A voice in the Sun

Sisebut Mackyntach died.










Smoking he died
smoking an opaque white cylinder of paper and black tobacco: Parisiennes


his inert torso stayed rigid on the table of the kitchen, as he was preparing a sandwich: a pebete de salame y queso.


His wife, Volupta Cargill screamed out loud through her nostrils when she entered and saw the motionless body, petrified, pasmado, stiff like a gruyere from 1970.


Exequies were celebrated, in front of such macabre event, and the tenebricose light of Alcántara illumed the coffin, brown and lustrous like the forest of Calais.



A priest or sacerdote pronounced word, and the hexagonal box buried was, or rather than buried: it was slid through a polished tunnel excavated ad hoc.



And everything in the funereal act was sol, frío, faces with scarf, sunglasses:



while the last tip of the abnormal sarcophagus was entering that tunnel, pushed by 16 pale hands to slide on its last voyage into the telluric entrails, a disfigured voïce emanated from the abysmal casket

the casket

































- "Don't inter me yet, not yet... or better yet:

push me! Push me forward into the sepulchre!

Deeper, AA HA HAHA! Entomb me deeper!

Deeper! Oíslo?

Deeper!.. "































More profound!

More!..