La Lluvia en San Cristóbal

Amidst the cacophony of humanity as a project, repaving the crumbling highways of intersecting historical trajectories. Launching arc of vomit, hold my hair back, launching arc of semen hold my hair back. Tryptophan my turkey. Feast on flesh - as per usual, back to the business circuses, whorehouses, butcheries, clubs. The only thing our victims (our parents) ever gave us of value was participation in blood. Tentacle bodies shaping temple-shrine-brine-shrimp labyrinths, speaking in tongues in shades of sepia and sanguine winding down around underground tombs. Sooner or later, we'll have to meet again in such places. Skeletal waitresses, serving us coffee and fishbone sammiches. Assorted teas and a zombie stomp band will rekindle forgotten loves buried in compost piles of hair, teeth, and leaves when the sun shines down on the heaped bed of clouds you're naked on. I wondered how to pull you down from there, but said fuck it, and tied a bunch of balloons to a Brazilian lawn chair. I don't think I'll be missed either by the CIA or lawn gnomes. But blow hard on your broken rape whistle and a look-alike savior may come to your rescue, take you up in her wings and fly you to the secret burnt out warehouse in the sky. Voy a juntarte allí con mas fuerza que la lluvia en San Cristóbal.

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