Unfinished, she removed her halter top as he drove from Valencia to Calpe in various shades of white and chrome in the mirror perculiar gadgets and erections all the way from California and the Golden Gate Bridge, raining, lost in time, touching her in rhyme.
Time was not linear the passage simultaneous along time's arc, the urge to merge and crash the car.
Carlos (name changed in Spain) came from Romania land of Transylvania and Dracula sucking blood in the cinema. Entering seminal cult fiction smashed Spanish muses no past, no future, just NOW.
Struggling with himself astonishing erections of serial returns to the same point with each new beginning having a possible new ending in her ass, a distraction obscured by clouds of say yes fast.
He was aware of a world outside his world the baffled Romanian of much misfortune.
He worked as every immagrant did in Calpe in construction.
At Poco Loco he met Carmen only fifty-two in a backdrop of racial tensions, Spanish and Romanian. No names, prepared to make whatever compromise was needed.
Francisco had long gone leaving Carmen alone and vunerable when the outside world kept invading her pubic hairs when the question of race became irrelevant.
He is what he is – a good, sincere Dracula, El Count, with incomparable penis deep-rooted in revolution, assassinatiom and riot.
They moved in together on Pintor Sorolla, a little white balcony for mommy's boy with an AIWE stereo.
He made love to 10,000 women among them Cher and Lucinda Williams whose mother knocked on the door and asked if she could join them.
Passing swiftly over nights in Transylvania and lonely years as a Spanish Immagrant, lost in the world of Bingo, cartoons anf TV he used what HE HAD TO RISE TO THE WHITE BALCONY.