Polanski & the ardour: return of the sado-leather shower for the summer

Holla Polanski! I am sending this e-mail to romanpolanski@hotmail.com to let you know something strange:

at the moment there are raining chairs and heroes while I am seated at my living room, puking for the horror, but I'll keep on writing:
in this moment I have everything plugged and screaming at the same time: radio, TV, computer, washing maschine, electric shaver, iPod, Walkman radiocassette, scanner, microwave, VHS tape player, dishwasher and the robot Moulinex replete of cucumbers

I just dreamed that you rented and sent me a car with chauffeur, a Fiat 133, so I hadn't to catch the bus, and invited me to to to to to your party: all the girls moved their arses away for the Al-Qaeda bombing-menace


the party hall was full of dirty gas and tall horses to fulfill your weirdo-mythologic aesthetics

Fuck you, all I ate was an orange and I'm about to drop the sponge

and this televisor that don't stop shooting terror movies on my retina, fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck you


after a scato-session including golden rain you and your alcoholised gangsters moved to the Rainbow to see The Rolling Stones acoustic jam cryogenized worldwide tour except Paraguay and Iran live loud alive 2.013
they introduced four dwarves and a raped fairy on stage, her limbs were moved from a helicopter with 4 ropes
you threw coins from the balcony: German Marks, Australes Argentinos? Lire, Sterling Pounds, Zloties, Pesetas, Francs and Uruguayan Nuevos Pesos: nothing of nothing

su-su
su-su
su-su
su-su... susuddenly! the minimal venue was invaded by yellow wolves from Krakovia: all they had your face, Polanski: the show was broadcasted by Radio Disorder, you didn't stop sucking grapes, reclined like a Roman proconsul, and to complete the agape you brought elephants and avutardas

the dodo bird, extinct, and the dancing cobras also were there


like a new Lord Byron you made your carriage be surrounded with tamed panthers and ocelots
the matrons of the city threw camellias and poison ivies at your march by the paving stones lanes, I remember, I could watch it via telekino


without sleeping, like a bucaneer at 4:25 AM, you arrived at the gates of the interrnational ayrport while a groupie sucked your cock, to fly toward Zululand for an Unicef conference, with the Pope and John Lennon, and two Indian guys that were all the flight eating rice pudding and drinking Brazilo-Argentine orangeade au sachet: "Naranjú" and the Naranjú tastes like SSHIT, SHIT SHIT SHIRT.

Like sucking an used shirt.


After la fête I realized that you sucked my brain

you are so full of shit.



Atentamente:

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