The imaginary eternity of Dolores Hurt

Dolores Hurt was born in her house: a pit full of ashes and stew, populated by the dolls of her phantasmal mother, which first belonged to her phantasmal grandmother..

In some families of women, the dolls are inherited, like the shape of the hips.
But she never saw them with full eyes, just in reveries of noon.
The childhood of Dolores Hurt passed by, fast like the street of Wall Street.
It didn't pass by

A minimal broom and a maximal doll decorate the years; and she recites a well-known vignette that the insistence of the days has inculcated in her imaginary eternity, and the vignette reads:

«If this rain reaches this grotesque embalmed room
I'll limit myself to live, if this rain.
And if these violins never stop their sound?
And if this rancid water never learns to fly?
And if this imaginary-ary eternity 
of mine
this atrocious-ocious void never stops its sound
will my years be interminable in this fetid box?»

Then the splendent night arrives, swollen of humidity, and Dolores walks slowly toward the garden, to fumigate the osteoporotic eglantine rose, which is tall like an antenna, and it's parasitized by infested tubercles and tabanidae: a couple of Spanish dolls lead the tremulous steps of Dolores through the truncated patio

Manolo & Enana.

And they were married by Dolores one year ago, or always, in the imaginary eternity of Dolores Hurt.

  














"New morning"

As every day brings a new matinal dullness, the tip of every little thing appears in the world to salute the pass of Sol, blond and supercilious calefactor of our humble kiwi-planet:
Dolores Hurt combs the hair of a doll color tea
you don't say a word.
Then, all of a sudden, in the rage of 11:39 AM, at the hour when the knife-grinder passes by, Dolores screams and shouts at the benign God above, that unknown person who distributes fire and Matzah:

"Am I like others? Or not!
Answer me! What am I!"

And Dolores is indistinctly 8 or 20 or 40 years old in the Ouroboros of her days, she yearns either for an escape to the mundane continents of the World, or a return to the womb-ghost.

Like an angel expulsed from the Earth who never forgot the sweet taste of the terrestrial mud, Dolores combs the hair of her favorite doll, again: Pandura, and Pandura -oh abomination- just gave birth an infant of flesh from her plastic entrails.


















Tireless traveler of the tornado, Dolores Hurt will be incandescence over the tombs in the end, over you and over me, and over herself, and the sword of Jehovah will lead us toward her boxed dormitory, the imaginary eternity of...