procession

It is a crazy intermingling of beings, winged devils and rams, fallen angels, big dogs, dragons, mutilated animals and chimeras dancing an interminable bacchanal of impinging music.
The Procession runs inside. Inside the body that is. Within a lace of tissues and organs that make up the landscape. The skull is up there with its million orifices. Tiny bones connect tissues and vertebrae with its enchanted osteoporosis forests. There lie the lungs sad and black after all those years of smoking. The heart, connected beautifully to thousands of veins red and blue runs in a hurry up and down, low and behold. A thoracic cavity is an estranged cave where sadness finds a home and anxiety hides at the wee hours of the morning. Eventually misery and desperation come and find seats in this auditorium as well.

Very low under the fatty seeds of the belly where lots of tiny creatures coexist in a regime of oxymoron and entropy, lies the seat of the reproductive organs. These work mainly at night, but sometimes during the day hurling a party for euphoria and lust coupled with language that drops directly from the brainy tissue up in the hinterlands. Resentment finds itself harbored between the knees or at the tip of the ankles, in ball shaped lactic formations like stalagmites or some other untenable prophecies.

At the end of the procession stands a mix of sheep and oyster. The sheep's head greets everyone at the entrance. The body is a clay oyster finely crafted, with a clitoral inside, its small booted legs hanging in front acting as a carriage.
Quite a site.