Chaparral

"No, gracias, prefiero comer estiércol."
(Jack Palance)



The Maltharis take the buffalas out to walk among the lions and the dung.

The trees and the tall grass are yellow for la seca while Africa, mother continent with udders of coagulated milk, is dreaming a dream of pajas bravas.

The excessive heat makes a tree burn like a tall cigarette among the yellow mist that deforms the plain a little bit, italianizing it.

The savannah saturated with rude smells beholds the stone aged pass of the ungulates toward Laputa, city and capital of the tribal district:

on the streets without pavement, orange tents are erected, to sell English cheese and vaginas of gnu (ñu), immense blue quadruped whose vulvas are used to prepare pie and a grumose soup that vigorizes the veins of the cock of the aboriginals.


Is just afterwards, when the twilight hurts the eye, that the blood of wildebeast, clustered in grains and tortured in liquefaction, is served as tea at the confiterías of Laputa, often visited by Swiss or Japanese moguls.