On the street of Flores, of San Antonio, by Carmen, the Trade, with the wind, the rhythm of the wind, in the wind, not wind, was Carmen Burgos moving the buttocks, skirt, long hair, wavy and black. Yesterday I was told that he had died and since then a porous melancholy has set me on the left side of the soul to play with my demons and party with my memories.
"L'amour est un oiseau rebelle qui nul ne peut apprivoiser" was heard in the distance. It was Carmen, Verdi's, which by happy chance sounded as the voice on the handset than the other Carmen said, mine had gone to braid ermine clouds in the sky of the archangels.
Then, as he dropped my body on the chair, overwhelmed with shock, I went with the mind to look for the dead ...
Street is not wide enough for you, the sun hits the pavement you face lights , palms, trembling in the breeze, bend your way and you chimneys with a bunch of Turkish crackers.
You
disheveled, Carmencita come back to primping your hair braided by a tortoiseshell comb between the shaggy strands, if you drop the flower that you wear on your ear, you crouch down in a stately gesture, Carmencita, to pick, if one crosses your path known, preparing to greet you with a sincere gesture and a funny grin on your face, if my grandfather passes, you look into his eyes, Carmencita, flirtatious smile, and you're shaking the range that your late husband brought you the Fuerteventura port before returning to America.
Carmencita is noon and I'm back to being a kid, and I turned to run down the hallway clear and cool your home and came back to wear shorts and camisole straps with blue and came back to look like that time, the first, your nakedness intense.
Pum! Rang the door that opened my naive and indiscreet curiosity.
There was eponymous Carmen Burgos Colombine most worthy of the Andalusian-stripped of all his clothes to birder ass, in the splendor of the voluptuousness of the flesh, with wet thighs and a cologne bottle in the hands .
"Oh boy, tené care! Do not you see I'm wearing? Go to your yard to play, "he said, he asked, his voice calm and ordered.
I think pregnant
hearing naturally and brash ...
Carmen Burgos did not bother to cover his shamelessness: flabby tits pink nipples, thighs pale sun never bathed, hairy sex, love song to the forest that borders the swamp in his hometown of San Jerónimo, the hollow round your belly button in the middle of a generous belly and neck blast of fresh water falling from her black hair and limpid streams that form in a clear liquid thread, under the swift tumble gravity boost toward his navel.
The kid I was and am no more, he stood petrified at the oak door dark arabesques had opened, revealing. Now, large and perverted, I'm a ghost again entered through the window, which slips through a crack in the wall rose and dressed flies the fourth recall.
What do you see? A small body of nine years before the immensity of a fifty-seven corpazo: what remains, in the form of mental spectrum, of a fat hormone stripped to the springs of a boy and a consequent fury unleashed voyeuristic.
bang, bang! Opened the doors, towels and ran fly women.
Because of a fat naked eye spied a steadily since the ladies bathroom, the ladies' locker room, the clubhouse of the street dancers Artigas. That eye was also a body soon learned to undress in front of a mirror, the siesta, in the spirit drunk with memories to start their first childish liturgical worship of the god Priapus. And at night, when the light was extinguished, a fire lit pudendal frighten. Then rubbed with innocence upright peak of the mountain of the goddess Venus hollow fabric to blow up the fiery volcano of passion. So, while a greenish lava river to the north was thrown to his abdomen and rushed south to the thighs, a viscous moisture soaked pajamas and tiny droplets of salty sweat shone on his forehead. Dime
Carmencita, why I wanted so much? Why in your garden you let me invent castles untouchable? Why do you preferred your goddaughter, the noble Maria del Pilar? But most of all tell me what you served your tits, you never gave birth?
Yes, tell me, wind, tell me, silence, tell me why are boobs? Why this obsession of mine with them? It must be that, somewhere, I keep a kind of nostalgia and native mammal, a child feel that sucks the juices from her nubile mother wren world.
I see a large bra, Carmencita, and feeling wanted to touch it, I remember. Speaking of boobs, Carmencita, Hayles with pink nipples, black or decidedly gloomy. Hayles long, round, oval, large or small. Hayles complacent and spontaneous, and dengue fever and fussy. Hayles Hayles tasteless and salty. I say this because of all varieties has been testing me, to play, the Creator.
But before I forget, Carmencita, I'll ask something else and I hope you remember. Because what I am, I have not forgotten my grandfather's visits to your house in which he offered communion wine Syria and me biscuits ...
Carmencita Now that the old Froilan and you are dead, without blushing answer me: do you want?
No, do not laugh Aycardi widow Carmen Burgos, Carmencita of the soul, my memories, I'm serious. Anyway, I must confess that, devoured by impatience, I do not remember having met a week pending the consummation of love.
So tell me, babe, how did you manage to put up with the win? I am sure you never bestowed the least license it was as if you want to delete, without knowing it, the reputation of the namesake of yours, English and very liberal and she had as frivolous lover Gómez de la Serna, the salt shakers greguerías read before you die, when he was away and had no time to remember. Tell me what I default my generation, I can not in my immediate rush, keep me chaste, like you, like my grandfather, the old faithful and monogamous in my childhood. It was
Carmen Burgos widow very young, before I was born. No children, no spouse, there stood the old house she inherited from her husband and a plot by the river that ran a fool named Roger with severe defects in speech and hearing and, to my knowledge, family fourth degree of consanguinity of her husband. There I was going to play or swim in a well during hot days.
The last time I saw her was at fourteen, going to school at Villa Deborah. Going to fix an issue in some goddaughter to one of the charge of normal at this time. Then I went away and covered his memory as forgetfulness, worry, scorn of the time, the inertia of life.
Today I remember you, I dream of you, Carmencita, I write this for eternal memory of the first woman I saw (when seeing is not just the trivial appearance of someone in the field of perception but, as Sartre would say, permanent leakage of things to a term that captures a certain distance from me and I escaped while deployed around him his own distance), the first woman I saw naked, you.
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