DANIEL DE CULLA

 

 

A Marriage Of Convenience

 

A friend of mine and Me

Accustomed to things done quickly and without time

Because we're retired

We just attended the marriage of convenience

Of another friend of ours

Who married a married woman

From the Dominican Republic

In the chapel of the Monastery of San Juan (Burgos)

Whose husband was left waiting

At the entrance to the Monastery.

The ceremony was officiated

By a city councilor

Applauded by the small audience

Jumping with joy

The Dominican woman's new husband

Upon receiving the three thousand euros

Of the agreed-upon arrangement

Longing to have a honeymoon with her

Even if only for a little while

And she very happy to be able to obtain

Her residency papers on the spot.

From there, my friend and Me

Because the bride and groom didn't invite us to anything

How stingy!

We went for coffee, a croissant

And, perhaps, a quickie

At the Halo Paris Café

Very close to the Monastery.

There, we were served very kindly

By a Moroccan girl, Jalila from Marrakech

Who, without knowing me at all

Addressed me after serving us

Saying hopefully:

-I see you as virtuous and noble

With a good salary to take care of my mother

Who wants to come see me

And get Spanish citizenship.

I'll give you three thousand euros

If you marry her.

To this I replied:

-That sounds good to me

If I marry her at the same time

With you

That way I can have two glories

That your Allah allows there and here.

She replied disappointed:

-Not that. I don't like sharing the churro (prick)

And you enjoying our toast

Which is blood relatives' and tastes like nothing.

Think about it, and tell me

Another time you come back here.

I told her a little before leaving

Touching her breast without realizing it:

-Jalila, when I'm about to die I'll let you know.

Bring me your mother

So you can give me the three thousand euros

And she can show me her nest of Moroccan falcons

Which will do my soul a lot of good.

 

Death Is In Minneapolis

 

-Here we come with rifles and pistols.

Get back, buddies.

Shouted some men destined to kill

Dressed in the uniforms of serial killers

To some protesters who, peacefully, told them

On signs held high in their hands:

“Every pig gets its Saint Martin's Day

Because on Saint Martin's Day pigs are killed”

Learning the other protesters

So that they might think, consoling themselves

That that crazy ox or ram Trump

And his criminal henchmen

Will have their day when they have to pay

For those deaths and misfortunes suffered by their people

Applauded and blessed by him and them

Based on the fact that this citizen

Has bitten the big toe or finger

Of the murderous executioner with the gunshots.

Repression, the death of innocents

It's the party of this big orange man

Who could serve as a lesson for the universal history

Of human understanding.

Hence his music and dance, learned

In asylums and immigrant detention centers.

Music and dance in a deceitful and exorbitant act of coitus

That his favorite serial killers dance

Before going to kill innocents

Which is why they shout: “Get out of here, scum!”

e master of their lives, and ours

Lies like a scoundrel, that's what he is!

Who allows, because he has the atomic bomb

And ships sailing the waters of Hell

The creation of professorships for serial killers.

Because he, like a bull in a china shop

Gets ahead of Death

Because he has little regard for simple men

But much regard for those with money.

-Deceive men? Certainly not.

Vilely he exclaims

Playing with his own kind who applaud and kiss his ass

At the game: “Guess who killed him”

Until he knows and correctly identifies who executed

That defenseless man or woman

All of them dancing that slow dance of St. Vitus

Choreography mania, dance mania, or mania for dancing

Epidemic dance of the damned

That was already danced in the 15th to 17th centuries

As a collective psychogenic illness

Or as a result of intoxication

From that Trumpian ergot

That they all shove up their arseholes

Like the grateful, foolish criminals they are.

-“Minneapolis days, days of misfortune

It’s not even tomorrow, and it’s already dark night”

Some protesters whisper

The women with a water bottle under their arm

The men with a slab on their backs just in case

Their lives slip away in a feelingless

From a gunshot wound to the temple or face

Given by those serial killers who urinate

Where Trump urinates, happy and grateful.

 

DANIEL DE CULLA

 

DANIEL DE CULLA: Writer, poet, painter and photographer. Member of the Collegiate Association of Spanish Writers, Earthly Writers International Caucus, Poets of the World, (IA) International Authors, Surrealism Art, Friends of The Blake Society, Nietzsche Circle and others. Director of Gallo Tricolor Review and Robespierre Review. He has participated in numerous Poetry and Theater Festivals, has collaborated and collaborates with various magazines and newspapers such as: Otoliths; The Stray Branch, Down in the Dirt Magazine, Allien Buddha Zine, The Poet Magazine, Uppagus, ReSite, GloMag, Fleas on the Dog, LAROLA, RAL'M, Misery Tourism, Leavings, The Creative Zine, Terror House Press; and other national ones: Pluma y Tintero, Letras de Parnaso, Revista Azahar, Cultura de Veracruz; Vericuetos,  Sol Cultural Center, etc.