The Miracle (part 1)

I was there, lying like a cowly-cadaveric, childly-crying, riverly-bleeding, mcdonaldly-starving, derelicted-person, wishing my death right there, waiting for the worms to eat my sore body, to erase my flesh from this cruel planet, expecting the time of my dead, the finish of my negligent existence. I was hopeless, lamenting the day I was born, the creepy birthdays I had, the awful cakes I ate.

Then I saw HIM just passing by on his immature-look-a-like mule. I saw his light, indeed. I saw all the shining bright of his presence. He was the sácerdot, and I didn´t had to ask if he was HE. His astouning, limbo-dancer, souvenir-giver, gorgeous-pumping presence said it all.

My outstanding pain caused me nauseas, but when he came closer all the dólor was gone, and the hunger I felt was satisfied right there. I didn´t knew I was that blind, I couldn´t see anythig. But all the nosense started to be yessense. Everything started to be enlighted. A milky-shiny-white light encandiled everything that surrounded him (me, for example).

Suddenly he started walking to my poor, móribund presence. He didn´t say anything. Just touch my bland-warm-leacky-crunchy lastímadure with his incredibly bone-meat-skin-ingrediented, round-shaped, perfectly-fit finger. And I heal immediately from all my diseases.

I don´t have the words to describe what has just happened there. It was a miracle. A sácerdot miracle.

Poem: A dream about the sácerdot

A totally troglodiptical biolingüistical dream I had,
It was in non-colloquial term in which I dreamed it.
However, I never had such dreamed a dream like that,
So I tried to convince me to in the blog publishing it.

I was related to our noble and good-termed Father,
A man whit authentic vision and puberty,
Strong-polluted and characterized by a majestic power,
Of course it was our sácerdot, like would have thought John Fogerty.

In the dream there were enormous whales,
Dancing and pounding whit big potatoes,
And in the middle of that scheme,
Our wellness neighbour was examining his toes.

That was it, and whit that vision in mind
I have no option than show me more sumise than ever
To the benefit of Mr Kite,
And to our noble and hazardous lord, and of course to his fever.

Why to believe in the noble faith and desire of a better way of recording better records of our sácerdot

It is undeniable that our sácerdot has the supreme word regarding to paleoecological issues. For that reason we have to take for granted that our gentle, sarcastic, cártucher-maker sácerdot has had the glorious taste for eating my tobacco for me and for you. For God’s sake!!! He can be so gentle! He cant be so servil and dedicated to our happines! God’em it! Just think that he fucking ate our nasty and flagrant tobacco! How to deny his strong-willnes??? How to deny his love for mosquitoes and undisclosed recipients?????? How to deny his Ibn Mohammed Abdul El-Kachirisness according to his own expectations?????????
Please people, just stop blaspheming and believe in the power of his tongue and his martial era.

First time I saw him

I´m sure I saw him! It was him, indeed, the one and only, the supreme symbol of love, faith, optimism and promiscuity, ambassador of this cosmopolitan era, magnate of this dinosauric, obscene, promiscuous modernity; the rícachonly ambiguously obscure and enlighted sácerdot.

Did you saw this perfect, strong-willing, mosquitoe-lover, obstinate, almizclous, albaricoque-flavored, immovable, filamentous-catcher, rímbombant, eccéntric, anecdotic, decimononic, flagrant, historic, flexible, pedigree-guaranteed, exacerbately-restaurantic clerical pastor of hope? I thought you did, too. It´s impossible not seeing this baroque, extravagant, hiperbolic, oblique, salad-shaker baron of confidence.

This foraminipherous charming gord was seen by Mega-bananical rhinos, too. My dear friend Perrito told me these animals have seen him riding horses as a volume-hydro-plane with an amazing and unique style, climbing a windmill while he was playing a bagpipe. Every rhino started crying when they saw this comfortable, emotive, flat-floored image, as typical as his abilidous way of making this lovely pottery so well known by all of us (a lovely pottery, by the way).

I´m absolutely stunned, indeed. It was the big, fat, greasy, stubborn, astronautically-beautiful, arrogant, sincerely-portentous, botanic, trust-healing, bone-catching, anthropological, pompous, gorgeous, sácerdot.

I swear.

A day in the sácerdot’s life

Oh well! Holy shit! For God’s sake! Here’s our noble worship idol, feeling the sunset beneath his shoes and fulfilling his expectations with the ridiculous laughs of the jumping potatoes. Yes! Here’s our land owner, creepy, vulnerable, map-doer, homework-doer, volatil, macrophagous sácerdot, who lives the day as if it were the last one.
At five o’clock he goes to Connecticut (Karektikat), and flies like blowing his own trumpet. God’s sake! He’s a fucking trumpet-blower who treats everyone as a whole amount of vegetable mushrooms! And in Connecticut (Karektikat) he can wear his turkish, long-shelled bikini, because he is a turkish, long-shelled bikini wearer, what is more, since the begining of our era, of our planet Earth, of the same starts of the Universe which are talked of in books, he’s always been a turkish, long-shelled bikini wearer. Yes, for my fucking lord! He can wear in Connecticut (Karektikat) his turkish, long-shelled bikini without external complaints, so he does, he really does! And he does it better than you, me, and every nasty eye-cricketed person who reads this almizclous article! Yes! Virgin Mary mother of God! He can do it better than every man standing in this poligonal fraction of tennis court. Yes, he can. That’s why we love our sácerdot.