Conchetta of the Seas, Conchetta of the Conchs

The eyes of nobody see her opening the oily door in the repeated mornings

neptunial goddess and despot of her Ultra-Peripheral Region of the European Union, mortal, bipolar Conchetta of the Conchs
and the digitally enhanced platform on which she lives salutes her good morning:

-"Good morning, Conchetta! Conchetta of the Seas!"

And she lives her little happiness in her fake Saint-Pierre-et-Miquelon
just a gilded isle all sowed in conchas, infected by the rurality, the glorious contraction of sphincters and the hyper-orgasmo.


Later, one day... any day, you wonder:

"How may she exist?"

And open your oily door in the repeated morning
and a notice appears written in your sky:

"Everything will return to your life in the same form till the end."

And you dismiss it, and you ignore it, and it doesn't exist, and it's there.



Discoverer and colonizer of her own Collectivité d'outre-mer, Conchetta of the Seas explores again the 0,5 km2 of her minimal isle-catwalk, as she does everyday

"Maybe a new mushroom was born on one of the 4 trees of the island" -she says to herself. 
And penetrates more into her microscopic Amazonas, exuberant in petroleum and sorgo.

The evening catches Conchetta in the middle of her expedition, as the owls begin to emit gargarisms from the counted branches of the 4 árboles.

"Time to return back home" -she mumbles, preoccupied.
And her Adidas gyrate suddenly on the leafy ground, as she starts walking in the opposite direction, with martial pace and swaying glutei.

29 minutes later, after Conchetta arrives to her small conch-house, she takes a long-hot shower, making the penis-like soap penetrate her vagina repeatedly.
Her masturbation is accompanied by a cerebral instant message sent by her lost lover into her brain:

"I'm lonely, I need your cunt. I'm lonely, I need your cunt."

Unimpressed, Conchetta logs out of her mental Yahoo Mail, and closing the faucet, walks to the ovoid kitchen to prepare thick potage of wild lentils, while her naked body drips drops of Lux Elizabeth Taylor, which are received with fruition by the open mouth of the living floor. 

Because the small conch-house it's a tepid animal, a pet-building full of erotomania and wet rumours
a mascot-edifice that Conchetta fed with the juice of her genitalia since birth, Conchetta of the Vaginas.



Someone told me -in the demolished night- that the world turns emaciated and ecstatic at her feet
like a voluntary and secret slave, erect in the lubricated ardor of his adoration
maddened in the delight of the stretched boneless muscle.


Conchetta dismisses it, she ignores it, and it doesn't exist, and it's there.
Conchetta of the Seas, Conchetta of the Con...


... conchas.