CAGANCHO VALLEY

My father-in-law and I were on break and suspended from work in the Cagancho Valley, a valley next to the Moradillo de Roa wineries, in the Ribera del Duero region: very famous wineries in Aranda de Duero, San Sebastián and Madrid for the awards that the people have received for having them and beautifying them.

Cagancho is a “wolf chest” because he walks through the cellars bare-chested. He is young and handsome, but has never been seen with a female. It is something fierce, fierce, because it has a convulsive rage as if it were a spoiled child.

One day, he got pissed off because of some mattresses that had been put out in the sun, he was fucked by friends from the young people’s cellar that looks towards La Sequera full of Covid 19, sentimental straws and piss, blaming the in-laws because he saw them give of kicking the mattresses, because, as children, they thought that they would kick the virus out of them.

Cagancho confronted them:

–What do you do with the mattresses throwing them into the valley? Why don’t you take them to the clean point?

-Hey majete, nice, the in-laws answered in unison: Grab them with your teeth and take them to the clean point. These mattresses belong to the young people who fuck friends in town.

Also, I added:

-These mattresses will fall in this part at such and such an hour. Segovia falls to the north of Cotarro; Corpus Christi always falls on a Thursday; And today is Thursday.

Cagancho, who they say is an engineer from the Cagada del Lagarto, lizard shit, didn’t know what to say. He slowed down.

My in-law told him:

-Look, Cagancho, that dog shit looks very bad in that corner. And you do nothing.

He did not know how to ponder the intensity of our feelings and manifestations, falling the sticks of the shade; him losing the illusion of being able to defeat us in the dialogue, marching to the town square, and seeing us how the wings of his heart fell, and the feathers of his head.

On the outside of the road, on the outside, with our feet we took out the mattresses, which we saw fall and stay on a hillside, not greatly harming the view of the town’s church from below, but rather giving it a surreal touch.

-There they go. They stay there, said my in-law.

Cagancho did not look back. I think he realized that we did not arouse any sympathy. We saw his back roasted and pulverized in the sun like the seed of the coffee tree.

-Ale, come on, my in-law told me. To weed chives! Or to see if Uncle Julio’s almond trees bear fruit.

Some cagaceites, certain birds similar to the thrush, flew over our heads going to the walls of the cemetery next to the church, to look for the Chicken Crap, flower of a kind of curujey.

I told my in-law:

.- Wait for me here, I’m going to give free rein to my shitty gut.

Between shit, mushrooms, I released my excrement in the style of a shithead, state or municipal office worker, in a bend next to the Cemetery wall that looks towards the town of Aza.

AFTERNOON PIACHE

Piache is a childish voice of tweet, of chirping.

For talking or being late

To the political talk in the Polisón Room

From the Teatro Principal, in Burgos

You have not heard

That a certain Sancho el Bravo

Fucking his daughter

Running for general election

Leaving his wife Doña Beatriz

Naked and shitting swastikas

Virtuous and pious

Because, according to him, she said while shitting:

-You have to build and help a lot

To the churches

That Spain, by the grace of God

It has not ceased to be frankly fascist.

In the Polison room

We were like chicks in the egg.

Another who belonged to that talking party

Gobbled up our brains

And screamed in his throat:

That we politicians are badly inclined

Vicious, thieves, fakers, mother fakers

And similar things.

It is a great truth.

But that’s what there is

And so it wasn’t

If you had not given to Politics

And to Garlic and water:

Fuck off and suck it up.

Here, in the Polison Room

The respectable public

Is chirped like a little bird after being caught

In the nest

Dreaming that some position or position

Would be distributed

Since the bait brought by the lecturer

Making them open their beaks

And applaud the promised promises

Which were always the same:

Liberty and Distributive Justice

With the stick, the club or the tumbler.

After the talk is over

The respectable public

Gobbled up and cheated by their greed

Did not notice that the lecturer

And his henchmen disappeared

As if by magic

Sheltered by their guardians

Staying like chickens and hens

Featherless and cackling.

From a blessed old lady

We hear her say:

-These guys in this game are saints.

From an old atheist

We hear commenting:

-After cuckolds, beaten

And everyone satisfied.

Long live slavery¡