Stalin Kurti

She collected all the mouthworks of the Dictature Bureaurs. Add up committees' intrigues, poplar blasts, dictator's orders, security horrors, spy screams, collective meetings, scuffings, fucards, convention shouts, cuffing, chain scratches.

Put them in a pot. You put Casan on fire. Train him with a tree until he becomes a filthy liquid like the soup of magistrates. It's my hand, Stalin Kurti deli.

Party committees, power offices, violence organs, plimps of propaganda, spy spiders, intestines, parapassing trains, propaganda, television cinema, theatre, one more indiscreet than the other, were filled with Stalin Kurta, well - known to Albanians, being held near the hearth and at the top of the field.

All the arsenals of the communist roots, the Marxate tricks, the Stalinist treacherys, the populist intrigues, God scans the face of Stalin Kurti.

Stalin Kurti is a Yugoslav, a titan and the dogmatic current with the flag in his hand.

Stalin Kurti is an uncontrollable rejecter of all valuables.

Stalin Kurti is a negative “think” that is irrevocable.

Stalin Kurti only gets incentive from rejection, from negativeism.

Stalin Kurti does this by hitting without stopping, first, easy license plates, the ones closest to him, the ones around him, colleagues, friends. If their flesh seems inexhaustible and uncompletionable, it bites the most unknowable flesh, its flesh.

Stalin Kurti is an irreformable hater.

Stalin Kurti echoes with hate.

Stalin Kurti and hatred are Siamese twins attached to their backs.

Stalia Kurti belongs to the world's most violent race of fools who think they can stay in history through an average cerebral capacity and unstoppable denials to the destruction of everything valuable.

Stalin Kurti and the gentleman, from here to the infinite, don't meet anywhere.

Stalin Kurti, from now on to eternity, is and will remain a sickly delirium, a full-full of hisself”, mindless.

Stalin Kurti is a congenital liar.

Depressed more than pig, more treacherous than faced, more dangerous than the killer, more useless than the ignorant, Stalin Kurti is no citizen. Less European. Not a human. Never a leader. Never intellectual.

For Stalin Kurti, trusting his friend, not carrying out his duty, treason against the country, they're his natural habitat from which he can't get away for a moment, because he dies.

Without the lie and the trick, Stalin Kurti remains like a ball in the sand, dies.

Stalin Kurti has come from Tirana to Pristina to help him with his Bolsevic failures by a Partisan battalion of boys serving with revolutionary zeal armed with Marxist, Leninist, Maoist, fidelist, police.

Albania's officers' boys around Stalin Kurti had no chance of using it when it was good, in Albania, in the prime of the day, because of the collapse of Dipthature.

Fearing that all the revolutionary cargo that is enough and too much to bring to the end of the world could be wasted, they could not be used, and those boys and girls like Zana, the revolutionary ellisis they took with their mother's milk the chief framework by shaking the cradle of their father officer and singing the sleepy lullaby “

Stalin Kurti, politics, geopolitical, diplomacy, thinks of it as the barbeques' fights.

Stalin Kurti, the more you ask him to understand, and the more arguments you bring, the more he becomes angry and insist on endless and priceless.

Stalin Kurti, this bastard fruit of Mom Skille's love with Daddy, is more useless and insignificable than all the tarlates, delirants, dragons, poodles, which Albania has and more perspicuous than TV bartenders, those villains sold Thursday night.

Stalin Kurti is a cosmic accident that penetrates the skies of Albania once in a year.

There are guys like Stalin Kurti, so Dicktature stays behind the door all the time waiting for a chance to get inside.

With nothing warm Mediterranean, anything from the continent, of the frosty, tin, Stalin Kurti's confision that he is more Byzantine than Rasputin, more diplomat than the skivell, more dangerous than the wolf, more poisonous than the snake, exacerbated than the irik, more mysterious than the turtle.

Of the hundreds that have periphery cafes, the thousands that Albania has, the millions that the world has, the Stalin Kurti, this natural pencil, is nothing but a primitive living, an amoe of a cell, a wretched cremature that even gives away what it wants.