A telegram from the Earth

The Creator sat upon the throne, thinking

like a man.


Behind His argentine mane, the infinite continental mass of Heaven appeared, blue like the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, while the cosmic black glory of the Astra a-ascended gelid in stupor, extended from the zenith of His white hand, all perfumed in Johnson & Johnson.

And all things considered, three colossal Seraphim adore and adore at the pyramidal feet of God
three and immense, they are, like the selestial embouchure, and still not taller than the divine ankle-bone.



In the télévisuel centuries of His thoughts, the Deity perceived that the Death was a mistake, because, notwithstanding it was an admirable agent for the inflicting of misery, His divine reflex got blemished in the figure of the moribund

in the rotting flesh.


Finally He observed that man is a marvelous curiosity: when he is at his very, very best, he is a sort of nickel-plated angel

while at his worst he is a pathos, an infection



and after these disquisitions God went to sleep
and the cosmic black glory turned into azul Francia obscuro
and the tape of the cassettes ran a bit slower
and the salamanders hid themselves in their own flames.