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HARVEY BRISTOL CREAM
The smell of sherry went straight from your nose to your brain. Everywhere invisible grape molecules were in the atmosphere making the town of Jerez de la Frontera drowsy. As a drunken archeologist you could hear the Flamenco singers of a gone era wail their duende but despite the free ambiance I was aware like a wild animal of her answer when I told her she was beautiful. "You too!" Nobody ever told me that before with so much enthusiasm and spontaneity. She was so real and my willingness to go back to the Heimat hit rockbottom.
You know, normally it's only fags or ugly crazy chicks that dig me, but now this angelic creature from another space and time crossed my path like a biblical blessing.
I thought of the full bred Carthusian horses and the Andalucian monks that withstood the Mores. This country invented the Guerilla against Napoleon and fights steers until this very day. There's something savage in the Iberian soul and the combination of the echos of long gone suras, the taste of fermenting wine and her gypsy smile made me a voluntary victim for passionate falling in love.
The sea swept my dirtiness away like the black colour of a slave's skin. The salt was bitter on my lips and I was jealous of the waves caressing her hips. I am a catfish in the deepest of my blue imagination, where I bend strings to the rhythm of my moodswings.
If only I could be a carnivorous seamonster: I would devour her and let her drown in her own tears in my stomach where she would be reborn as a selkie and live forever to fuel my stomach with gasoline and our mad attraction towards each other would awake the dragon in me and cleanse this organic paradise with the wrath of Shiva.
Holy fire and insane hallucinations to compensate logic and reasoning. Man, does it ever rain in this valley of pride and backbreaking sunrays. Arrows that shriek like the vultures above in the golden dome, as two-dimensional paintings in a celestial monastery seeking enlightenment and material abstinence.
This is the forbidden handshake of God and the Beast: a shot of Golden Brown straight in the arteries.
Hypnotised by historic milestones hysteria was an option.
But I cried for this shot of energy treacherous as the worm that deceived Eve with promises of emancipation.
Can you imagine a city of pure silver? El Dorado, heaven in a wasteland of diggers and adventurers.
Sails against a reddish dusk and seasick fata morgana's. The loneliness is a vast perfumery of all samples of mindmapping. The last uncharted territory that builds universes like the Bodega Harvey Bristol Cream distils brandy, but not really.
It's pure speculation of words, valuta that deflate like a big crunch. What you see is what you get, except in literature. Or only in literature.
The greatest trick ever pulled is making man believe that women swallow his bullshit. Love is a farce like trying to quench a fire with sulphur.
There's only true lust.
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