Omar shared a caravan with a circus elephant-trainer sadly dreaming of Christmases

By Kristopher Kolumbus
December 24, 2002
The Iranian

! 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 shawl.

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:


Valencia-&%$·^*u Espana

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