|A kick in the ass
Let him who is without sin, throw the first Empty Without Me, CD
By Kristopher Kolumbus
November 11, 2002
I left my work at home and went to the mountains.
It was raining when I ran to the ladies and was shocked to discover an entire wall
given over to a huge framed pen drawing of three bearded men, stark naked, with rather
large, massively hairy penises. It was so Full Monty in a time of terrorists - that
it quite put me off my toilette. Even in Spain.
Even more surprising was that the chaps were purported to be three of Iran's most
famous poets, Hafez, Rumi and Khayyam who had corrupted pubic morals with vino, white
poppies and plagiarizing quotations from the Iliad. Oscar Wilde and Betty Boop.
Some ladies liked it though and a Spanish chikita left three big, red lipstick kisses
on it and signed it OLE ! and left a rose.
There had been amorous adventures of them rumored in Adzubleta the most perfectly
preserved Moorish village in all of Valencia the epitome of how the Moorish invaders
lived their 500 year rule, far away from the opulent centers of art and science in
Cordoba and Grenada.
Al-Azraq ruled around 1218. A thorn in the side of Jamie 1. He wore eye-catching
attire. A silk scarlet jacket with faux leopard collar, cuffs and gloves. Selecting
cigarettes from an ostrich-skin case. Frankly there was no forgiving his mustache.
He could have afforded to live on the Upper East Side, but never wanted to move away.
Here was his roots. This was his Jerusalem.
The mezquita (mosque) that Al-Azraq built as part of his palacio is now La Purisima
Concepcion on Detroit's Eight Mile Road.
A bust of nasty mouth was in the main square drippin' water tootin' like a fool Don't
Cry For Me Argentina after a period in a lunitic asylum for mosquito cures.
It rained in the olive groves. The clock stopped as the crow flies almond blossoms
in a brothel predicted the weather. Fuck it the antidote is chicken nuggets.
Let him who is without sin, throw the first Empty Without Me, CD.
Scar tissue was decaying in jars in the small museum filled with cigarette lighters,
Spanish coins, bananas, insults, goofball chants and butter knives.
Al-Azraq was dressed in noir. He was beaten on the soles of his feet, dragged on
his bare back over gravel and then put in a sweage tank so that his wounds would
be infected. They killed his buddy guards, took his tennis shoes and stabbed him
under a railway bridge.
China white heroin turned his skin aqua green sinking to his knees.
He lit a Camel Light.
He was loose-booty pushed over the cliff of Ifach like the curly bit of a corkscrew.
A worm in the rain.
Enigmatically our starry persona, the Persian poets, turned difficult and fell out
badly over the nonstop lewd behavior on the streets of Malaga where Picasso was born
singin' the Blues.
An intovert, Khayyam confesses he felt like a show horse during the two-year promotional
tour, but went through his paces gamely. I got lots of jokes about my name. You
know: old fart, fart Omar, thank you mom. I was like, whoa.
The Spanish sea stretched south like a rash bumpy with
rocks and dead cod full of Monte Carlos and El Dorados, showtime flwless in Baecelona.
Omar in a leopard print, Rumi charged with illegal possession of amphetamines, Hafez
so fresh and clean in the attic growing roses panicked on the Gateway to the Starship
Enterprise in the eucaliptice sky. On automatic. Why not?
Cascading down the escalators was their great escape at the memorial service for
autumn 2002 with the announcement everyone was half-expecting; Autumn will be replaced
by winter 2002, leaving behind the Autumn moon.
Calpe - &%$·!=* - Espana