Excerpt:
Surrealist Tale: My Tropical Journey to Behold Picasso’s Bust
Cubist Tale
A strange journey yet it reminds me that when I was born among coconut palms maize hurricanes and floods the extreme cyclopes—once subdued by a foreign wisdom and turned into dwarf cannibalistic aluxes—began devouring one another the moment they were freed five centuries after the landing of those golden-armored gods who floating on sticks sails crosses and trinkets brought with them the holy water with which a little priest baptized me his eyes all scrambled his skull like a bald kite long-nosed his black-whitish wings surfing while tied to an anchor an apse a barber’s razor engraved with Picasso’s name and sharpened like a quixotic picador’s lance—on which Salvador Dalí hangs his infamous mustaches upside down stretching beyond all perspective his wide mouth bubbling as he shouts: “Cosmogony! Cosmogony! Do you know what cosmogony is? Avida Dollars! Avida Dollars! Sex god dominance my dog! And what is art to you? The stump of my blue balls! Who is this child eating people’s faces? Off with you boy!” And he abandons me on the viscous breasts of my mother her cinnamon skin mounted a thousand times by ignorance and fear her breath strong as a Cadejo the spectral coo of a wailing Llorona: “Another one for your grandmother’s daycare I’m sorry I’m such an idiot I understand nothing oh oh my children…” She watches me slip from her arms pushing through rushes runnels pine trees wild brush swirling alleys dust trash sunken purple beasts all while the screams of men women and youngsters—sitting on a curb with their skulls blown open brain matter spilled—echo beside a lonely sign piled with cat skeletons: *“For every one the Cartel kills at least ten will be blown apart as a reminder.”*I keep running dodging an army of ragged clumsy dead who drinking greedily from their own gastric juices tear off their arms and legs: “Tastes good right buddy? Corruption is my pleasure. Here—take my ballot and my support General Mister Engineer—please when you sit on the Throne conspire against our interests drive it in hard without mercy leave none of us alive because we deserve exactly what we get.” And there I am—suspended in a mesh of space-time like a gramophone with a giant horn into which I leap, seized as though grabbing a bull by the horns—transformed into the bottom of a goblet like a giant hand swimming beneath empty oceans cresting waves of light between mountains scourged by hunters who kill without hunger: unibrowed faces with puppet eyes deer-horn shards surrounded by pyromaniacs who for a crop of dollars burn down cities and blame the residents: “It’s the others’ fault—can’t you see? There’s too much regulation now they won’t let us poison people as God intended won’t let us dry the river and that breaks the Virgin’s heart because she’s never taken out for a walk. Yes yes it’s all these lazy ones’ fault. Yes yes these foreigners’ fault. Yes yes the fault of these welfare parasites—you give them neither bread nor wine especially if they’re children or elders. Freedom! Freedom! Oh my Holy Homeland!”
And beyond the empty oceans and their dancing fireflies a great white vulture grabs me and flings me into a town full of nests...
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–Continue reading in its original Castilian language at https://fictograma.com/ , an open source Spanish community of writers–