Una Ladilla

A pain in the ass
I have in my soul, says
And, wild, it scratches with words
Carefully selected
Unique delight
Paragenital

I'm a poet, says
I'm a poet, insists
Magician, dreamlike, fantastic, cold
Creator
Bastard son of cathier and marylin
Continues

The wild bunch
Bubble-gum of each of my verses
I reasoned based on attitudes
Purely
Cinematographic, jean-luc

Godard, twenty-four
Images per second
Those rainy days
With barbara stelle at the mac mahon
The foam of memory
Descends intimate and heartbreaking
Incandescent spider webs
Copulate starry light years away
From darkness, mists; onion soup, onion
And now
The second channel destroys a mann

Man of the west, shot
American of gary cooper, counter shot
Founder is a UFO thing

I light up the last rex I have
With a worm of discomfort
Or pain in the ass
Stupid and masochistic
That gives me back a barbarian
Canned
Mourning
Dusty. For the first time
In Spain a pubic hair
On the big screen, helga
I'm a poet, says
I'm a poet, insists
Although being a poet