Putrefactive heptameron Nº 4

"The virgin of Biarritz and the visitors"

The old-wise man of the village tells the woman, under skies of escalope:
"Clovis, my Gold, tired of sleeping on sofas you are.
Clovis, woman, be a man, like the Heavensent homo at your back
woman be a man a woman a man, Oh Clovis."

And then he accommodates his butt on the improvised throne in the middle of town, with the majesty of a fat wasp, and for the life of me: did the beard and hairs of the venerable old mentor turn from white in-to brown habanito?

Two minutes later, at the estival sweetness of this noon, the tunic of the angelical functionary shifts, from celeste to verde:

Clovis is now escorted by Diablo, Signor of the Urbanizations, and the skin of Diablo looks like the uniform of a marine in Iraq:

"Tell me Clovis, wasn't I a good father, a nutritious mother for you?"

Diablo whispers in her ear... and leaves the scene, flying, dramatic, actor, falsario.

In that very second, all the good people run away from the rain coming from Cherbourg. Wet their loins, impermeable their cutises: all the umbrellas were banned by presidentialist decree

piel de Diablo
jamón del Diablo
piel humana.


That very evening Biarritz organized a feast, communal, democratic, scientific and Socialist: the Choir of Castanets from Barcelona offered a concertino at the municipal library or paraninfo for your virgin of Biarritz, Clovis, in her ascension to la galaxia más próxima a la Tierra.

And still the carts transporting the rustics kept arriving in town, when she was seen apotheosized, elevated like a cosmic Claudia Schiffer in-to the violet aaperture:

defeated, Diablo and his cohorts danced in flotation, full of hysterias or I don't know what.