick

Not only for to see her, excited

But because

the bar fell on him also.

Finished the exercise of statics

She paced past us

Until reach to the Elliptical.

Just by seeing her, Gerineldo exclaimed:

-The trunk has turned me upside down

And my heart breaks.

I love her just by seeing her!

What a sprig! What a gooseneck!

What little ass! It is the flower of the place.

When she's gone to the treadmills

He has gone behind, standing beside her

To, among fears, tell her:

-Your body, precious, is a heaven to see.

Anwering she, to his amazement:

-Knight, if you want

Enjoy my beauty

the only thing that I ask you

Is that you wait

And let me finish my studies.

We'll be another day

And in another nice place

As soon as the Selectivity was approved.

The young woman ended up in the Rowing Machine

Gerineldo looking at her with passion

When leaving.

But, always, in life, there is a ŇbutÓ

Before leaving the gym

From a main box

A voice called him to reception

Informing him that he should stop harassing

That girl who was a minor

Although she seems

To be twenty years old or older

That her father had complained

ŇAnd that cannot be tolerated in this CenterÓ.

-Take care of your fever, Gerineldo

And if you rise up like a lion

Go to the shower

Or we will have to expel you. "

- No, don't worry, Gerineldo told them

I'm not a pedophile priest

And I thought I'd unsubscribe already

Well, the bathrooms of this Gym

Smell like rotten shit

And its machine room like a male tiger

Because only muscular guys come here

Preparing for exams

To the Security Forces

And, the women who come

The most are chubby and older

With hanging boobs

Femoral, gluteal, adductor and quadriceps

Flaccid and with varicose veins

Nothing less, and more.


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I listen and watch the Marty WildeŐs music video

"Teenager in Love"

On my tv

And all my memories of youth

As angels rejoice and transport me to:

When I flooded with Love

To the prostitute on duty, in Tirso de Molina

On Calle La Ballesta

In the Plaza de Salamanca

Or in the Plaza de Oriente, in Madrid

Feeling like a Juan Nicol‡s Arturo Rimbaud

Filling with joy

Through the disorganization of my senses

And its seed wandering all over the body

Of these sex workers

Including the Hole, tunnel in which at the end

The light is not seen, nor will be seen.

I looked myself as I was hugging a tree

With its branches pressing me to death

Dislocating my bones and jaws

In that wild ejaculation

In which my love was resurrected

And at the same time was defeated

For that dark night of the Vagina

From faked orgasm

Joyful singing of the outgoing macho man

With whose largeness

Women gives us Light, Truth and Life.

From her belly, when I get up

And leave her crotch like a puddle of ducks

Although some money left my purse

She gave me new life, risen from the dead

With the dream of always me

Walking down the street

To find a good and loving woman

To continue, with her

A path of union and procreation

Although our erect Easter is immolated

In the transposition of two Asses

Immolated, yes.

Because, when I threw myself on a whore

My life and its erection

In defeat was transformed

Well, the duel of Sex

In glory it became for her

And I was just an inhabitant, a living dead

That, between her thighs, her light shed

As in atoning sacrifice

Slavery to a fucking boner.

But since I had been happy and relieved

Through the streets of old Madrid I sang:

"Stop hatreds and wars

Unite men and women for Love.

Enjoy we can the life

Let's be woman, man, lesbian, transvestite

Sarasa or fagot.

If we lead Life, like Sisyphus its rock

With grace, hope and delusion

Our own Life will be our salvation Ó.

Now the delusion doesn't rise

And I start listening this music video:

Cuting Crew

"(I Just) Died in Yr Arms"

Wanting to lower the angelsŐ panties or underpants

For contemplating their Sex.




         Lust tormented me, killed me and, at the same time, sustained me, because I confess the religion of Sex. The Ass is the only true God with a single Eye in the middle of two cheeks. A God who looks with one eye like the Cyclops Polyphemus, drawn by Johann Heinrich Wilhelm Tischbein.

         Hesiod described three one-eyed Cyclops who served as builders, blacksmiths, and craftsmen: Brontes, Steropes, and Arges, father, son, and holy spirit in Greek mythology. That the Ass is the only true God with only one Eye was believed by the playwright Euripides, the poet Theocritus and the Roman epic poet Virgil, among many others.

         I was, and still am, a martyr to Lust. The martyrdom of Lust was and continues to be death or torments suffered by the "true" religion and all the "false" religions.

         We lose the Life and the sap of the bones between straws and bitchinŐ parties of any type of sex. "Before a martyr of Lust than a confessor of a fucking God," a friend told me when he left the Madrid Seminary.

         Today, old and tired, although I do it three times well: I piss, fart and shit, and I have a friend, here in Burgos, Diocletian. As we both suffered harsh penalties because of bone pain, we decided to go to a "happy ending masseuse" one of these days.

         Today is the day, August 29, and we are going to visit the "masseuse with a happy ending". Her name is Augusta Gemella. It has been an unhappy surprise because this Augusta was a vain, hollow person and of little or no value or merit.

         She is a figurehead with a large, misshapen face like those used as decoration on frontispieces and cornices, fountain mouths.

         Although disappointed, I have said to Diocletian, who was now showing a disgusted face:

-We have come to what we have come, friend.

-Yes, let's close our eyes and open the eye of the ass. What a bagpipe!

-Who comes first? asked the masseuse.

-You go Diocletian, I said. That you are a skin.

         We went to a room, which was next to the hall, and there, she made him lie down on his knees and naked on a mattress full of pebbles, because, according to the Gemella, it was very good for blood circulation.

         Augusta Gemella drew Diocletian towards her from behind and on her knees as she was. Kissed him his third Eye, putting into it some anisees, three grains, saying:

-Your Hole, Diocletian, has more leaves than a calepino (A. Calepino: Italian Author of a Polyglot Dictionary (s.XIV). Not only it has done that, plus the other, do you know.

-Yes, he's a bit of a fagot, I commented so the masseuse could hear it.

         After massaging his buttocks to behind the knee with an oil that she said rosemary, she went with both hands to his balls, bending the dick to her, and speaking to the cocoon in this way:

-You are dumber than peepee.

         Suddenly naked as she was, she crawled on his back under him, opening his crotch, taking his dick beyond what was just, doing more to please him than Diocletian could have expected; Well, that's why she exclaimed, before going under him:

-It's better a shot than two I'll give you.

         Diocletian wanted to speak, but she cut him off, saying:

-It's better if you shut up.

         For me, what I saw was firecracker. She worked it harder and better. Massage, straw and powder for only ten euros, my goodness, what a luxury! And then, when they broke apart, seeing that thick white mixture that results from incorporating a seminal liquid with a powdery matter that, to me, seemed to make bread, cakes, wafers.

         What I have told is, no more and no less, what happened.

         She, without being too young, hurriedly, while Diocletian dressed, addressing me, said:

- And you, whatever your name is, come back tomorrow, because now, at this moment I find myself scarred like raw sugar, but purged with mud.




-What a joy, woman, if we live

In harmony and with courage

Forming a single body

Looking for Sex with Love.

-With your help, woman

We have to fight

And to the world announce

Our true love.

-Shut up, you idiot

Don't say crazy

That when you're out

You don't take care of anything.

-Yesterday, by the way, I saw you arriving

With another very healthy mare

The one you didn't know how to ride.

 © Daniel de Culla


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Daniel de Culla is a writer, poet and photographer. He is a member of the Spanish Writers Association, Earthly Writers International Caucus, Poets of the World, (IA) International Authors, Surrealism Art, and other groups. He is director of the Gallo Tricolor Review and the Robespierre Review. He has participated in many festivals of poetry and of theater in Madrid, Burgos, Berlin, Minden, Hannover and Geneva.  He has exhibited in many galleries including Madrid, Burgos, London and Amsterdam. He moves between North Hollywood, Madrid and Burgos; e-mail: gallotricolor@yahoo.com