Margarita Margaritón

Living alone, among walls that smell like prunella, Margarita Margaritón: Margarita of the spirits.

And the Heaven is a theatre turning over her house, a theater populated by wet voices and the tutelar ancestor dead

and Margarita fries chouriço in the sinister kitchen, and the house gets fulfilled with a greasy magic, and the spirits smell and suck that vaporous exuberance:

moving slowly her big hands, rectangular like small tables, Margarita calls them by their respective names, and they assist, congregating around her perfumed calves, like subordinate mascots or submissive bottom-dogs, like the inferior, and they are demiurges, the most wrinkled and odoriferous subdivision of the demons.

Unable to operate physical actions, the demiurge impregnate her ears with suspiria:

Margarita Margariton obtains a potent sexual arousal and caresses her mammae, that spread the fragrance of the fresh pear, inundating the antechambers with breezes that desensitize the white spider whose membranous paws palpitate at the blue and therapeutic light radiated by a cold-cathode fluorescent lamp.


Margarita is Giulietta Masina in 1964, and she is Roger Moore, too, and now her lips look like the lips of James Coburn at the Tropicana Club

and she is anybody, and she is the walls, and she is the air that inflates the interstices of the bricks with humidity in the brumous spring:

sometimes I would like to be absolutely abnormal inflated and hairless, to be a plate of gambas al ajillo for you to devour me and puke me on the sidewalk that just has been washed by a fat neighbor with curlers:


Margarira Margarirón -all of a sudden, like the chaparrón- she catches the infirm parrot that lies sleeping dismayed on the wooden mini-hammock of its cage, and puts the deformed bird in the scanner: Hewlett Packard

the poor and green mamarracho gets pressed by the machine and his scanned physiognomy appears in a paper, with the gesture of the moribund in its yellow eyes, with psittacosis and white-green miasma flowing plenteous from its nasal orifices

once the parrot is scanned alive, Marmamita Marmamitón throws it into the cage again, like a shabby and dilapidated pair of rolled socks:

Throwing a criminal stare at the agonizing plumiferous Margarita pushes "play" and her stereo cassette starts sounding with an AOR tune, and dances


dances Margarita Margaritón, dances

and the kitchen gets full of luz y color

and swirls in the air Margarita Margaritón, puisne, livid

swirls

and the cage with the dying parrot, and the spirits, and the chairs and the table and the fluorescent lamp, all tremble and shiver and shake, catatonic, enraptured, enervated

and you dance

and I dance

and he dances

and she dances and they dance
and vosotros danzáis, danzaríais, danzaréis, danzásteis y danzad, like monos

and from the chimney appears Pato Carret, and starts plucking a balalaika at prodigious speed

ggGHjHHFHDURIIDKjjJJJJJA&&&%$$·/JXJDII8(,€€TM@@DJ#@ººº\\\ªªªFHfgdgddtOouuhgfvcde%$)(?¿/&%$·"!qwtrtrtrtrtrttrtaaaaayyyyaaaaAAAAA!"$?&%%$$3@##~€€¬¬gjgAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA;



is in that exact moment when a