You carbonize me for the peccadillos of my flesh

... Those were the word exclaimed by two saint Templar burned at the stake, after adoring Bafometo -the repulsive idol- at a piazza in Toulouse:

"You carbonize me for the peccadillos of my flesh", the saint men repeat 

and they repeat in unison, almost like a litany or canon, vocal composition to be sung in canorous degradé

and they are burned with their lactal bodies buried in the tierra

and their mouths are full of the aureate preciousness of the lamé, regaled by winged purretes of the medieval angelology:




the flames grow like pollas as the mob surrounds the event, commenting word of evil and injustice against both roasted párrocos.

The excrementitious executioner who scorches the tremulous fleshes of the in-nocent, he wears pants color creme
and his pants or galligaskins smell like fart of gerontic person, and he doesn't know it.

"But we never adored Bafometo", they cry
"We adore the Dios of Usrael only", they add

and they add in unison, almost like a litany or canon, and doux thé exudes from their mouths of gold, as they get achicharrados by the fire unexpected

and only there is love in their eyes, and they opted for looking at the mob not, because the mob surrounds them with malice, and bad intention, and from their foul mouths only comes the scuttlebutt, the talk of the town, the inexact remark, the scandalous gossip.


"You carbonize me for the peccadillos of my flesh, débil", they reiterate

and a holy fleur-de-lis gets formed -loca- on their heads, like the nimbuses of the bonhomous Popes

or the Antipopes who were humble

and the impossible aureole is like a nave nodriza or flying saucer that crowns their blondness

and the mob comments more, with insidiousness now, without deference

and the disingenuous word of their aquiline mouths hurt the chest of the santísimos Templarios

and turn those chests into aliment, sweetest cheese, sánguche, viandada Swift


and as the Templars' spirits ascend in swirling vorágine to the scabrous Cielo of the evening, whiter than a Methodist

and as in their elevation they keep on repeating "You carbonize me for the peccadillos of my flesh, débil"

and as their bodies stay dead at the stake, more incinerated than Calamuchita

the falsary mob and the culpable manslayer, all jump on those nutritious chests, and devour dulce queso, sánguche, viandada Swift

and the delicious cebolla


and the nutritious aliment from the holy dead chests drives them so insane, and makes them see in demented miroir all their iniquity and vapid reprehensibility so much, that they cry. And cease to exist.




Raphael incessant, arcangelo guardiano, un-visible, he sweeps the corpses toward the cloaca with the avian feather of his wing, taxonomically related to the condor and the falconet, as his verdigris retina exonerates the intestines of the sky with amorous emissions of mental Cirulaxia, letting the black ray of Apollyon shine:


From the night of Heaven, moonlight miles above, Adam & Eve, caged, observe the renewed joy on Earth, their lost home.




































From the second night of Heaven, moonlight miles above the first night, the Templars, caged, observe Adam & Eve...