The white balcony
Francisco
had long gone leaving Carmen alone and vunerable
October 28, 2003
The Iranian
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.
Stoned.
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.
Totally marvelous.
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.
He might suck but his penis rules.
"OUCH!"
CALPE - ?&%$"!ø - ESPANA
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