Friday 5 May 2023

3 Poems by Daniel de Culla


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¡


"Devil's Ring" call the Clitoris

Some religious

And some cloistered nuns

What do they see in the vertical smile

Of the feminine loving body

The virtue that claps and kisses

The evil inclinations of the male

Or the devil

That are better than bread

Or the Couplets of the Mystique

What does she tell us like her:

-Well, let's go to bed.

Let's make sacrifice

That a good night anyone spends it.

The grace of seeing and touching a Clitoris

It appeared to me

While sleeping

Put the head

Under the pillow

Looking from the navel to Sex

And in the mesh of stockings

A stuffed with mystical crosses

Of a female who says that she goes

For mayor or president

Of a Community or Nation.

Like me, back in the day

I gave myself to Religion and Philosophy

I stripped this half body

Putting away all the crosses

Pulling them hard

Against the floor

Bowing to Pussy

That it was vicious, a thief and a forger

Ringing and pressing your doorbell

That it sounded like a plate or crockery

In a kitchen sink.

With the googly eyes of a monkey

I put my head between her thighs

Licking lips and nymphs

Biting her clitoris

Jumping, later, with it in the mouth.

She who saw it, she didn't care

And, laughing, she blurted out this proverb

Leaning on a sideboard or table

Consistory Style:

"Laughing, and without Clitoris

I will win the elections.”


Sitting on the bus behind this girl with two beautiful braids,

which I couldn't help but photograph, my virtue was unable to

overcome the evil inclination that led me to entangle my passion for

her between her bonds. I fixedly looked at her parting and her nape,

mentally wishing to produce a burning sensation in her that would

reach her head and from there to her beautiful Sex.

I was dying of passion for her; she widened my fly; begging the

Devil to help me:

-Satan, whisper in her ear and tell the girl that the man behind her

wants to masturbate with her braids and cum on her neck, as he did in

other times with her girlfriends, all of them whores .

Satan had to say something to the young woman, because she

moved in her seat and, before getting off at her stop, turned her head

back, noticing the slimy signs that I was sending her, because she fixed

me with a look of killer woman.

I smiled at her with my false teeth that moved in my jaws, she

could not avoid a smile that made her get off the bus in a hurry and

turn to me, already at the stop, showing me her boxer pose and tight

pants that she drew on her crotch the lips of her cunt.

I stuck my tongue out of it, making the gesture of licking it; but I

only licked the glass of the bus window that separated me from her.

She made me the "son of a bitch" sign with her right hand.

-Well, I told myself. What are you going to do? Any bad trip happens

to any one.


Daniel de Culla is a writer, poet, painter and photographer. He’s member of the Spanish Writers Association, Earthly Writers International Caucus, Poets of the World, (IA) International Authors,
Surrealism Art, Friends of The Blake Society, Nietzsche Circle, Red Internacional de Escritores por la Tierra, and others. Director of Gallo Tricolor Review, and Robespierre Review. He participated in many
Festivals of Poetry, and Theater, and has collaborated and collaborates with various magazines and reviews such as: Otoliths; The Stray Branch, Ariel Chart, The Penmen Review, The Sandy River
Review, Raven Cage Zine, Down in the Dirt Magazine, Envision Arts, Allien Buddha Zine, The Creativity Webzine, Lighten Up Online, The Poet Magazine, Paragraph Planet, Uppagus, ReSite, GloMag, Fleas on the Dog, LAROLA, RAL’M, Misery Tourism, Leavings, The Creative Zine, Terror House Press, PS: It’s Still Poetry, Open Doors Review,Tigers Shark Magazine, Words Rhymes & Rhythm, Synchronized Chaos Magazine, Athens Art, Street Cake, Littoral Magazine, The Poet Magazine, Best Poems encyclopedia, Ranger,
 and others. e-mail: County of origin: Spain.City: Burgos.

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