Diocletiana and the cities

How many times I told you that marches Diocletiana, city to city, trotting world, curiositing..? Why you make me repeat everything?

A-and walls and bridges will be her scenographic background, in Gerona, Armagnac maybe, perhaps González Catán*.

I repeat you that marches Diocletiana, marches, strolling minicipilities, insidiousing... and did any-body count the snails on her palms? In Tuset, Plantagenet maybe, perhaps Troquel.



Her nucha? Estrellas

Her eye? Violetazo

Her calves? Camber

Her udders? Bebestible

and small quantities of youghourth drip merrily from her chin toward the mundanal stratosphere, splashing a bit the fabric of her pull-over: braemar, poplin and rayon.

The gargantuan voices of the watery street call out her name, echoing in 100.000 alcántaras:

"Diocletiana! Diocletiana! Diocletiana!"


 -No

her march just cannot be interrupted anymore, and as she enters a new city, the trains depart in a hurry of traca-traca's from the respective estaciones, toward Normandy, Ragovoy maybe, perhaps Otero.

During her inter-urban trajects, Diocletiana treads on the insulting fertility of the camps of viniculture, and as every new village appears in front of her eyes, like the worst Manga or Anime from the 1960s, the horror-struck cranes escape in plumbean flight, with their pink legs longer than vaulting poles:

Under the denim skirt, the frou-frou produced by the chafe of her massive thighs, arouse the oily vaginal tenebres, sinking the pixelated ceiling of Haeven into a tomb of hot mutism:

all the men of the locations love her and wanna fuck her and wank as she passes by, infatuated by her imperfect apples


epileptic at the St. Vitus Dance Diocletiana espabila her hips to The Troggs, Herman's Hermits & Los Tremeloes like a megatherium exposed to the insupportable blizzards of Winifreda, La Pampa (province) in the middle of July of 9.000 years ago.


Like the cruel oligocene beast that she is, Diocletiana is studied by the paleontologist, and tamed by the whip or vice-versa:

and marches Diocletiana, marches, station to station, peeping world, herbivore... suddenly, a pouring rain of encyclopedias Sopena starts falling on her head, and all this happens synchronized to this moment of 2,014, 2,022 maybe, perhaps 2,059.


















































*Note- It's here when -with a dulcet interpretation emanating from the semi-closed lips of Perry Como a-comin' in the air- we, and Diocletiana, begin our floating experience, levitating over Jupiter Inlet Colony, Florida, United States of North America, planet Earth, Solar System, Milky Way, Universe

and as our nates get heated in the natural, sub-tropical and delicate oven of the noon, the sex-changed figure of Ricardo Montalban appears in the horizon, making a strong contrast between his white suite of linen and the lunacy of the blue firmament, replete of sun; and the day is any day, because we realized we were immortal, and it was 1st of January of 2,059, and we were dead:

undead.


Dead... ly alive, and with guns.



The space-age pop music gets dissolved in the conchosphere, and leaves us alone

Diocletiana walked with stretched legs of paper toward her own eternity -imaginary or not, and leaves the place along with Montalban, Ricardo, insulting us

her feet are sliced washed potatoes, turning like wheels:

here our adventure commences, because we imagined our own lives larger than Vatican Basilicas.