YAAH ! ... AAH! AAHHFALALALALA !
Omar shared a caravan with a circus elephant-trainer sadly dreaming of Christmases
December 24, 2002
! FELIZ NAVIDAD ! You are cordially invited to the wedding of Omar Khayyam to
Kristopher Kolumbus on 25 December 2002 in Valencia, Espana on the balcony of number
9, Gran Via del Marques del Turia.
I did lie to him laying on the couch drinking Rioja, Faustino De Autor, 1995 reciting
poetry often in tanka, unrhymed quintuplets memorized in the vino queue.
Omar was nude with a young girl reading Maxim and Fyodor when I came in. Zen Buddism
had interrupted his train of thought talking about gonorrhoea when he was a boy in
Nishapur, a demographic sizzling hot roast he left unspoken, intimate in a rusty
bath. His willy. Can I call you back?
Casa Boga on Plaza Alfonso el Magnanimo, 11, was filled with white rose petals covering
Alfonso and his horse, menage a trois, with Omar on his lap in a velvet smoking jacket.
Introduced into evidence was a racy diary in which Omar had listed the qualities
of a number of lovers who appeared with the regularity of hot dinners. We sniffed
glue and shared a taste for the color mauve, Beethoven's late quartets and chicken-in-a-basket
from the Mercado de Colon.
He threw me on his unmade bed and we tussled as his LIVE FROM VALENCIA grotesque
jumped hurdles finally made it into Spanish. He was an old fart but his poetry showed
he had also been a young fart, a reminder of the tunnel of love and a blue Spanish
Only in Valencia on the Puente del Mar 'twas the night before Christmas we stole
into the Plaza de La Toros collecting the blood of sacrificed bulls but it proved
unnecessary after Hiroshima and Nagasaki; it was a double edged sword.
Yanking on his red silk tie Omar shared a caravan with a circus elephant-trainer
sadly dreaming of Christmases "just like the ones we used to know", with
a stainless steel spade to apportion the elephant-shit from the day's performance.
Tortured by the Queen of Spades eating churros and drinking tea out of a saucer,
two empty takeaways, red raspberries, a few herbs still cloaked in mystery, still
sitting on the curb.
Naughty, impetuous, pale narcissus Khayyam in an invisable mist among the winter
orange trees raped Don Jose singing the Flower Song sailing into El Dorado with old
gold to Valencia.
Queen as Cynthia, the moon goddess controlled the tides and red lobsters enthused
by exquisite soft passages on silver cyclamen climaxed.
In the middle of the night we were married under the orange trees. Notes of the fairy's
kiss drifted in.
With a can of spray paint we daubed the penis of Neptune in the Plaza de La Virgen
in big red letters:
CARMEN DID IT
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