THE VIXEN WALKS TO CRICKETS

AND THE PRIESTS TO THE KIDS’ EGGS

The horde of farmers, ranchers and hunters

Are  called  as tradition of the past kaffirs and cannibals

Marching in a demonstration in Madrid, Spain

In defense, as they sing, from the rural environment.

What a deception! What a lie! What a great fallacy!

Clothed by the geese of the parties

That go out to the path of that place and another place

for killing the boar or the wolf, and thus get votes

Bring to my memory what they taught us under a canopy:

“That the hunting and bullfighting are peace and money

For the whole year”.

What a pity that fields are being rented to kill

And sand circles to kill bulls.

And they say, with the big mouth of Gullible Balls

That defend the rural environment, and things to kill

Because these are goods of profit

For certain damage of the cattle.

Poor Mother Earth! Poor living beings, and species!

How would I like to dip into a bag of green almonds

As it was done in Andalusia, the high and low

In both Castilles and in all its peripheries

Taking out the green almonds one by one

Throwing them at the head

So that all those idiots and drunkards

Who believe everything

As they say John Templado did

That gentleman went in his bag for blocks and pens

And for all the towns and villages of the Iberian Peninsula.

How I would like to go back to what really sticks

In defense and love of Mother Earth

Her species and animals.

I remember what an old woman told me

In the market of Barley

Where she sold fresh eggs; who was very hurt

By the poorly-managed farmers

Who took advantage of the hunt

And  threw their money on the floor of the bullring:

– Son, before Life was a bunch of green bouquet

And a white folded linen cloth.

Women milked the Donkeys

The men gave their milk to suckers and piglets.

We ate from the fruit that helps eat.

There were no banderillas to kill

Or hunting rifles to kill.

The vixen walking to crickets, and no –one priest

walked from door to door, to the kids’ eggs.

Justice hovered in Love and Freedom

And the thieves deranged at the wrong time.

Today, however, poor Mother Earth!

More wicked is the son than the father.

Do not do the same.

 Love the Sun and the Moon

Better is before tan later.

-Daniel de Culla

THE ANNE AND ELIZABET’S FALL FROM EVE’S WHITE HORSE           In a threshing floor from Moradillo de Roa, Burgos, I was reading about the Crossing between a female Drosophila with red eyes and a male with white eyes from which is obtained in the first filial generation only exemplars with red eyes, both males and females; in the second generation, 75% of individuals have red eyes and 25% have white eyes; but the latter are all males, when, suddenly, I heard neighing, firing or emitting its voice the Eve’s nice white horse, throwing through the air, at the same time flapping his front legs, her cousins ​​Anne and Elizabeth who, luckily, fell on grass, flowers and reeds without hurting with any consideration.          

I believe that horse was stung by a fly, of those people call “harmful of balls”; that horse saw a gray rat, which looked like a rabbit with long ears; or that an Ass, walking,  rebuzzed picking on a She Ass on the road that goes to Fuentenebro, crossing the Puddle of Frigs”, where, according to people, Ass fell in love with the She Ass,  with punctuality and accuracy, faithful and exact in the fulfillment of duty, showing itself as the phenomenon that is among living beings.          

The townspeople came and swirled to know what had happened; asking if girls had suffered any harm. The white horse was high in relief, and the girls stood out very clearly that they had not suffered in the fall. Eve tightened her horse more closely, mounted it and, like a power that governs and directs such a beautiful animal, marched towards La Sequera, moving with the wind, showing herself excellent in her actions.          

Next day, Anne and Elizabeth felt pain or an ache of some rib that was injured in the accident. Now, at this moment, they were helping their grandmother filling with minced meat or other ingredients, Anne a bird; Elizabeth, a cake. Meanwhile, I hammered the point of a nail into the wall after being nailed in order to give it a greater firmness by hammering, and that it could not damage any garment that was hanging on the rack.          

The grandfather and the others had gone to Las Viñas (Vineyards), to work with fatigue and eagerness, “as God commands”, as the grandmother generally says. -Daniel de Culla –

Daniel de Culla is a writer, poet, and photographer. He’s member of the Spanish Writers Association, Earthly Writers International Caucus, Poets of the World, (IA) International Authors, Surrealism Art, Friends of The Blake Society, and others. Director of Gallo Tricolor Review, and Robespierre Review. He participated in many Festivals of Poetry, and Theater in Madrid, Burgos, Berlin, Minden, Hannover and Genève .He has exposed in many galleries from Madrid, Burgos, London, and Amsterdam. He is moving between North Hollywood, Madrid and Burgos; e-mail: gallotricolor@yahoo.com

 

THE POET THAT RECITES SPITTING

Walking through the Espolón promenade, in Burgos

From up to down

From the Provincial Council

And Main Theater

Until the Arch of Saint Mary

And back to start from the Arch of Saint Mary

Until the Main Theater

And Provincial Council

The Great poet united verses

Spiting below each line

So that people would be well followed.

Each of the wings of his bronchitis

Felt on the trunk of a banana trees

Or on some of the tiles of the walk

Well, the Poet spat so much on his side

How to the front

Wrinkling the nose.

The scene was seen that he enjoyed happiness

And it was his cause

As passersby laughed

Or people boasting against him.

Tanning of sputums

Giving the verse in gale or pledge

To this man or that female

That they lowered its value

Or diminished its importance

Or estimate, exclaiming:

-It’s a sp Poet’ sputum.

-It is a spit in Verses

Degenerating from its true origin.

-He is a bronchial Poet.

He makes verses with the sputums

Poet of Poets

He coughed and spit like a king

That ensures his reign

Soaking with the tongue

The spit on his palate

To keep them

For inmemorial time.

All in all, the Poet

Obstinate, determined not to give

To demands of the people

What they demanded:

-Poeta, stop spitting

And recite a poem to us as it is due.

When passing through the music temple

He lifted his neck and spat at them

Falling sputums on the head of a bald man

That he was sitting

On a bench of the walk

Close to the temple

Looking like a sea fennel

In his head

Leaping the Lord of Poets on his legs

Gesturing he with hands in the air

And exclaiming:

-You’ll be a fucking Poet!

It is believed that he is throwing leashes to the hawks

Or plasters to the skull.

The Poet, without making a sack

kept walking

And, at the same time, reciting

Embellishing the Espolón promenade

Giving to it a poetic character

With the charm of his verses

And his sputums.

 

THE FLATULENCES OF THE COWS

Wow! Now we are ready and understanding of the Globe
Because People has the brain in the Ass
Saying: “That the blame for climate change
Ozone layers and other atmospheric niceties
As well as the pollution of the town or the city
It’s coming from the flatulences of the cows

Shortening the distance that in space or time
Separates them from the point where the speaker is
As in that sentence that sings:
“Between two ferocious stones comes a man shouting”.

The cow breaks air hole; John also.
It is coming the Easter of the Ass
Doing better and worse times fart.
Could it be that we do not realize
That the climatic changes of the time of Life
Comes from the Senate and Congresses
And the plenary sessions of City Councils
And Permanent Commissions?

The asses of politicians, of them and of them
Are coming here, there, there, seat.
What a smell of male farts
And the corrupted blood of Cunt
On the benches of its lordships
Trump’s Ass, for example
Going from the White House
To spend a few days in Venezuela
Or the Pope accompanying his ass to any place

And the submissive people say blessing the fart:
-Come with me. Do you want to come to the holy fart?
For world, coming a dress of flatulences is true.
Already, as children
We were taught in the sacred religión:
Kid Jesus came alive between straws
Being cradled in the Bethlehem portal
By the farts of the Ox
And the braying of the sacred She Ass.

That’s how he had to accept for good a Pope Benedict ¡
In Vallelado, a town in Segovia de Castilla, too, for example
“Where neighbors have an ear on each side”
How his heraldic shield sings
There was a Mayor, from another time
Who said at the beginning of a Plenary:
“There are five leagues of windy weather from here to the town.
The field must have two hundred cows and one hundred sheep.
Spinning of farts or farts are made from time to time
In the channels to serve as a signal to those who pass.

And I say, to the facts I refer:

That the flatulences of the cows have
Salient little vessels
And branched on its flat surface
That it is a pure Truth
As it confirms to us, again and again
World Health Organization
That affirms, urbi et orbi
That the condition of superiority
From one person over another
From one animal to another
It comes given by the wind blow of the tail of the cows
With equals the conditions of Life
Its coming and its departure.

In many cultures people adored and adore the Cow
And that because every one of our gathered good luck
Form the shell of an egg or fruit
That implies or offers advantages coming in desire
That is why we must open windows in the walls or walls
Put open doors to the field, fields or meadows
And make window to the ass of the beautiful cows
That, at sunset, are
As colored glass of the churches.

-Daniel de Culla

THE CHAIR

The branches of the trees

on the river road with luminous clouds

more a chair without  seed and hands

that yearn for eyes.

Ghost of wo/man’s presence/absence

is what makes this place

so intolerable.

Probably not.

THE CROW AND THE CAT

          The one was flying and the other walking, when the crow saw a parish garden behind a wall with cabbages and Brussels sprouts, resting on it and telling the cat, who stopped and stared at him:

-What good cabbages are here, don cat.

          The cat approached the crow hiding his desire to extend a scratch, saying:

-For with bird bacon.

          The raven noticing his purpose, wagged his wings, and flew to the parish garden behind the wall.

Daniel de Culla is a writer, poet, and photographer. He’s member of the Spanish Writers Association, Earthly Writers International Caucus, Poets of the World, (IA) International Authors, Surrealism Art, Friends of The Blake Society, and others. Director of Gallo Tricolor Review, and Robespierre Review. He participated in many Festivals of Poetry, and Theater in Madrid, Burgos, Berlin, Minden, Hannover and Genève .He has exposed in many galleries from Madrid, Burgos, London, and Amsterdam. He is moving between North Hollywood, Madrid and Burgos; e-mail: gallotricolor@yahoo.com