San Andrés de Giles galloping over the World

Hey you, come closer... drink a sip of hydromel.

Recline, please your ear, like an embudo, and hear



CLOSER I SAID. 
I won't manducate you



that's ok, there: 

San Andrés de Giles's galloping over the World, his spurs are boiling, and he holds Catholic rainbow and a chalice full of lança-perfume do carnaval carioca, and vain things


like the oriflamme. 


San Andrés de Giles trumpeter locomotes emotioned on the narrow streets of Lanus Este over his pink percheron:

the solar sanforization illuminates him like an Opera Divo during a dramatic aria, while he crushes, spits and hurts Belzebub-Satan:

in the scene, Satanás is like a winged cockroach of summer under the pink horse of San Andrés de Giles, but the Malign is still over the nations [tempting them and leading them to his personal Hell, where Monster Magnet tapes sound, reverberating on övoid walls carpeted in black suede smelling like deodorant for car.]





At the end of his jour, in the evening, San Andrés de Giles rides toward the anti-nimbus of the Sun, which is in free fall pushed by the triumphant enthronement of nocte obducta:

the smell of the lança-perfume stays, it doesn't go away... for my eyes, it's all a nightmare, a nightmare, a night mare... pero esto... ¡¿ESTO QUÉ ES?!







from the frozen distance of the banned ones (us all forever), the midnight looks tubular and steely.