Caballos de Plata

Horses of Silver, sweating dry in the morning of May
sweating dry at you

surrounded by grenadiers and these Thatcherite Amazons for the parade in the album-esque light of the solleyll, among the obfuscated mob that spits, and throws tomatoes, and screams, and is unfair:

the brute oozes and ebbs at the zoolar lyght
albino, iridescent, smiling almost, like a tall and white hyena

the wonam with boots like a Paraguayan commodore goes and tries to mount it:

"It's a Caballo de Plata" she says
"It's like riding an inundation of leche Pascual" she adds

and her eyes get round and goldened under the public illumination, like two coins of 2 Euro de Gaulle or Juan Carlos I.


The anemal, in seeing itself suddenly mounted by the Amazon's glutei, starts maddened race through the near timberlands, puzzling zones, unknown for the civilized, and apparently inhabited by the denaturalized Hombromono, and the sickening Lolarda, odious witchh who excretes caseous milkage through her teat, dripping in incessant abandon when the nights are galaxial:


all of a sudden, the equine blanc stops its running fury, to forage and eat some venomous champignons from the ground, on the verge of the vile trees:

the mushrooms, as they are pulled from their natural home, the Earth, by the yellow teeth of the tender horse, get erect, inflating their umbrella-shaped glandes, and ejaculating massive loads of cum in the mouth of the quadruped, to sweeten its manducation, in an enigmatic and last act of vegetal abnegation, dare one say, love.


In the nebula of the afternoon, Caballo de Plata chews and regurgitates with gluttony the delicious flesh of the champignons, sweetly mashed in its bucal cavity with the own semen of the plant, in orgasmal douceur of tongue:

"It's time to return to the human zoo, Caballo de Plata", the Amazon says, and Caballo de Plata obeys its master, who hurts the equid underbelly with amorous spurs of alpha nickel, making it bleed in a thin sanguine thread that runs on the white meat of the blond perissodactyl.




And once on the boardwalk, again, 11 minutes later, Horses of Silver sweat dry in the morning of May

and they sweat dry at you

and the soft and elevated equus caballus are surrounded by gendarmes and these brigadiers from all the Europes decorated with badges and medals and ribbons and embellished to the vomit with gimcrackeries and falderols and seals of approval and the Legion of Honor of the French Republic incrusted in their white gala uniform, heavy and pompous like an elephant, or the Sun, or a truckload of great bustards.


The obfuscated mob? Already is calmed, drugged by the insistent solar ray, and they are looking at you, fixed their pink eyeballs, inebriated of fanfare and official promenade, all their eyes on you, and what:








what are they thinking?






Thinking?





































In the rumpus of the minute, you're not there anymore

you got lost in the fervor of May, among the smoky dung of the percherons


patrician, austere, presidentialist, obelisk-esque.