Imagenes Lola & Bugs Bunny

read: come

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back the primitive group. And on top of reading, be greased to make you name as long as some sausages.

Do you understand now what is the sacrifice? Do yourself a pique and peek.

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Idiot Rhythm

stretches and stretches your muscles with me. The pace idiot. The murga of idiots. That rattles, always sickly, the same drip. Counts. One Two. Three. "Now," mutters a throat as enslaved by the swing. But this "now" never comes: it is a fake ad drowsy alleviates anxieties.

Jumps never take off under a sky blackened sheet that drowns. Meat transpired and kicking the heavy air even though the end of the song never comes. Because never slew the chorus. The pace of the idiots is made to turn coal and last until all the final clock.

A whistle wakes up and straightens the dancers wrong melody. Because there always are. Becomes the absurd leap. Plant stand and a tac, tac, tactactac, tied to the land. Uninhabited by earthworms. That can not be anything other than tile, bicycle, pitch, bump and knee injury.

Children are learning faster pacing. Soon gather scars on his back and tore the skin flayed, stomp kill those same toys now crave.

Murderers in miniature. Pinned with two teeth to a row of teats, udders india sour milk fat. Yogurt that peppers cut tendons those same heels shuffle dance now enduring.

Quinceañeras legs apart and fall pregnant at the sound of drums. Tight leather marking the pulse pounding semen. Unexpected. And they turn on mattresses miserable sheltered only by a tattoo of Bazooka gum. Frightened by their cries, celebrate with eyes closed and lips death of a teenager almost stillborn. Then they make magic. Skinny thigh meat removed and multiply in their wombs.

I see. Add

bone to bone and blood to blood to mutate into a container 2 to 1. Shampoo and conditioner. Girls, females fed their hunger for that child well can be a brother. Twin.

I see.

Until suddenly moves.

Murga idiots and their idiotic way. Glides on legs circles drawn by children who follow the crush between smooth and diapers. False bronze plates on the palms and fingers that later filled with unrequited desire pits. Every idiot is a uniform sphere hammering a ring rusty. Taunting the puddles covered with broken shoes.

pregnant Quinceañeras the pace up their shirts and belly grows enlarges the shadows. Bellies burst rings that pierce the dream dance boiled fetuses. A breast-udder painted the colors of your nipple harden San Lorenzo to cry "forward." Blood cheeks heated operating ...

return of the jumps. The choreography that no coordinates. Shoulders and back crossed by white streaks that recall a bullet. The kitchen knife that has no teeth for cutting up pizza, but regains edge when stuck in any arm. The pace and the drums populate the wind died hair stained with urine. Of aging women. Teens getting fat. The rancid smell of children who never tire of spitting and trampling diapers toys.

not know, but every body is a breath until you explode, which ignites the sky drowned oil. So you can survive an hour. Another day.

And so will the melody, which is not quenched. Neither the time. For this time no one can really escape. The idiots we are growing. And in the end everyone shaking their heads forward to hit the gap. Applauding this perpetuity.

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Capital Inicial "Algumas day" Half a century of Maradona

Each of my trips have, fortunately, a different soundtrack. As the colors, smells, and people.

In this case, my recent visit to San Pablo, Brazil, took place against a band sound that, fortunately, I enjoy living on the floor of the sister country: Initial Capital.

share the theme "Algumas day." And I keep the conversation I have with Herbert Vianna, leader and voice of Paralamas before presentation in the same show I attended.