Catalina, My Beloved
In many places
in Castile
They call donkey
dung Catalina.
I had fallen in
love with one
That seemed to
me like a vase
Wide at the
mouth
And narrow at
the base
At the Segovian
Center in Madrid
When she asked
me to write her a poem
For she knew I
was a poet
Having competed
in several poetry contests.
That if she
liked the poem
She would let me
put my staff
Into her carnal
gourd
Even if I broke
it by going in.
I wrote her this
poem:
“Catalina, my
beloved
How well you
dance.
Now I, Pedro,
dance with you
And I'm going to
put it in you.”
This amused
Catalina greatly
That she let me
do it like a whore at a fair
Filling her
gourd with sperm
Encouraging me
to fuck:
-Fuck, Pedro,
life gives you.
When I finished
ejaculating
Seeing me
collapsed and exhausted
She began to
frolic and laugh at me
Jumping from
side to side, saying:
-Go on, brave
one
Let's see if you
can fuck me now
you son of the
devil.
Mocking me, the
whore
Cleaning herself
with a sponge
She began to
count the sperm
Before throwing
the sponge
Into the
cauldron of water
Into which she
had cleaned my penis
Before fucking.
Like a blockhead
I began to rant,
saying:
-Catalina, shit!
shit!
Witches Of O Grove
It was in O
Grove, Galicia.
I lay naked
Among rocks by
the sea
Where two
witches, sorceresses, or sorceresses
Embracing,
sucking
See me
masturbating
And they didn't
do me any harm
Quite the
opposite.
Like a rooster I
crowed at dawn
With my joyful
erection
Announcing the
new day
While the waves
crashed against the rocks
When they
approached me
Saying, full of
life:
-Come on, you
cheeky one, more than cheeky one
Wipe yourself
with our handkerchief
We'll wash them
at home.
Don't throw the
colostrum into the sea
Because it can
impregnate the oysters
Scallops, queen
clams, cockles, mussels.
Put on your
swimsuit
And save your
excellent passion
For the holidays
Because to your
precious, supreme erection
The women will
come singing
Announcing a new
love.
The most
turban-like love is a one-day thing
That comes,
passes, and goes away
And doesn't
return until you jerk off again
Singing to the
new day.
I loved these
two witches
Who were very
nice
Because before
saying goodbye they gave me
Two tasty buns
Made with rye
and baby urine.
I begged one of
them
Just as
beautiful as the other
Who, later, I
learned is called Titubea
Who told me in
my ear
That Satan had
impregnated her
To give me a
blowjob.
She did it!
Milking me until
I was dry
Leaving me as
happy and content
As John Indian
Titubea's
husband
The famous witch
of Salem.
On Contemplation
My life was a
martyrdom following the Life of Christ
Of Ludolph of
Saxony
Known as the
Carthusian
And Dionysius
the Carthusian himself, the Ecstatic Doctor
In the Seminary
of Madrid in Las Vistillas
Near the Bailén
Bridge
From where young
lovers who found no meaning
In their lives
and circumstances:
Work, home,
children, committed suicide.
In the portrait
of these suicides
Who were already
in heaven
Saying to God:
-Hallowed be thy
name
I saw myself
struggling to harmonize
The
contemplative life with the active life
As Dominic of
Guzmán did
Founder of the
Order of Preachers.
Following Hugo
de San Caro
From the
Dominican School
My illuminative,
purgative, and unitive spiritual life
I combined with
my playful theology
In whose
struggle I always triumphed over temptation
Sinning through
masturbation
And my self-love
Dreaming of the
excellences, benefits, and necessity
Of embracing
good beautiful breasts
Like those in
Bella Beaumont's book:
“Thirsty Sluts
need their men”
A book similar
to this one that I had
And would put
inside my mattress
Or hide inside
some empty covers
From the Kempis’
book.
Once they caught
me asleep with this book in my arms
And an
astonishing erection
The superior
woke me up asking:
-That book you
have
What is it
called; what do you do with it?
I answered him
with great piety and devotion:
-It is a
blessing for men
And a curse for
priests.
If you wish,
Father, you can sit upon the erect
And doctrinal
base of this my penis
As I do between
the breasts of my aunts
When I come.
-Perdition is
yours, heretic, wicked one
He replied,
still sullen:
-You know what
you have to do:
Leave the
Seminary!
The Spiritual
Exercises of last month
Have done you no
good
Nor reading the
John Tauler’ sermons in good Latin.
-Father, but
Father, I will leave.
I will leave the
Seminary with the conviction
Of having
achieved
A moving
solidity of perennial vitality
In my playful
Theology
Of experimental
and masturbatory mysticism.
The day I was
leaving the Seminary
This priest
approached me
Giving me a very
tight hug
In which I felt
his penis brush against mine’s.
This mine’s book
disappeared from my room.
After a few days
Through a fellow
ascetic-mystic like myself
Angel of
Foligno, to be precise
Whom I ran into
on the street
Because he, too,
had gone out
I learned that
they had taken it to the Library
Depositing him
in the Prohibited Books Section
Passing it from
hand to hand
Inside the
Library itself
Until he was
burned in the Seminary Kitchen
By a nun who had
the same name
As the famous
Juliana of Norwich
Who wrote
“Revelations of Divine Love”.
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.
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