This is the Man of Ice

This is the Man of Ice, just arrived from Plutoon or Mick Mars, with a tubular headd on his kold sheulders, driving a Chevron 1975, like Cacho Castaña in Remedios de Escalada, and the blueness and yellowness of his skin all over the place and all over his tendons and muscular net, kolder than a fridge General Electric 1960

-and he's just got a reason to be: ignoring us.

This is just the Man of Ice, fallen being and fallen among the mankind, snaping his fingers he came one afternoon of Lanus, cracking and crucking and crecking his gelid bones, with his portable refrigerador at hand, like a Japanese tourrist

and he discovered one thing: that we were kolder than him.


Man of giant moments, the Man of Ice simply arrives at the soccer stadium and sits his icy culo on a tribuna to watch River Plate vs. Boca Juniors: 0-0:
35 minutos del segundo tiempo.

Meanwhile, he sucks a Catalan ice cream, that keeps his bodily temperaturre balanced
the ice cream is made with cum and potato, because this is the Man of Ice, and he is immune to all the syndromes of the human kind, and his tongue is made of CARBON Y ACERO.

The stalactites and stalagmites drip from his axilla and we are January of the last day: Cameo, totem or interstellar god, he is feared by the populations of the man as he advances with his box-like and immense feet of ice on the sidewalks of our cities, because.... this is the Man of Ice, and just arrived from Aragon, with a tubular helmet in his arse, and he is product of a long chain of events.


Like a hero from a manga or anime, or even hentai, this is the Man of Ice:
a long smell announces him as he is coming in our direction, we see him coming like a monument of mud shuffling on the corner like an obelisk of mud like a monument of mud:

the sea falls behind him, and the sky of the dead daughters rains paravaginitis: this is the Man of Ice, just arrived from Bonkers or Yonkers, snaping his fingers one day he appeared in the society of man, just fallen from Ronova LL-4, distant planetoyd that imploded by means of gaseosa..... and he doesn't have human voice, no, just a modulator designed by MORODER, as if as if as if as if he was a superstar of Disco Music that dedicates his time to dance on skates and fuck the honeyed slit of Cher in 1979.

And because he's so different nobody loves him
as if as if as if as if as if he was an authentic mofeta, is this plausible?

This is the Man of Ice, surfing the cosmos like an alienígena one day he was catapulted on the Earthf, and he's like a divo, a new Pope: cuz this is the Man of Ice, and he'll never get defrosted or melt-ed, in fact, he just came to endeavor one mission: ignoring us.

This is the Man of Ice, kolder than a refrigerator Saccol 1970.

6 hours away in the dreamworld

As the objects of the deep sky turn blue and blue for Jeannice, 6 hours away in the dreamworld, she stands up and her soft feet advance to the door:
almost everything is silent
a hand.

As I hear a door getting opened and closed almost at the same time, the sopor from my sleep wakes up to the night escaping, I suppose I am just 6 hours away in the dreamworld:
the room is a black and enlarged rectangle, as you can see.


Ghosts from a past try to scream over my body, that's stretched on the bed, they pass flying 6 hours away in the dreamworld, they're not allowed to touch me:
the profundity of the room re-acquires its gray depth
I fall again, my balls get the sweet contraction, my erect cock shoots its milk, the naked head gets bathed and shiny.


«6 hours away in the dreamworld, it's me waiting for you... »

—she said—

«6 hours away in the realworld, where my body yearns for yours, needing to be fucked and loved, when my room turns to blue.... just 6 hours away, through this wall of cellophane, in the depp of my night.. just fucked and loved by you, a necessity... over and over again.. feeling my wet vagina so full with your hot and wet flesh.... six hours away in the real world... » 



«Just simple, irrational and hot, simpler than life.»







..... simple....


















«Please don't hurt me»

 —he said—

 «.. because I'm weak... »










«No, I won't...... I won't hurt you. 
I won't hurt you.

I'll never, ever hurt you.»

 —she repeated—



6 hours away 

in the world.

The Long Island sounds

 
 "A story, two cities."









Mark walks down the November streets with a bottle of liqueur semi-wrapped in a paper bag.
The rain makes the paper get stuck to his hand; the rocambolesque grocerie shop's employee sees him passing by, slowly, behind a pile of cheeses:
the illumination is exactly as you imagine it... do you know this color, pastel?
 


Tuesday. 
 
The yellowal colors of NYC in the cold months are reflected on his encapsulated leather jacket... only a loser, the crap of the society could wear such jeans: the black canvas sneakers get more than humid along the dirty but wet sidewalks that Mark walks every day.
It's a prodigy the fact that Mark obtained the unemployment benefit, but prodigies happen: 

one of the prettiest cities, specially for someone who only can have peace of mind among the chaos, the neurasthenia and the menace, like Mark.

Or me.


Because... the most wonderful things of the city of my past life are its tall buildings, its cellars, its stairs; subterranean galleries and sex shops.
 
Chains, electric blue neons and its twilights: grey that sinks its light into a heavy blackness. The robot heart of the city when it's screaming... without light.
 
And for the unexpected.
 


Sunday. 
 
Do you know what is like to be devoured by the pain slowly?
By this indistinct feeling that your life it's a meaningless, useless... nothing.


"You're an idiot and a loser, if you want to get your share of blood in this jungle of vampires you have to cut your own jugular
so do it, do it now! Now..!"

The TV shows are so depressing... the food is like a raw dough of wheat, water and salt... it's raining and mom sleeps, but not deeply enough to steal her pills.
It's Sunday. 11 pm.


For God knows I'd like to die tonight.


















Friday. 
 
If you weren't born and didn't live all of your life in a big city, you don't know.
You don't know what is like to live in
in.
To fall, falling asleep under those lights that never. End.


Falling asleep with the shining ocean of cars and crowds under the sun all day.
The shining in your retinas, yet. 
Since you're born; yet, yet, always... never


always
never
always.


You had to born there to know. There to know there to know there to know... me.
 


A sunny day: veteran / neurosis of war.
 
The Buenos Aires streets are long, I can't live without my city: she's my chains and my liberty, because her streets never end: you're free only where the streets never end.
That's the only reason why:  the immense city knows her sons, and protects them under her immense wings. 
 
Oh yes, like a huge, perverted and cold heart, she protects them without asking a question.




Back in the day, when my tendons, bones and muscles slid through the lubricated streets of the spider city that was my home, back in the day.





Back in the night, she protected me without caresses
immunized my eyes from the nocternal terror
and lulled my forehead amorously to sleep. Away




but... same as NYC did to Mark, she never immunized me from the absent love

from this invisible knife that lingers on, profound, lacerating.




 




Now, in the still of the night, I have a question for you.

Sudden apparition of this double-slitted Marilyn

It took place in Jet City, this anomalous resurrecktion it took place in Jet City, it was seen under the solar scandal, among the obelissks:

all the laser-shots and laser-spots and laser-slots and laser-slits and laser-clits pointing at her her double prodigy, and she masturbating in front of the TV cameras, because it took place in Jet City, under the solar scandal.

After her double horgasm, Double-slitted Marilyn saluted holding a diminutive handkerchief in her hand:

half-woman / half-mollusk from outter space, all the city cocks pointed at her thighs, and ejaculated long shots of milk, whitey-transparent rivers of delight that slid and dripped down her hips

and her immaculate-white dress was all stained in cum, in front of the TV cameras, and all this took place in Jet City, under the solar scandal


from my bed, I woke up in a brusque spasm, something touched my temples, I was all soaked in sweat and an immodest erection reigned supreme in my pubis... something touched my temples, and it wasn't the Marilyn-mollusk, just..... another female evanescence, someone, like a touch and a sight both consumed in a same couple of seconds, like a fire, a deep fever from the most profound abysses of a feminine ardency.... someone....

I stayed sitting on my bed, with the palms of my hands on the matress and my naked legs stretched, with the lasting erection still dividing them in two.

A fat drop of cum crowned the hole of my palpitating cock, like a little pearl, because it was the morning, and out there, the city was shining under the solar scandal.

Picture of the week

Polaroid showing the line-up of the AOR/cock rock/pomp metal band "Asymmetry", formed by the Elefante brothers (L to R) Culo, D'artagnan, Stephen, Chad and Doris Elefante. They had a hit-singel entitled "Asymmetry" in 1985, and then disappeared brusquely to never resurface AGAIN.

Til the present day the fate of Asymmetry still is a real puzzle, dare one say an intríngulis, because the Elefante brothers never were seen by their neighbors or their own family again, either.

Some state that they were suddenly SUCKED (sopapa effect) by a terribly mischievous flying saucer that passed -precisely- flying over their town (Jomes Coburn Junction, Nebraska).

Others just say that they were fulminated and carbonized by this same ultramodern and callous alien spacecraft by means of powerful cumshot of liquid nitrogen.

Their sister, Ron Elefante, she declared that 

"My brothers died because of too much rock 'n roll, the excesses of the rock 'n roll killed 'em, too much drug, too much concha, fast cars, alchool..... in fact the rock 'n roll killed my whole family, since my parents died mercilessly crushed during a concert of George Thorogood & the Destroyers some years ago, I is the only survivors of the family."


A sad testimony indeed, by this woman, Ron Elefante, who now lives alone in the house of Jomes Coburn Junction haunted by familiar ghosts and nocternal TERROR, indulging in 19 litres of milkshake a day to calm her nerves.




Associated Press.