Posted: 12 Jul 2018 02:41 AM PDT  Estaba una señorita sentadita en su balcón que quiquiriquí que quirico y la ministra lo miró CARMEN CALVO CULTURA DE LA MUERTE Pixidixi la ministra Clavo sigue haciéndonos un calvo a la decencia con su indecencia a la inteligencia con su falta de luces. No es mala persona pero la padecí como era ministra. Mi situación mejor pues los tiempos terribles fueron los de Aguirre. Carmen Calvo es de un erotismo místico echarla un polvo debe de ser como subir el pedregal de la vía dolorosa, es la ministra dolorista de los suspiros. Cordobesa guapetona que defiende la eutanasia,. Ojo a los viejos, les aguardan los hornos crematorios. Nos van a mandar a todos a Auschwitz. Uno se queda con ganas de piropearla y rezarla una oración como al Cristo de los Faroles pero ya digo no da más de sí. A estas horas no sabemos sin son galgos o son podencos si buharros o bardajes lo que circula por la Gran Vía. Esto de la violencia de genero parece un comodín que se inventó el gobierno para suspender los trabajos consistoriales y salir a la plaza de la Constitución a mediodía cuando dan las doce un minuto de silencio. Un minuto de silencio. Ponerse serios y repetir lo de nunca más y al minuto siguiente ya están los maridos asesinos apuntillando a sus mujeres. Amor jifero cultura de la muerte. La maté porque era mía ya no se lleva aquello de la mujer en casa y atada a la pata la cama pues nos salieron corredoras. Se lamenta doña Carmen que muere una española casi todos los días a mano de sus parejas. Diagnosis: la patria está enferma. Y lleva toda la razón pero es lo que quieren los del contubernio al que ella pertenece. Quien tuvo retuvo pero la cultura de la muerte vive y reina entre los otros. Derraman lágrimas de cocodrilo los de la castuza: ahí los tenemos templando gaitas en los medios digitales y todo ese abrumador agit prop de la mala sangre y la mala prensa. Cultura de la muerte. Se ha eximido al sexo de su función reproductora un asunto privado de placer. No quieren saber que Eros y Tanatos conviven bajo el mismo techo desde la antigüedad. Tratan de cambiar la naturaleza de las cosas. Estos son tiempos oscuros de amores oscuros y saturninos. No se puede santificar lo que es una merma de la naturaleza. Ni hacer de un marica un héroe. Saturnismo y Tribadismo a gran escala, ya va dicho. El furor gay el arco iris la telemierda ventilando basura las chiquitas y chochos de la prensa los bustos parlantes nos vienen con sus milongas uterinas y han regresado las torturas mentales de aquellos confesores del nacionalcatolicismo y cuantas veces, hijo. Ya estamos con que la abuela fuma. Te la metió o no te la metió. Procacidades libidinosas. Nuestra tele se ha convertido en un burdel pero sin lozanas andaluzas con una plantel de mirones con cara de estreñidos y reprimidos. En el sexo hay que decir si o no. Como Cristo nos enseña. ¿Consentiste al pecado de la carne? ¿Sucumbió usted a la tentación. Los talking shows de las reinas de las mañanas y las noches se refieren en sus comentarios tertulieros a la manada no de toros ni de bueyes duendos porque no están castrados todavía y van por los soportales bajándoles las bragas a las mocitas casaderas que andan desesperadas en noches de fiesta. Viva san Fermín y muera Hemingway que fue el que soltó a la manada. No Mrs Calvo no suelte usted los mihuras métalos en el corral. Aquí lo que hace falta es un buen mayoral que ponga orden. Hay que meterles mano. Acción directa, claro está. |
london bridge is broken down lady my lady le Posted: 06 Jul 2018 02:00 AM PDT 1980CHRISTMAS IN MY LONDON DAYS. THE PASCUAL SERMON OF THE ARCHIBISHOP OF CANTERBURY. HOW I MET HIM WHEN HE WAS A NORMAL PRIEST ATTENDING A LONDON CONGREGATION AT EMPTY CHURCH. Antonio Parra Sadness and drabness empty streets with echo of cheering bells. I remember one Christmas Eve in Saint Chads Parish South Kensington. The Anglican priest officiated for a congregation of two people an old lady with hat the prayer book in her hands and myself. Congregations those days like now were scarce. Nearby the shop of Harrods was full to the brim. Él vino a los suyos y los suyos no le recibieron, says John in the last evangel. The priest wore a cassock of Henry the VIII days but the cannon was intact. Te igitur clementissime pater but the magnificent Latin translated to archaic English words and there he was with alba and the maniple and the cincture of chastity. That evening it was a cold day and a grey light dropping tears of rain went through the gothic windowpane words and benedictions only for the old lady and me. He wore the red ornaments of the martyrs. It was saint Thomas Becket day. There I found that the church is eternal. Although empty. The solitude of Christ confirms that part of the great mystery. The priest let me sing the epistyle from the rostrum and my voice resounded in the empty aisles with the recite of the Gospel of Nativity. In those magic words (prasepium, no room for them in the inn) were concealed the mysteries of incarnation. In mundo erat et mundum per ipsum factum est et mundus eum non cognovit. In propia venit et sui eum non receperunt. Quodquod autem receperumt eum dedit eis potestatem filios Dei fieri, his qui credunt in Nomine ejus qui non ex sanguine neque ex voluntate carnis neque ex voluntate viri sed ex Deo nati sunt (genuflexion) High theology in a few phrases. I felt the joy and the sadness of Christianity. It reminded me of my own life and my own sins. Faith is to believe in something that we never saw or have seen. I was looking for my daughter Helen and I found her but my in laws and my ex did not want to receive me. The sons of the spirit are higher that the sons of the flesh. In propia venit et sui autem non receperunt. I came to my people and I found the doors of the inn complete closed. No body answered my calls like the poor family of Nazareth. No place for me poor sinner in the diversorium. No room no inn. That was also part of the mystery of my Xmas Days. The rules of the blood are different from the rule of the Holy Spirit. That was the reason. That was the key. Christmas usually is sad melancholy day. Because of that. We are sons and daughters of God no sons and daughters of the blood and flesh. What I did was to pray for my little one. She was a tug of war child. And also I pray for my ex. She had undergone an operation to extirpate a cancer from her throat. She came well and now she lives in Cornwall a retired old lady like the one who attended Mass with me at that Christmas Eve many a year ago, 35 years have gone. I am still trying to contact them. But still all I have is rebuke. No. No. Still I pray God asking to keep them well. Great sins have I ought committed to deserve such an ill treatment. A father who is denied access to his daughter. That is no a human right? We live in the age of paradox. My daughter is a neonatal nurse. Works as a matron in a London hospital. My ex an school master lives in retirement. Still there is the sadness, the joy of the nativity of out Lord and the melancholy of the evening London light coming through the altar where that priest with an air of boredom and tiredness consecrated the body and the blood of Christ. That young parson later on became the actual Archbishop of Canterbury. Hoc est enim corpus meum. In a way that Anglican presbyter fascinated me by his parsimony he has a vivid stare and eyebrows like an owl and I always was very interested by the Church of Canterbury. Great archbishops men of learning and prayer occupied the See created by saint Austin an occupied by St. Thomas Beckett. Canterbury always has had an independent leaning toward the secular power. Politically the head of the Church of England is the Queen by the spiritual power lays on the primate of Canterbury and also in the See of York. I remember Dr Runcie and Ramsey and also Dr. Fisher. They called him the Red Archbishop only because he tried to establish a pact of no aggression with Russia. Nowadays the actual successor of Saint Austin has criticized vividly the usury and lack of sensibility of Capitalism towards the underdog and the ones in need, those who bear the crunch of the big crisis. Christ is true has spoken through the mouth of His eminence. Dr Cowan is gaunt big and lean man highbrows that make him look like an owl. His homilies and sermons need to be taken in consideration by a materialistic society. And hit the first pages of the tabloids, He is a great theologian. And also a reflection; while Rome according to its tradition always alleged with the powerful of this earth other churches try to preserver the real tenets of the Gospel. Spiritus ubi vult expirat and Dr Rowan Cowan has spoken in the line of the real ecumenism. God bless him. Today I have officiated with him as a deacon the great mass of the nativity in the solitude of my room. He came to his own and he was not well received by them. Why? Because he proclaimed the Truth. Thursday, 25 December 2008 |
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