The Caliph of Calpe
April 28, 2003
The Persian pineapple of the Caliph of Calpe was Omar Khayyam terribly poor, samovar class, bus deiver with inflated pinapples.
The Ides of March are come. 'Aye, Caesar, but not gone.' A turd who left home and drove the bus like a matador, especially at dusk when he would say gracias, amigo before Firdowsi got off.
Plunging into the night it was not clear that he waited for Firdowsi wrecked in Calpe vanishing on windy nights for long walks by the sea. At this point the boos began to the tune of Come Ride with Me On the Bus with your Prince of pineapples Firdowsi.
A chance encounter in pursuit of a prick still on his feet after 12 rounds. He found his wife unbearable across the sea in Naishapur between the trees saying Goodby, Winter in her ragged coat. The door open for the goat.
Pinapples, ah-si .Huge and potent loomed in shadows on the beach in full, tremendous command. God bless the Spanish pinapple in the sand.
Displaying red Hilfiger - knitwear jumpsuit from the baazaar on Calle Espana, his madness merely played games with with Omar the poet, who was far away from Sumeria, far down the long wide path of roses where he had walked away from nowhere into vino de licor.
Pondering the minds of homicidal maniacs on the sun-soaked sand where
pinapples grew in the shape of snail shells rising up in drug-hipped paranoia
stoned by mescaline with two cracks on the head with a hammer shuffling
to close the gate at the Alhambra Palace.
A parable of a lobster drowning in black ink on Picasso's portrait five
feet tall wearing a tong decorated with an elephant trunk. YEEHA A Spanish
Grand Slam. One size fits all.
A salmon swimming round ripe pinapples in little Calpe of dreams.