Un tipo me arrimó el tejo. Se llama Podri de Las Nieves. Ganó el partido.
Merecidísima la imágen de triunfo, furia y fuego.
She frolics through the rain whispering love insane her kisses exit through heart-shaped exit wounds her skin like flesh of angels her blood my catholic wine it moves slowly through me disintegrates my spine she's got heroin embraces that i still need to be in i force myself to loathe her so i can fall for her again her lips are wet with venom her posture's serpentine she'll touch my arm and flowers grow there poisonous and obscene all her shrugged little movements and their despotic majesty in the midst of such perfection i can't help but feel diseased