Literary Yard

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‘Frogs’ Love’ and other poems

By: Daniel de Culla


In a week without Thursday
My grandson brings to the pond
On Paseo de la Isla, Burgos
Two beautiful frogs to see
If they love each other
And they raise, as he says, “little frogs”
In my carelessness
A gentleman has passed
One of these with bad intentions
Perhaps a pedophile
Very similar to Rancé
French Abbot of Paris
Reformer of the Trappist order
And he told him:
-Beautiful young boy
I would give you a box of chocolates
Like these from Chocolates Trapa
From Dueñas, Palencia
If you come with me
To the “Miguel de Cervantes” Municipal Library
To view and search the books
Of Rampant Dinosaurs
With feet resting on the ground
The raised body
And the hands in the attitude of grasping or taking
That I know you like them a lot.
The gentleman “Calambre”, as they call him
Bent over, ready to touch him
Saying to himself:
-Never better occasion
Well, his grandfather is pissing
Hidden behind that Plane tree
Dominican tree.
Standing in these words
The grandfather came to the child
Changing “Calambre”’ color.
-What’s wrong with you, you old bastard?
I said.
Crows gouge out your eyes
And snakes your heart.
If you have a fever
Approach that individual
Rough, disheveled, vulgar
That he is touching his ass
And what he cries out for
Sitting on that bench
That he wants to lie with a man.
And if not, go to the block
Of the Spanish and Leonese Language Institute
And do what your father told you to do
When you wanted to have fun with your sister.
That “Retort” that I guessed in its fly
It is worthy of being hunted and killed
By the hunters of the mountains of León.
Go to hell!
Take your grandmother, your daughter
Teach it better.
Or your son-in-law, or your neighbor’s boy
That he grabbed it with his hand
Taking you to his house
Giving you a good beating
That your bones were dislocated.
Leave the frogs alone
Let them begin to Love
Fuckercok sucker pig bastard¡
My grandson smiling.


Yesterday I dreamed that I was the King Witiza’s son
That with his brothers and Count Julian
Contributed to the invasion of Spain
By the Arabs, and its subsequent conquest
Dismembering, murdering and raping
Left and right everywhere
Reincarnating me, later, in Cayo Oppio
One of Caesar’s lieutenants
That he wiped his ass with the leaves
From his illustrious works titled
“War of Alexandria”, “War of Africa”
And “Spanish War”
That Caesar did the same while shitting
Although this one liked to clean himself more
With the index and middle fingers
From the left hand
To then write on the walls
With the right hand
Fed his hand with the left
An exquisite “Ave Cesar”.
Then a deliberating body appeared to me
A Cherub or angel with the head of a donkey
Which came from Thartac
God of the Hivites
That he told me that he came
From the Donkeys ‘Temple
That he was the brother of a galleon general
From King Felipe II or Fernando VII
Figures in ignominy, affront
The disgrace and vilification.
As are serial killers
That swarm between Israel and Palestine
Between Russia and Ukraine
Burkina Faso, Somalia, Sudan
Yemen, Myanmar, Nigeria and Syria
Even Mexico drug cartel
With its only idea of subduing the oppressed
With harshness and violence
Harassing, bothering, killing, tyrannizing
In the style of those who have been reincarnated
True beasts of crime
Kaffirs and cannibals who enter
In the dignity and fame to which they are entitled
And that the populace enchants:
The evangelizers who preached
Christian doctrine
To infidels or pagans
Killing, raping, murdering.
Serial killers: Francisco Macías Nguema
Saparmurat Niyazov, François Duvalier
Rafael Trujillo, Enver Hoxha
Mobutu, Ted Bundy.
The most recent: Hitler, Musolini, Franco
Like those of now: Netanyahu and Hamas
In metempsychosis or transmigration
Of the souls of some in those of others
Souls with metastrongyl
Parasite of the lungs of the pig.
In the end, without almost waking up
I turned into steam
Evaporative fart
That dissipated, vanished all the dream.


I, made a God and Devil’ s Ass
Visiting to the Charterhouse of Granada
I escaped from the line of Seminarians
From the Conciliar Seminary of Madrid
That we had come to visit it
Well I didn’t want to submit
To the domain of the priests
Mostly pedophiles
Taking refuge in the Sacristy
In front of the altarpiece
Covered with Lanjarón jasper
And rich marbles
Bringing out my genitourinary organ
With magnificent and elegant ornamentation
Of Christmas eggs
Rosewood, ebony, silver glans
Well it was already opening
A long procession
Of sperm without a master
While at the main altar
It started braying with all its might.
A parish priest
An “Ite Missa est” poorly learned
Because he was a Misacantan
Ordained cleric of mass
And that he is going to celebrate it
For the first time.
-How nice¡ exclaimed the blessed old lady.
Tha little saw.
I saw myself; She saw me, wielding the Scepter
Of the Catholic Monarchs
Target of a thousand
Of angels and demons’ sarcasms
That fell, by surprise, from the sky
Surrounding me like those lions
From the Courtyard of the Lions of the Alhambra
Fighting with each other
To see how to catch
Some of my sperm on the fly
And to be able to smell them and taste them.
Philip of Burgundy and Louis of Arévalo
Seminar Companions
Who saw me
Told me that they were going to expose me
Because: “this is very serious
And in bad taste
Play a certain flute, similar
In such sacred places.”
I escaped, but I got hit
Wanting without wanting
Against the fence of the Royal Chapel
Remaining like dead
O levitated saint
A covered cowbell.


The Mamelukes are already there
Militia of Arab soldiers under Napoleon’s command
“El Mamacallos (Le callosité mère)
Simple, stupid”
Shooting the people of Madrid
As Francisco de Goya & Lucientes teaches us
In his painting in the Prado Museum.
Town that had not fallen short either
In killing and murdering Frenchmen
With joy and more joy
Seeing the flare they raise
Bones and skulls on fire
In the Virgin’ praise or some saint on duty
Divided into couplets of death
Each of which is followed
The same refrain: that of serial killing
Knowing that it is with joy
As happens with the Hebrew serial killer
Or the “never again” butcher Hamas.
Joy in the pit of mass destruction
And ruins in every plane
Hope for something gone
What the damned have never counted on: Peace.
One Peace, let’s not fool ourselves
What the churches and the rulers do not want
Not even that dove looks well drawn
Not even the falconry bird
Well, their feet are clumsy.
Stained with drops of blood
Children of the World are born
Baptized or not in baptismal fonts
Or rivers of the Devil
Having joy and happiness
Satisfaction and contentment
If they were born in advantageous families
With income, charges, properties and honors
Even if they are those of serial killing and murder.
We joyfully see how they celebrate with joy
The multiple deaths and destructions
This breed of murderers
Who practice and profess the art of engraving
Setting deep
In the spirit of skulls and bones
An idea, a feeling:
“The one that you have to kill no matter what.
That, for that, we were born.”
As the movie “Born to Raise Hell” tells us
By Steven Seagal
Praising brutality
Dehumanization and barbarism.


In Cañete, Cuenca
Daniela went down to the laundry
With its wooden washboard
And her girls running around
To the place of the river bed
To wash the daughters’ and the house’s clothes
Always in fear that Moors
Who defend the military criminal Frog
Would arrive
And will rape them or cut their throats
As they say they had done
In the Cuenca Mountains
And towns around Cañete.
The clothes were washed
And lying in the sun on the earth
When a civil guard’ wife at the post
Came to the laundresses
Saying that some Moors were coming
Going down the high rocks from the Castle.
They came with sabers and swords
Poorly made iron
Wanting to grab by the neck
Any female that, in her path, appeared
To rape them murderous dog style
Or cut off their heads
And take the youngest ones
By roads and paths
Or take them up to the Castle
To make them by their asses princesses
Or do with them whatever they want.
They already tried to take the clothes
Still wet
Giving the last hand to whitewashing
The washing women
Everyone leaving for the barracks
For getting rid of these terrible beasts.
The Guard Corporal closed the doors
Looking through the peephole
Who were the ones passing
On the way to the Castle
While he was saying to them:
These look alike:
This one as Abd al-Rahman
That other one as Abderramán I
That other one as Abderramán III
That other one, as Alhakén II
That other one as Almanzor
And that other as, to Muhammad XII of Granada
(Boabdil the Boy)
A “sissy” who let himself be fucked
For the Catholic Monarchs, crying
All of them carrying bones and skulls
Of men, women and children
That they have killed
In the Christians’ style.

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