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CA K E

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Image by Simon Foxall

CHR IST’ BLO OD

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Words by Daniel de Culla

CUES

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Words by Edward Alport

THE WOR LD IS A CAKE

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Words by Tangsu Karmakar

A L L T H AT B LED IN VAM PIRE C OU N T RY

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Words by Edward Alport 010

SIMON FOX ALL 038

L AYE R C A K E

EMILY AS ONE MOR E PIECE OF ART ABO UT EGAN’S (TUSCALO O SA, AL)

Words by Edward Alport

Words by Darren C. Demaree

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A L L MO U N T OF V EN US IN M Y MO U T H

EMILY AS AN UNDER STATED, EXQUISITE WOR K OF INTELLEC T AND LUCID ATTENTION

Collage and Words by Daniel de Culla 016 C H R I S T O S K YRIAKIDES

Words by Darren C. Demaree 040 EMILY AS BEHIND THE CO UNTRYSIDE Words by Darren C. Demaree

042 E NCO U N T E R W ITH BEELZEBUB THE T E MPL A R Collage and Words by Daniel de Culla 046 PAT-A-C A K E … RECIPERE Words and image by Phil Sawdon 050 Short animated film by Jishnu Mukherjee 052 CHEEKS Words by Daniel de Culla 056 I W I L L NO T M A RRY Words and Collage by Daniel de Culla 0 60 T RU MP’S BA NQ UET Words by Daniel de Culla 0 68 WH E N YO U DIE Collage and Words by Daniel de Culla

ISSN 1746-8086 www.stimulusrespond.com The cover this issue is by Simon Foxall Horseboy, pastel on paper, 2026 65cm x 50cm Editor in Chief Jack Boulton jack@stimulusrespond.com Editor – Art Ioannis Tsitsovits ioannis@stimulusrespond.com

Editor – Literature Sourav Roy sourav@stimulusrespond.com

Submissions stimulus@stimulusrespond.com

We welcome unsolicited material from our readers. If you would like to make a contribution to a future issue, please contact the editors. All material is copyright (c) the respective contributors. All rights reserved. No reproduction without prior consent. The views expressed in the magazine are those of the contributors and are not necessarily shared by the magazine. The magazine accepts no responsibility for loss or damage of manuscripts, artwork, photographic prints and transparencies. For contributor’s contact details, please email the editor-in-chief.

Simon Foxall: Untitled (pool party), charcoal and chalk on paper, 2024, 65cm x 50cm

C UES Words by Edward Alport

It’s many years since I last asked me: Why? Why do I do this year after year? And it’s years since anyone answered. Sitting here, waiting Waiting for my cue. Imagining the rows and rows and rows of staring eyes, waiting drink my blood. I put on makeup, cakes of it, layer on layer. A painted pancake face to hide behind and to mouth the lines that I’ve been given. Lines that once made sense to somebody. I must ask them, sometime, and see if their answers make more sense than mine.

ALL T HAT B LE D I N VA M PIRE C OUNT RY Words by Edward Alport We came as travellers, you and I, to where the forests have embraced the land, and the stories told there leave a trail of blood. The sunshine on the painted grass warmed us like an accusation. It remined me that, in this landscape, live monsters, and we shouldn’t be here. Out of the lush, green, regimented foliage where shadows seethed and wept, crawled creepy phalanxes of bilious-yellow slugs congealed from perverted sunlight. Lakes and rivers clotted in their valleys. The mountains cowered in their darkness, and over everything, over everything, glowered The Gateau. Yes. You read that right. The land has turned its back on blood and shadow. Travellers’ tales, these days, tell of cake. And the shadows have been drowned in sweetness, and the crispness of the forests caught in pastry. But the stories that they tell there still are tinged with blood

LAYE R CA K E Words by Edward Alport

Let’s start with a layer of dubious childhood, a layer of innocent lies and casual misdirection. It’s a smooth foundation, not a solid one, but its flavour will be felt throughout. Somewhere, there must be a time when the icing becomes sticky with questions. They cling, and can’t be peeled off. The next layer is dark with hateful adolescence. Everything and everyone is an enemy, even though the warfare has no meaning. Life lurks in shadows, and the shadows overcome it. And now the questions are iced with their own in-built answers: Everybody knows that. And anyone who doesn’t is a dork. The middle layer is thick, but isn’t generous. It is greedy, and takes up space without filling it. It doesn’t look for enemies, but somehow finds them lurking everywhere around. How do you answer questions then there are no answers? Or none you understand? Well, then, rewrite the questions, but with shorter words. Next up, the layer is short of breath and stamina. It is undercooked, and feels soft to the when palpated. It has long since accepted that it is easy prey for any predators that may be nearby. There may have been questions, syruped in the icing. Surely there were questions. Things to be known that were not known. And now will never be. The top layer stares into the darkness. It doesn’t move. It doesn’t need to move. There are no rhythms to the day. No flavour. There are no enemies but time itself. There is no question of icing on this layer, but ash, sprinkled, substitutes for icing sugar.

AL L M O U NT O F VE N US I N M Y M OUT H Collage and Words by Daniel de Culla

-Come in! the landlady ordered me From the apartment building In the Habsburg Quarter, Madrid. It's a shame to waste That magnificent erection of yours. -No rush, I replied. I'm going to be your horse And you my mare. I went in, I saw her lying on a bed Naked and with her ass raised On a cushion made of books All about erotic literature. I was a little scared When I saw her Mount of Venus all covered In yellow and white Because she had just been fucked By a street sweeper from the Plaza Mayor. I ejaculated on the threshold of her cunt And then I started to urinate On her lips So I could discover her clitoris and slit. -Don't bother, I told her When she tried to grab a sponge From a bucket of water That was next to the headboard. -I'll do this! I thoroughly cleaned her cunt From which I saw sperm emerge

Running invitingly Towards her anus and the crest of her mons pubis. Once it was well cleaned Of tartar and dried buds Of used penises and testicles I opened her slit putting my whole mouth inside All the way to the roof of the mouth Of her vagina. -Oh! To eat all of her mons pubis Hair and all Without any qualms It was my true passion. What I wanted most!" -I'm going to have your cunt for a snack now I told her. -You're the one having snacks You son of a bitch, she replied. With her vaginal fluids My catarrhal sputum mingled with hers And with my long tongue I made her Fallopian tubes ring Because I heard a moan inside That made her stick out her tongue. -hy don't you take me with you? she asked. Was your snack sweet? Will you come back? I answered her sulkily: -It wasn't sweet. It was fucking shit!

Sister Filomena's clitoris was sweeter When, while at the Seminary I enjoyed her in the kitchen With her and for her Until I realized That it wasn't made of flesh but of plastic Bought from a street vendor On Desengaño Street Beside Gran Vía.

C H R IS TOS K Y R I A K I DE S

C H R I ST ’ B LOOD Words by Daniel de Culla Image from a Communion booklet

-Here comes Father Pedro To say High Mass And drink his fill of wine Of that local red wine Which he consecrates and elevates In a chalice gilded inside Silvered outside Up to the ceiling of the Church In Carbonero el Mayor In the province of Segovia. My father and the devout men and women Who go to Mass every Sunday And holy days of obligation Tell us that this priest Doesn't consecrate just one chalice But three with a drop of water each And that, when he elevates the consecrated host You can already tell he's a little tipsy Because when he pronounces “God’ Lamb” He says “White She Lamb.” In the Sermon, before finishing it He stops to talk with the parishioners: -How are you, Delia With your happy delivery?

-Listen, Teresa With those sins you confess

The Devil is waiting for you With a sweet erect stick Longing to shove it up your rectum. Tell me, Constantina Sad and afflicted woman How is your husband? Is he dead or alive? Tell me, Daniela Is your husband still lingering Along your prolapsed womb? When Mass ends Don Pedro runs out Wearing shoes seven leagues long Because the village lads Shout to him, but he doesn't answer: Father, we want your hide To make a sheepskin jacket. Your head to make a lantern To light up from September 5th to 9th Our festival in honor Of the Virgin of Bustar (Bustar: pastureland) Virgin of the Charcoal Burners. Your donkey teeth For our grandparents Who need them so much. Your fingernails to catch crickets And black cockroaches.

Your tail to make a fan For Your daughter Born to the widow Gervasia Your ever-present friend. In the afternoon, after coffee A glass and a Havana cigar Don Pedro heads to the village bar To play a game Leaping and skipping Along the Eresma River So he's tired. They play Mus And, during a break in the game To have a round of coffee or a shot His companions ask him: -Tell us, Father As a card player always a friend What do you say to the young women When they go to confession? -When they go to confession Because the flesh is weak I always tell them: -How I would love to see you give birth And see God in the heaven of your vagina! The honorable widows The lovely young women How beautifully they dress to come to Mass!

TH E WORL D IS A CA K E Words by Tangsu Karmakar

What defines a cake? Is it the moment of its baking and presentation, or the act of dividing it into pieces? This question is complex, and the premise may have been introduced somewhat ambiguously. In reality, clarity regarding global events is often elusive and obscured. The purpose of examining this concept is to highlight that humanity has consistently lived within a world characterized by shifting borders, essentially thriving on a ‘divided cake’. It began with Pangea, the original “cake,” which was fragmented across the globe by shifting plate tectonics. But we as humans could not make a considerable shift, but we started naming them and tried to make it home. The concept was very small then. They would consider those small pieces as their world. The cakes were floating on this vast sea. A sea without a name. Every cake had its own sea. But they didn’t know that the sea was the only connectivity to reach from one cake to another. A large group was content in the piece of cake that they were thriving upon, though they would travel across land to reach from one corner of the cake to the other to discover what had been occupying those corners. Much later they came to know that similar looking people had been thriving there, soon they came up with the idea of either befriending them, or killing them in order to gain ownership of the land. A cake is only truly defined once it is sliced; otherwise, it is merely a confection. This itself shows that violence of the most smallest form had been the very basis of human existence. This reminds me of a video that surfaced on social media where we could see Queen Elizabeth cut her one of the last birthday cakes, with a big knife which resembled a sword and she put the knife in the hurt of the cake and pulled the handle of the knife to cut it through. The whole act had a history of violence which had been inflicted on this planet and the orders came from the infamous castle, which ruled the planet for more than four hundred years. Cutting a cake into pieces had been quite an obsession of the race of humans from which the queen belonged and they would cut their best colony into three halves and would create pastries soaked in blood and sweat of common people which they would keep enjoying decades after they had left the land. The cake became our fate. We are still fighting to enlarge the size of the cake we have got to preserve for ‘our’ people. Our People. This is a very important expression. Time has passed, technology has advanced but we still believe in the pieces and we label people on the basis of the pieces of cakes they belong to. We commit the most unthinkable form of crime to grab upon these pieces we call nations. There was a time when we as nationals from a ‘third world’ nation used to get awed by the nations in the western hemisphere of this planet, by their style, their ease of existence and their education. We knew a distance was there, to reach that. Though that distance is not completely eased for every class, that distinction is still there, but for a mass who had the privilege of reading and writing and expressing their thought to be inflicted upon a mass are still in a limbo of this cake-ish existence and fighting to increase their territory. I am highlighting that in a globalized world, we have to see beyond the cake and try to join more of the land even divided by the sea. This is the ripe time where we should dilute all the borders and recognise ourselves as the citizens of this one whole planet and thrive towards a much more peaceful coexistence, which can always be achieved and the truth is in front of us.

I know the readers shall say it is an useless utopian thought and does not hold any relevance, but we as human who claim to have done all the new things on this planet, which counts in movements like renaissance to industrial revolution, modernity to pop culture, should able to see the truth by the similar outbreaks happening parallelly on various corners of this planet, and should able to recognise how we are being fed the importance of the cake as our identity. To draw a conclusion about this whole cake business that I have been able to bring to the attention of the readers, it is important to shed light on how we can think of this unity more by comparing the situation of India and Iran. Since the US has been playing this blockade and war game. In order to support this motion there is a fresh hatred that has outgrown in India. Though that is primarily among those who have no idea about the cultural and historical relation of Iran and India. The regime in Iran had been rogue towards its own citizen for quite some time and we as netizens (unfortunately not yet global citizens) have seen the sporadic protests made against the feral laws of the land to curb the process of free thinking and liberal life style which tarnishes the idea of Islam, a belief of the system which was running Iran. Now lets proudly speculate to understand a bigger truth about the present global leaderships and their loop holes which should be recognised and then should be fought. Iran had been putting these free and liberal minds to jail and trying to stop the voices and expressions from propagation among their fellow countrymen. The biggest example being Iranian filmmaker Jafar Panahi. Panahi was jailed for the second time in a very recent time and before that he had been banned and jailed for twenty years. Similarly we could see that in India as well the present regime had applied similar mechanisms upon activists like Umar Khalid, Stan Swamy, Anand Teltumbde, Gautam Naulakha, Varavara Rao and many others. Reason being simple both the nation states and their present regime have a stark distinct hatred for rational thinking. But in both the places or rather on both the cakes, people are suffocating from the internal degradation of the quality of life of the common citizens and the urge to break free from the shackles of the regime. Well understood that we as citizens under the influence of these dictatorial leadership have been suffocating. The ways of our suffocation are also similar. But then what? Here comes the last part of this painstaking speculation. After the US attack Iranians are quite in a fix, since under a dictatorial influence, a safeguarding nation turns to safeguarding the regime that is running the business of the state. Oil has always been the matter of conflict and Iran needed the oppressor gone. America jumps in, puts in the charade of a war and enters Iran with bombs and missiles and kills a few innocent citizens and “their” leader. The reason for this speculation is that in the whole equation we could see that it is our l;ives which is primarily at stake and what we need to do is to overthrow these world orders and to bring in something which is nothing but a universal brotherhood and should watch out to solve the planet is having or our actions has started a process of transformation for the planet which will not be favourable for many on this globe.

S I M ON FOX A L L

Simon Foxall is a British painter, born in Jeddah in 1983 and now based in Italy, where he runs the queer art and writing residency Ca’ d’la Vòlp. Trained at Brighton University and the Royal College of Art, Foxall works in figurative oil painting, treating the canvas as a shrine-like threshold where queerness moves between cultural archetype and lived intimacy. Drawing on Classicism, the Baroque, pornography and pop, his paintings – often posed by friends, lovers and himself – hold desire, anxiety, fantasy and love in productive tension, embracing beauty, humour and the erotic as a serious, sacred terrain.

Untitled (Edenic), pastel on paper, 2026, 65cm x 50cm

Untitled (Fawns), pastel on paper, 2026, 65cm x 50cm

Garden at the Villa Santorini, sketches, 2025, pastel on paper

car wash boy, coloured pencil on paper, 2024, 29cm x 35cm

Bel Vue, oil on canvas, 2022, 30cm x 40cm

Red Room Nude, pastel on paper, 2025, 65cm x 50cm

E MILY AS O NE M O R E P I EC E OF A RT ABOUT EG A N’ S (TU SCALO O SA , A L) Words by Darren C. Demaree

I would carry light if all the fires that started at Egan’s needed to be tongue kissed by someone that has been bathed by Emily’s tongue. Shit gets weird everywhere, but no place holds on to the chaos of it will be okay to throw a dart into a girl’s leg just because Emily heard I kissed her once while we were broken up like Egan’s holds on to that rampant fucking chaos. Nobody notices a limp if everyone is limping. We all walk different, anyway. Emily swaggers leaving that place. That’s why I miss it.

E MILY AS A N U N D ERSTAT E D, E XQ UI S I T E WOR K OF IN T ELLEC T A ND LU C ID ATT E N T I ON Words by Darren C. Demaree

The real nightmare is holding all the honey & having to describe the drip without visiting the bees that took a queen & buried me in her project neck deep. Drown me in her, you cowards.

E MILY AS B EH IND T H E C OUN T RYS I DE Words by Darren C. Demaree

It’s an intimate catalog of hidden places where my everyday attention becomes an exhaustive hike where I follow Emily carrying both of our packs so I can see her ass better. We all have our hero’s quests. I’ve only ever had the one.

ENCO U NT ER W IT H BE E LZE B UB T H E T E M P LA R Collage and Words by Daniel de Culla

One summer afternoon I was sitting in a Madrid metro car Marqués de Vadillo - La Latina line When I saw Beelzebub dressed as a Templar In a velvet suit Who, as the metro turned a corner Showed us his open fly With a carnal lay at the door All dressed in black For he had placed A black condom on it. -Look, look, he told us. What a pity for a penis, it's dying Because Christians and Moors Have refused to enjoy its beauty. He turned to some nuns who were in the car Puting his penis in front of them To see if he could get anything Saying to them with compassion: -Look, look at this pity. Embrace it and eat it For it will be your salvation. The nuns answered him very firmly and steadily: -No, we prefer to die. Take that penis away from us So we can't see it, you wicked man. He, making a windmill with his penis Said to them amiably: -Do your womanly duties first. Have pity on me.

Give him a swift death, for God's sake For I was in the Crusades And I didn't get a single crumb But they gave it to me Making the penis into a shish kebab Amidst Christian laughter and guffaws. Sister Trinidad, the bravest of them Standed up from her seat And, approaching him, said: -Look, look at this joke. Grabbing his penis Twisting it until it was like a prune Amidst devilish sperm. Compassionately, she continued, saying to him: -At the next station La Latina There are security guards. See what you do And don't travel this way again. Beelzebub opened the door that connects To the last car Seeing him Everyone threw himself onto the tracks. We don't know if his throat Severed the train's wheels. What we do know is that In the newspapers the next day There was no news of it.

PAT- A - CA K E … REC IPE RE Words and image by Phil Sawdon For TOMORROW Admiration and Approbation ONE Timely TWO Scene One: Early Evening Scene Two: Later that Night THREE Tardy THE BAKER PHIL SAWDON as THE BAKER, The Founder and Keeper of The Fictional Museum of Drawing, a few years older. THE SCENE A scullery in The Fictional Museum of Drawing. A white room … threadbare curtains … black-out. The floor flagged with limestone and brick … well-scrubbed boards… a copper and curiously … an oven behind an easel. The sink is correspondingly stone and wood lined with zinc oxide. Now. ONE TIMELY To be baked aloud: In the white room THE BAKER squats and looks around from one [recipe] to the other. They read … stimulus → respond … stimulus → respond.

THE BAKER [mocking sing-song]: Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, ... and pat-a-cake Baker’s man. So I will as I can, and I’ll prick it, and prick it, and prick it, and prick it, and prick it, and cast it into the oven. Sixteen98 … [Louder] …THE CAMPAIGNERS ? …Thank you [quietly]. ASIDE: Strive to bind the pages in leather and pivot. Put in some very fine lines and scatter … dress the lid, and resume the bake. Cut it open and hammer it well for a little nuance. Ascribe yet another heat in the oven, and I will then be fit for use. Perfumed echoes of Wayne Thiebaud’s confections [Cakes, 1963] in neat rows, rhythmic pattern and orderly structures. Frosting, icing with thick textured oil paint, impasto, precise drawing … a multiplicity of possible readings. THE BAKER [mixing, hardly listening]: Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, ... Baker’s man. CURTAIN … DRIP TWO SCENE ONE EARLY EVENING Same set; before dinner, next evening. THE BAKER still sitting alone, pares the plumbago so very, very thin, then pauses before grinding what remains in a large limestone mortar … a delicate inkstick … probably half a pound of soot and glue and numerous herbal yolks; grind until it’s all of a colour then pours it into a bowl in which there is already a layered sheet. THE BAKER [a little embarrassed, looking up, mutters]: Does grinding preclude trouble? Am I finer and thinner than you can shred or beat … But you must beat up the butter, iron gall, sugar and the eggs … mix them well. Do any of you have the stomach for it? [A half smile] Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, ... Baker’s man. CURTAIN … DRIP

SCENE TWO LATER THAT NIGHT Same set, after dinner, the same evening. THE BAKER standing in a corner, facing the wall, has a change of mind … shakes … laughs softly … retreats into uncertainty and rushes to close the oven door which is behind the easel. THE BAKER [withering, yet mostly audible]: Mix dried flowers, sifted sugar, and laundered clean raisins. Cleanse the cuttlefish in rose water, beat it well, then mix it with blacks and whites blended discretely … put in the dry ingredients by measures; beat the whole in perpetuity; butter the trivial tins, cracked tea-cups and patterned saucers, then bake the batter, jamming only half. I should sift a little lamp black over as I put it into the oven. [As if very little had happened] Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake ... Baker’s man. CURTAIN … DRIP

THREE TARDY The next morning; same set. THE BAKER alone in a chair, wearing ink stained nightclothes, a robe and carpet slippers. THE BAKER [Looking at the clock, there is no emotion only an inkwell and four glasses of frozen orange juice, cuts several slices and witters]: Count an equivalent quantity with as many slight flowers as necessary … mix a little of the former with the latter … wet it with as little as will make into a stiff paste. Roll it out in slices … turn in the ends … roll it thin … twice, and touch it no more … it may be better to do so … Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake … Baker’s man. EXIT [Subdued and sleepy] CURTAIN … DRIP

Phil Sawdon, Linear Connectives at the Birthday Party, 2026, digital print. Image courtesy of the artist.

Short animated film by Jishnu Mukherjee

See the film at www.stimulusrespond.com

The cake is sweet The fake is too The flavour may be coffee Let the copy brew This work is an humble attempt to demystify the apparent difference that is the sole selling point of any product belonging in a same category. And as the narrator of “Fight Club” says, everything is a copy of a copy of a copy... So I consider the above work as an ad for the ad nauseum propaganda.

C HE E KS Image by Rekt Mag, Words by Daniel de Culla

Buttocks or cheeks like these Disturbed Don Quixote When he saw them on Dulcinea del Toboso In an inn in La Mancha Uttering an "O" like a bray That frightened the windmills And a gentle stray dog That was barking loudly At Dulcinea Because it had become fond of her. Now Don Quixote completely mad Flipped through his own book by Cervantes Finding an opinion, which is: -When you go to take a shit Start reading Don Quixote For it is the best thing for defecating. Remember that Dulcinea had told him: -If you start to take a shit in front of my balcony Don't dream of having a party with me. But he, stubborn as ever Before reaching her He wanted to bring peace to the world Getting involved in many fights Rocking windmills Like Sancho Panza often did With his wife Teresa Panza And not Mari Gutiérrez Who was a Don Quixote’ s cheap concubine.

Once he tried to make peace Between two who were fighting He ended up beaten to a pulp And nearly castrated. When Don Quixote showed Sancho Dulcinea's cheeks He couldn't contain himself, and said: -My lord, these cheeks are worthy Of being sung about. You can get good cuts of meat from those buttocks. Seeing that the two of them Were aroused, a farmer said to them: If you wish, I'll take a kiss To your beloved and dreamed Dulcinea. Give me a kiss on the asshole And I'll fly to El Toboso, Toledo Faster than the smoke that comes out From your cavalrys That are getting mounted.

I W IL L NOT M A RRY Collage and Words by Daniel de Culla

“Oh, oh, oh! What work the Lord gives us To rise and bend down again All day long in the wind and the sun. Oh, oh, oh! What a memory of my reaper! Do not reap the fields of grain For I follow behind the sickles. Oh, oh, oh! I do not reap the fields of grain Because I wait for you to come here To hear what love is worth. Oh, oh, oh! If love awaits me by your side I don't care about the wind or the sun Or that you uproot the grain.” My mother, doing her housework She could always be heard singing these verses From the song Las Espigadoras "La Rosa del Azafrán" Zarzuela in two acts and six scenes By Federico Romero and Guillermo Fernández Shaw Music by Jacinto Guerrero Premiered at the Teatro Calderón in Madrid On March 14, 1930 Which my parents loved For they went to see it almost every afternoon. My eight sisters would ask my mother: -But, Mother, why do you sing this While you work hard day after day? My mother, lovingly, would answer them: -My daughters, when I work I sing

Because that way I forget my unhappy love Who is your proper father Chosen at random by the God who created us. The eldest sister asked my mother: -Why can be heard saying: -"What fault is it of the thyme that it was born so low?" -My daughter, God has placed Love Between our thighs At the very bottom of our bodies Waiting for the thrust of a peasant's member To lift it to its highest point. The youngest also asked: -But, Mother, what is marriage? -Marriage, my daughter, is: Cooking, sewing, embroidering Cleaning, washing, and fucking even if you don't want to And being all dolled up and very pretty Waiting for the husband who comes home Tired from work But longing for a break So he can fuck you like a donkey Because God and his holy Church command it Besides, he's the one who brings money home. -But, Mother, then what do you do when you're dating? -My daughters, what you do is milk the peasants Which is what pleases men most. Milking isn't a science It's a very difficult and exhausting Art¡

At your feet the chosen lout will lie Before the altar of marriage If you know how to practice it. On the other hand, if you marry You must know That if you do not give him the joy of your rose When he likes and wants it He will go to other rosebushes to deflower these Even if they are already withered or wilted. The youngest replied: -Mother, I will not marry Because when a cunt is stained It cleans itself and shines again.

TR U M P’S BA NQUE T Gulliver in Lilliput - Engraving by Bivan-Denon (The Pillow Book) Words by Daniel de Culla

-Don't you know that Trump Is having a grand banquet At the White House Located in the northwest quadrant At 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue In Washington, D.C. For his first year in office Imitating Plato's "the Banquet? After performing his well-known dance Like a drooling fool, a complete idiot With the soul of a madman In which he sings, or rather whispers: “I married a tailless cat Niece of a brown cat”. He sat sprawled out In the best chair in the dining room Waiting for his best vassals to enter Whom he will place to his right While to his left will be positioned His murderous ICE guards With their dicks fully erect Ready to kill at any moment Like stupid, murderous mosquitoes Adults, tall people, pregnant women Like overweight people Who demonstrate against Trump Announcing with great fanfare: -Our President

This beautiful orange Trump Through the effort of Love Raises his dick to God Which is the true thought of Plato And of the priests of the religion of God. After exclaiming: -Meow, meow, meow Because he saw a black cat fall from the roof A cat that broke Seven ribs, its spine, and its tail Who, at the smell of the roast in the wood-fired oven Has risen again, telling his murderers Who guard and watch over him: -A cat has seven lives. With his blond right hand he orders: -Let the noblest guests enter To see what gifts they have brought me. The first to enter is the one from Israel Followed by seven Jewish women As beautiful as that Salome With the head of John the Baptist Painted by Caravaggio With a silver tray in their hands Carrying a Palestinian head Roasted in the embers and ruins of Gaza. The second one to enter is from Argentina Hand in hand with his pink sister Who brings a rusty, secondhand saw

To cut off the clitorises Represented by lupin beans Of a hundred of the worst dancers In their St. Vitus' dance. Lupin beans that will be cooked Like clams marinara As a first course That drives Trump crazy And that are, as he himself has said: -My favorites. The richest in my opinion. Trump has been seen laughing his head off When he saw the Argentine president Coming in sucking his dead dog's dick. The third one, or the third woman, has been from Italy With her two melons or pronounced breasts Below her cleavage That have set him ablaze Especially when he whispered in her ear: -I burn with a mad desire to see That swastika painted below your right nipple And kiss it so that it's engraved on my tongue.

My cock has come back to life! And he gave him a book pulled From his underwear: "Good Vibrations - The Complete Guide to Vibrators" By Joanie Blank.

The fourth, the one from Hungary Who came in very cheerful With his dick out Making Trump Tyrups and caresses with his erect cock. Then several other presidents Who came in touching their balls. All seated at the table About two hundred men and women The men staring at the women's genitals In a voyeuristic way All of them looking at the plate "Irene's Cunt" by Louis Aragon The women eagerly awaiting the second course Which, as advertised: "Trump's enormous penis baked With imagined vine shoot fire" In the style of the engraving by Bivan-Denon: "Gulliver in Lilliput". They already roasted the large figurative penis With lots of sugar and honey. And Trump, at the first bite He said to his wife Addressing the other women with a smile: -My wife, ladies, where will you put it? At once, a voice jumped up I don't know if it came from the Venezuelan opposition lady The one with the Nobel Peace Prize

Who said: -Illustrious president, choose a piece of that penis And corner me against the wall. At dessert, there was laughter all around And, at the smell of lupin beans - repeated clams All the penises came back to life. Before starting that Trumpian dance The president himself read a letter From the capital of Spain Signed by a lay oblate Which said, well written by his press office: -Dear President made in USA: Congratulations on your first victorious year. I write to you with a feather from a bird, “the Dove” And sacred blood from a menstrual period. By means of a My emissary I bring you a half bushel of wheat From the lands of Don Quixote Which your beloved ICE assassins will grind with their teeth Who stormed the Capitol To accompany Your next great roasted penis In the oven with vine shoots Trusting that you will invite me next year Because my eyes want to see and taste it. Trump read the letter at one o'clock Answering it at three: -Dear President of the Sunset

In the Gulf of Mexico Now of the United States of America: I will be very angry If you don't come to see me next year. Don't do me that disrespectful Because I will send my uniformed serial killers To bring you here even if it's Legs spread And held by the feet.

W H E N YOU D IE Collage and Words by Daniel de Culla

An honest woman, Cojonuda Was by the bedside Where her husband, Cojonudo, slept alone. He had terminal prostate cancer That he had contracted As punishment from God For having scorned his wife By cheating on her before her afternoon nap: -Wife, I'm going to buy tobacco When what he was really doing Was walking along the banks of the Rudrón River From San Felices to Valdelateja In the province of Burgos To try and pick up a skirt Where no one could see them. Cojonudo always complained to Cojonuda That he only had four days left to live And he had been like this For more than seven years! When he fell asleep She would play the organ for him And she always laughed at seeing him deader Than the rabbit he used to kill In the Sedano Valley. When he woke up, she'd say Touching his skin: -Cojonudo, it has no life left To this terrible beast

Who used to torment me By pulling my panties all the way in. When you die I won't go to your funeral Because I don't want to look like a dishonored widow With two children we have Who aren't yours if not from a Galician soldier Who came to fish for trout. But I promise you That I'll go and pee on your grave And, when they dig you up I'll drink wine from your skull With a skewer of grilled blood sausage Remembering yours. Cojonuda has already gone to bed. Cojonudo begged her Not to close the door. When he felt her asleep He went to the refrigerator And took out a blood sausage Bought the other day At the Monastery of San Pedro de Cardeña. He went back to her bedroom And, opening her legs He put his sausage in her vagina. From the effort he made to put it in Cojonudo was left dead

To the left of the bed Hitting his head on the floor. When Cojonuda woke up She didn't see her dead husband But only that sausage That was sticking out of her vagina Jumping around the right side of the bed Running towards the cemetery Thinking they were burying him Because she didn't see her husband at home. From the energy she had And the shouts she gave The cemetery chaplain came out Saying these words to her: -But Cojonuda, my dear daughter in God Cojonudo's coffin hasn't come in here He's dead next to your bed. Cojonuda was left half dead Handing the blood sausage to the priest Saying through her tears: -Father, take this blood sausage That my husband roasted It's a shame to waste it. I can do without it.