An Andalusian dog

A sharp cloud cuts a blue sky that's not mine
the dogs of White Street beg for water among the houses built of adobe

because the doors of delirium live under a blue sky
that is not mine

we gotta get out of this place
we gotta get out of this place
gotta get out of this place.

Said his mind
screaming.


The canine retina witnesses the obscene laughter from a distance,
her eyes laugh, horrible

the canine retina cuts her eyes with its blue sharpness
because once upon a tyme

she dies surrounded by her own blood, Elvira.

Elvira, the incomprehensible white and perfumed apparition of the Classic Mediterranean shores of the putrid donkeys, she dies.





The cloud walks over the dog, the dog witnesses everything

the petticoats of the solar Andalusian goddesses
the crimes of the men
the incest of the priests
the yellow piety of a bearded beggar seated on the rugose and thin sidewalk

in his hands, a piece of bread acquires wings...this is the land where Abbaddon scattered diamonds and metal on his path

this is the land where the dogs are wise
and the men are not

this is the land where Achilles genocidal transported his furry herd toward the Pyrenean snowflakes

that fall like pins and needles over the nervous grass of summer.


This is the land of the blööd and of the nothing.



ii)

The dog sees now that man without mouth that we know

from his navel millions of red ants emanate endlessly in boiling fury
from his eyes is reflected the House in New Orleans of The Animals' "House of the rising sun"
from his mind is reflected a hermetic vacuum because, as the trains taught us: c'est dangereux de se pencher au dehors.





Like a Marist Brother, the dog (that actually hasn't any color), observes with calm eyes this Elvira, that resurrected
she is the athlete from the ceilings of the south

she resurrects for spring

like the caterpillars of Aphrodite, goddess of black thoughts and daring lips.

Elvira, the harpy
Elvira, the gargoyle in the sky...my eyes are now the eyes of the dog
I am he, now

...as 100 Moroccan angels spit on my path, my whole life is tranced now in the canine existence of this poor little one, that roams by the thirsty suburbs of July.

I have seen many things in my dog's eyes

the misery and the violence of the hüman has filled my retina, because it fills every corner of the world

the idiocy, mediocrity and selfishness of theirs, too, I've seen also their fear...how to understand?

Those minds. Because

c'est dangereux de se pencher au dedans.