SIDARZIA NIGHTS
By Juan Carlos Céspedes
When the moon does not fit into the city and the clock strikes twenty-five, Coca Cola invites its adherents to be happy with their recipe perched on top of the last frontier constructed. The cars are painted eyes and eyelash vomiting obsolete, discovered forty years ago by Alice Cooper. Sale thin and lanky in a coffin with a boa tired of the same routine that any day is eaten whole, while a dirty bra falls right in the face at the moment to grab a microphone and walk with their military boots Sergeant dead, they fled with which Mussolini before he was hanged with her lover, and cigarette-ignited ultra punk the last success. Hamlet is a silly question between being ecstatic or whiskey, and beer free of racism, which Black also know how to use the mouth painted brown or red, or Carolina Herrera perfume. Money is no problem easy-to-be parents and send those fucking useless that keep quiet, or view programs of sudden death, or pressure the shares of the stock market a shot in the head. Coca Cola tastes and people take a sip. Alice Cooper gets the box office, the boa and dirty bra for personal museum. When the streets are empty all destinations are crossed by a shot that was heard in the morning. FIN
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