The lizards of Dieppe

An iconoclast ode

Walking orondly through discarded plastic boottles and the shit of today, them: the lizards of Dieppe, they sing and croach, in vocables that I inunderstand.


This un-regular equation leads me to an unfathomable conclusion: the lizards of Dieppe are as wise as any human


also they are as wise as the Provost of Chantilly, which is not a little thing to say.




In the halcyon days of the Summer, when the afternoons fall acquiescently, like the sleep of the matrons of Calais fall into morbid, if not erotic dreams alla italiana, the lisards are in heat, like Benjamin Disraeli when visited Lady Aryana Conchisumarr, Duchess of Conchley, whom received the nickname of Her Royal Hotness by the whole English army.

The lizards come and the lizards go, with slow pace, and they travel long distances, like beduins, to lay their hairy eggs on the cliffs of Cherbourg (city of sweet cheeses and umbrellas), and all this sordid scene happens under the protecktive stare of the Sun, black king of all the reptiles and of old Spanish men.

Their diapsid skulls shine and shine under Apollyon Invictus (evil name given to the Sol in the Greek Saturnalias)

and besides -dear reader, my assassin- their un-expressive eyes float adrift in an ocean of lachryma and mucus, and they look at us with that glassy stare, stare that says nothing, though the lizards of Dieppe know almost much, but they don't know that they know: this is the reason of a paradox and the paradox of an obstacle: if they actually knew that they know almost much, they could actually talk, using the human word (that bastard, that cheater, that perfidious).

In fact, the lizards of Dieppe own an immense cerebral potential, which actually would allow them to build nuclear weapons, bake cakes, and more, but they don't know it, reason why their lives stay submersed into a humble or inambitious, if not decidedly irrational existence.
More or less like the Provost of Chantilly

but without suffering for the awareness of such impotence (oh torture of the inferior human, and his cruel knowledge about his own un-ability to know!)



At the firsts of Setember (sic), the lizards of Dieppe start returning from Cherbourg, some of them travel with joy adhered to the buses or to the eventual Renault or Fiat Gordini that passes by the national roads

the annual cycle is half completed, because as Setember and Ochober (sic) advance, the days go shortening their duration, and the light of the day becomes more oblique.


Us, naturalists know -due to our scientific studies-, that the lizards are highly lascive creachures, betes chaudes, bestias rijosas y calenturientas, and they like to harass -especially- the girls of the near zones, from Cherbourg to Calais, and even beyond, especially those nymphs that wear elaborately embroidered petticoat, and many sexual attacks have been reported:

the lizzard usually crawls to the victim (who is innocently and graciously sleeping in the forest, due to the heat of the day), and penetrates her under her lacey petticoat, ejecting his greenish sperm into the twat (literally), and escaping after the act, on through the thick foliage.

The last straw was reached during the days of Giscard D'estaign, when vicious rumours started circulating about a huge and biped lizard with human appearance, who raped adolescent (and not so adolescent) girls in the intricate and exuberant boscages of Alsatia, Normandey and Basqonia (sic)

also some mature lady was attacked, say, hardboiled matrons whose physical heyday passed long ago.

Even the wife of D'estaign was attacked, and almost raped by a frenzied man-lizard, or lizard-man, during the presidential vacations in Cap Gris Nez (place chosen to enjoy the fresh air and the abrupt beaches, in which the first lady used to swim wearing a suggestive mokini).

Sweet lady of Calais, and even of Dieppe: take care when you penetrate into the boscages, because no body knows what could be expecting therein for your elaborately embroidered lace.

Finally, the winter arrives in Dieppe, and with it, the pax (sic), that peacuful breeze brought by the breeze (?) from the British Isles, terrifying islands where is winter all the year round, home of the Hyperboreans, the giant men of ice, a place where anybody who enters, is mutilated and devoured by harpies and vampiros.

January has, at last, arrived in the risible shores of Dieppe and Calais, the lizards apelotonan themselves, they get piled one over the other in compact and grumous block, to obtain the needed warmth that their bodies provide, sleeping with open mouths under the pale sun, like Picasso in Biarritz.

Later, in the imminent rainfall of the evening of La Manche, they will suck the drops of water, accumulated on the soft leaves by the nature and the parallelepiped shape of the Ëärth.




This announces that completed the cycle of life is

to start over again

and again

and again

and yet again














and again yet.








Yet

yet

Yet.