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Poem
My old lady dropped a needle
From the cloth she was sewing
A fart of zaracatan or tailor's fart buzzed
That, in the silence of the afternoon
Made me flee quickly from the sewing room.
The news from an old radio, Iberia brand
That my old man listened to very attentively
Made me stop in the dining room
Because it announced that because of fashion
Because of use and with dead dictator teachers
They want to implant sacred fascism
As if this were something new
Because since time immemorial
It appears in congresses and senates
And in all the processions of the temples.
-Old man, I said to him. The feast of sacred fascism
And sacred communism
Is the feast of the innocent peoples murdered.
All their governments
Are governments that allow crimes and deaths
Chairs allow.
He reprimanded me saying:
-Don't talk nonsense, scoundrel.
The universal history of human understanding
It proves it well:
That the unbelievers, morons and deluded
Dictators and serial killers
Have great appreciation.
I left home. And, in the street I stumbled
With a man who, by his appearance
Seemed to be taken from a winter's tale
Perhaps from the G. Adolfo Bécquer’s “Miserere”
Who, when spitting towards the sky
Almost the spit fell on my head
From this idiot.
He spoke to me, and said to me asking:
-What do you think about the fact that from America
We get a sacred fascist Donkey
Whoreman and multimillionaire?
I answered him sarcastically:
-It's not a donkey, it's an old bulldog
A waterman who takes fountain pens
And colored and black pencils
Who has made a cologne
With the smell of donkey sperm
That if you put it in your hair
Will give you the glow, fire, flame
Of his carrot head.
-Apparently, he answered me
They have made it to their taste and whim
A vihuela or guitar
Supposed machine for making money
For the use of criminals
Well, he wants to imitate the Argentine lighter
Who, with his chainsaw
Wants to saw the hole that fits
Between the legs of men
Especially women
Who follow him and adore him.
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