Afternoons at the dormitory of the angela

Didn't you ever wonder in your dreams of 100.008 timezones why the four penitents are disseminated on their knees around the hugeness of said platform?

The plumbean catafalque bears the weight of the angela, and on her feet she sleeps at the deformity of the day

the ashamed women elevate blackened prayers like blinded ñandues, why? 

The angela doesn't hear.

Submersed in her own superego she doesn't hear
submersed my she-angel, she doesn't hear

because she is submersed in a sea of crows, and she d-doesn't hear.


Sister of the male angels, this angela without a name smiles in dreams, sleeping at the freshness of the ventilators that desmelenan her hairs like Raquel Welch in "One Million Years B.C."

down, at her feet, the four juments catholiques continue with their tragic supplicancy flowing in paravaginitis

and the angela is the only connection and pontifexess between the homo sapiens and that Heaven absent that fooled Descartes

and the angela offers her mind to the pagan honeys of Morpheus shameless, distant from l'Église, swimming in hedonism... distant... 

and the angela
crazy heart, lunática endemoniada, blonda beldad, agua tónica, princess of California, yegua biónica
doesn't she travel intoxicated toward the nocturnal vertigo of the radars?


As the evening enters, fucking la tarde with her amoral penis, the four saint women abandon the alcove of the angela, disconsolate in front of her delicious despise horripilant: 

later, they will go to flagellate their backs and pull their toenails like St. Francis of Assisi in ecstasy.





The room stays godforsaken and cubist, more enormous than the kilometrage of Patagonia in January: the unreceptive winged female wakes up, green her eyes, pure L'Oréal, forever vertical she, like a supermodel on the catwalk, this angela of mine without a name, this Aphrodite of chastity, divine, aerolite and untouchable.