Chicken suicide

Javier and I found a suicide chicken on the street and we bought him a cupcake and tried to make him eat it and hoped for it to get better. We were naive. Stupidly, we thought the chicken wanted to live when the only thing he wanted to do was to finish dying. Thus, everyone’s stupidity reflected in such a simple act. “Let me die, cunts. Haven’t you seen? You can’t save me!”. We picked him up from the street and five minutes after a car parked exactly where he was standing. The tire would have crushed him instantly and his mission in life would’ve been over. But two idiots had to come along, preaching church, preaching law, preaching marihuana, it’s all the same: we fucked that little chick up. We left him, weakly standing on a window pane, next to a crumby cupcake. We left him agonizing; chewing his last fury at the final insult of his short existence. We understood, though. And suddenly we remembered our own pathetic existence.



Su cuerpo es mi alimento.


1. Un mostrador.
2. Un mostrador grande (o quizás no) atestado de miniaturas puestas en universos heterogéneos.
3. La belleza. Una mano que forjó, con gran metodología, esas estatuillas de cerámica y plástico.
4. Mis ojos que roen los fulgores que estallan en los vidrios, en los hombros y mejillas de las cosas pequeñas.
5. Repentino, un rostro familiar y el vértigo de encontrar algo perdido.
6. El espejo.