lunes, 23 de diciembre de 2013
martes, 2 de julio de 2013
No se molestó en pinchar en el brazo al éxito,
que se quedó dormido en el camión.
Y se perdió.
Ni de regar de vez en cuando a la
esperanza, que se secó, solitaria
en el balcón.
Como aquél que dejó al amor en la secadora y cuando
recordó sacarlo no encontró más
que una peluza del tamaño de
Tales son las prioridades en la
Que pérdida de tiempo escribir
mis propias letras: mejor hubiese dado
click, en algún botón
miércoles, 9 de enero de 2013
The details of my life are quite inconsequential.... very well, where do I begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a 15-year-old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize; he would drink. He would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes, he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament... My childhood was typical: summers in Rangoon... luge lessons... In the spring, we'd make meat helmets... When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds—pretty standard really. At the age of 12, I received my first scribe. At the age of 14, a Zoroastrian named Wilma ritualistically shaved my testicles— there really is nothing like a shorn scrotum—it's quite breathtaking... I suggest you try it. It was at this point I realized my dream is to become the next Al Borland. I really enjoyed watching his majestic body glide across the set of tool time, as his rough, calloused hands worked the tools. How the azure sunset blended beautifully into the flannel vest-of-glory he so magically displayed. The essence of time, and the memories I reminisce remind me of the hours of self fellatio and the dreams I had of sharing a log cabin with a man of the wild. Cain Ducote