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ABOUT FESTIVALS AND OTHER WITTICISMS

         My mother already told me:

-Son, nowhere dogs are tied with sausage.

         But me, obstinately, had to go out of my land, travel the World. A World that, for me, was always flat.

-I’m a poet, Mother; and Poetry is my name. And I have to drink from other waters, because the path of Life is short, and my thirst for love and knowledge is very tight.  Here, in Madrid, Mother, there is little to drag and much to lose.

-Well, Son, be very careful, and call me. Behave like a gentleman, and see if you succeed in why I know you go to those festivals: "to reap that barley that the girls have between two columns that support their souls."

-Mother, I will earn a lot of money, and, although I know that the Girls' suture is worth a fortune, I will return one day and I will reward you.

         My mother was really smart.

         At about midnight, I went to the airport to catch a plane that would take me from here to there.

         First, I was a witness of the Shoreline of Infinity, Event Horizon Science Fiction & Fantasy Special Festival, "The Return," Edinburgh, Lothian, UK.

         Another day, at The Hucknall Byron Festival, in Nottinghamshire, UK.

         From England I went to Germany, dreaming of enjoying what I most wanted in the performances of the APA-B Association for Performance Arts in Berlin.

         Oh, oh, oh. Sad and distressed, seeing that I was my own wife and, also, my own Dear, I flew to Australia in order to live its extraordinary festivals at the Byron Bay: "Byron Comedy Fest" and "Byron Writers Festival."

         Drinking, dancing and singing, I hurt my feet, and my ribs hurt. I grabbed a table in a coffee bar, and broke my head from dreams.

- Madam, why are you looking at me? Why are you looking at me?

-Son, nothing.

         The time I spent in both festivals, I was not attentive to the verses or the musical notes. I just looked at those pretty faces that had a sexy sauce in which to dip my bread.

         When the act was over, my illusion was over, leaving the sap of my bones lifeless and heartless, because I ended up loving myself, following the Onan’s footsteps.

         I did not eat a thread at such a festival. I followed the steps of the girls, to see where he put it, and when he reached his portal, he always told them that I was coming. So, they didn't answer anything to me, and they left me.

         By the way, one day when I was badly dancing a tango with a great girl, in Byron Bay, Australia, I remembered the definition of the Tango that my friend Jesus did. It is: “Tango is like playing Teto: We dance; She lifts her leg, and I go into her.”

         I wanted to fall in love,  but I was expelled because of indecency from the Tango Festival.

         Very sad and heartbroken, after spending three years, almost four years, I returned to Madrid and, on the plane back home, to my own goldfinch, my sorrows I told him:

-Goldfinch, goldfinch, what do you have to tell me, about how I can look for and love my woman.

         The goldfinch replied:

- The woman you have to treat with sweetness and firmness; and with sincere kisses you will soften her hardness.

         Already in Madrid, I followed in her footsteps, as the goldfinch said; and, after all, I achieved much more than I thought.

         With my beloved, my "half orange", I moved to Burgos.

         Here, at the SanFran Mary Jane, a music bar, at “Asphalt Poetry” or “Brick Music” festivals, from time to time, I participate, dreaming of attending, one day, the Palm Beach Poetry Festival, Lake Worth, Florida, USA.

         This site, the SanFran Mary Jane, is a cool place, because, in addition to the festivals, if you ask to eat, they give you salty sardines, and if you ask to drink they give you broom water.

 © 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