Part Four Consolations
Agar Agar, my sublime bitch I look dionisiac
Stop your hand, Abram
need Necessity has heretic face aesthetics areito
The copper vulpeja teaches
aged lady, choripanta
Radunica and blue
Dehumanization of love foxy
Boast who saw the Ammonites
murder book Demophoon
The show lampoons
A Pythagoras and Orpheus
The beauty for sale
The oh! amatory lyric ego
The secret of Fortune
the birth of my voice
These things said Blessing
Agar, my sublime bitch I do not
I made a golden calf,
not provide a fifth.
when he was absent, Moses,
and the whole world thought you were not coming,
I proposed to my Sublime Fox
(that would never be Lumia,
Mangaze or Lagartera
that do not draw away to peel
Golden Age or sex with tourists
in the Saturnalia.
I proposed it, mea culpa,
it is not the fierce Durga
meat deceptively saccharine or face the boot
martial and fasces
and flags that oppresses and serves
synergy and deed Prussian unfair.
I believed in her and I fear that I still love
I look dionisiac
Nietzsche has been associated with robberies,
the eagles and vultures
Mosaic is will, is my hand
fumble in the camps of Israel,
reread the old shattered tables, looking
still my body and my faith,
the voice that you hear.
Quimba not because of that it is
so fed up of not-Being and qualia hediente
of corpses, is not being
airs and not in the way of Being
by just being an echo ultramontane
dimension of neglect.
Stop your hand, Abram
Everything I own,
little or a lot,
for eternity I have, for the feast
posterity what I want.
This life is only
talent that is lost, affected virtue, modesty
probihición dance, extermination of scandal.
year after year, he forgets all
with arrhythmic days and obedience
and skinned knees.
In the past, its power and authority
(the universal principle that contained
the voice of conscience), the robbers seized
martyrs and war and in streets of fancy, useless
after rescue efforts .
Finally, hearts were buried alive
and the common good, that treasure,
was the stumbling block
and historical scandal.
Everything I own,
little or a lot, you will be listed in Tables
that you threw your hands? Among
hints of the Golden Calf,
demolished, I will seek my treasure,
between residues of the Act,
between bodies of disobedient dog
poke around as my crust.
A sword to be removed,
still say No, I will take the ax
with which I was to death,
voice as a child and due
me to stop the aggression
Stop your hand, Abram. Let it go
routes of Us. 08/11/1981
The aesthetics of the need That
Necessity knows no law, because I like
by necessity and by it,
from it, against you and your views ,
zorrearte below your navel, conquer
warp your nights.
With sharp nose lick your tits. Where
have a pen, destenderé
your bed, tear off your masks,
by pure odor of your breath, sacred sweat
by your blood, vulpeja.
The need has the face of heresy
That the need has the face of heresy.
to flee from me, you will not want the poor
burrow alone, because, you poor
and your tinsel and your treasures in Numerata
things are vain if you discover a wild,
than me, I will ask
if you want me
I'll get on your thighs and your buttocks
until you lose
copper and give yourself away
wild or bastard
estuary and marsh. 04/13/1975
The aesthetics of areito
The Taino saw the flying lizards
(those who were once giants
allosaurs) and the god turned into stone
under rocks and worshiped
bone artisans and preachers
science and of dead and fossil
but the Taino said
at the bottom of the pits
God is alive and singing
navel and hills echoed by listening and asking
Reconciled with death and its rituals, the soul returns and the Indian
is eternal and without tears turned to slaughter, fish hunter
bison as before,
picker eggs, algae,
shells, birds, jigües
present in the rivers
and rested well, and the Indian god,
His Image ... because we
water and water ... said.
questioner did so of his being
was baptized in secret of his soul
for the future that never fully reveals
the perpetual mystery of his life, his smoking mirror,
made adobes made adobes Meanwhile,
Search for copper and gold
imposed as instructed ungrateful
rocked in hammocks
henequen (perhaps crying, or anger was as sensitive
Morivivi or mimosa pudica). E
berths to be made other
Juan Ponce, Ojeda, Cerón,
like him who sleep and not wake up, hopefully
ever and not get angry ...
therefore to stop the awakening
minga insult to Indian women, naked and innocent maidens
the shade of the ceiba
saw them arrive in launches and began to doubt and suffering
copper children of the gods. 08-24-1988
The copper vulpeja teaches
When you jump in front of my eyes,
when bursting clear body, and give
in the eyes,
are a blow to the breeze with aroma and a butterfly
and loved it.
usually evoke the warm scent
a thigh bone and frame
relaxed and fluid. Your stomach
cover my skin as you wash clay
in ravines, or washes
cascade softly, but to smell
yagrumo behind me and miss like a gazelle,
hurry for your course of weeds or caches. I do not like
why because you're going and you find
is shorter than silence
and less durable than the aurora.
... but I like you, bitch, because canned
's cunning and sniff's den
street in the city and the square worldly care
circumspect, I season.
you supplied with fancy dresses and pig
, if you please. You
decks, disgusted or accomplice outside
obsequies provocative and caused you. Azusa
with Lockean sensationalism,
come on just as an engine of sex, heel.
aged lady, choripanta
... les souvenirs ne pas pleural pen, auaged lady, choripanta with snares
contrary, ils votre élargissent
solitude: Gustave Flaubert
hardened my life, I hide
joy, you threw down the project
light flight and my rebirth.
From Hope, smoothies and wine your pitarra
bitter shouting in my name
to give me the chariot, drowning in grief.
drank your cup. Dusk you. Old
memory, necropolis of my dreaming mind,
tied my feet, my left arm just a couple
of stumps and for that I remember.
retraced our steps until we lost.
If not for you, I would not know from my own scars.
not suspect the account of your damages
and my condition.
mind is worth much more and yet I can not. Your presence
offering me cemeteries.
your kiss me mouth poisoning and never forget you.
In my solitude appears your shadow.
you lengthen. Sieges deep.
I become an accomplice. 13/07/1985
Radunica and blue
tunnels in the flesh (the only paradises and hells
we can offer you, Blue).
All the blue sky can not be hidden under clouds
death as if the foul seas within
aging is impossible so suddenly if
prostitutes alike hours of the village,
the corner of riba, the blue in the middle,
all the blue that is stored
in man and its desires.
Radunica, rugged beauty and hatch,
for 30 years by the body
shoulder (now I removed the book from my hours);
grieves me, my fatigue, I can not
do live a little longer.
the banks of the river, I stopped seeing my strength
and not to be disappointed with the field.
Neither the village that I love for its silences and colors.
happens that, between villagers, see the sick,
shiver under the Wood and chavisca. Blue
this afternoon, choking me.
I bled to death. I will not look you
from the sky or the lakes, Radunica. 07/02/1980
Dehumanization of love
The worst changa,
which gave the most violent upheavals
my life, it was you.
I was surprised, rattles,
with weapons falls,
with cold feet, wings
and nerve injury, serotonin
I was the fool who dreamed
your great body, templates graceful,
gallaruza, I was the thorn in your skin
silt, your mud, mud
found myself beaten when I wanted.
I tied together with ropes of straw.
I was interrogated, in
Blacklist wrote my name, mockingly
Etruscan can give me only luxuries,
only Lictor, Minister of terror, now called
Law and Order, my breasts
salad and take me and place me .
I was the one who believed in
bluebirds and at the meet, I drank in cups
libatorios of nobody.
derision in torture chambers
my faith and drills. I did a valepoco
swallowing your monad, with the balls
to bite, bleeding.
The spark of my soul, my conscience
to be yours again as before.
Boast No one who is poor is arrogant.
Do not brag if you have no fortune. Having
authority has become, far
men and measures are canceled, for unthinkable trials
who lives in disgrace.
Lower your head. I deleted hunger in the world.
Kneel down and do not mention God or with your gimos.
A well-dressed in a cassock, a blanket
on society shoulder, denounced your sinful life. Removed
went to heaven, thirsty and sorrows, your spirit
glasses in the shadows.
idle words are your prayers, in a dialogue of deaf
teach only copper. Prepare your shoulders to the lashes,
your cheek to scorn your eyes to the bitter tears.
You're not even a blanket for the cold.
Your mind is a secret prison
and your anger, a testament to the Nothing. 03/05/1985
Who killed the Comendador? SourceSource foxy, sheepish Mejan,
Obejuna, sir!: Lope de Vega y Carpio
island in the river, sweet village
the inquisitor arrived, said your name,
Laurencia, appointed you, John Llorens,
requested your credentials,
Board of Thirteen foxes Valencia,
asked for the poor of Cordoba,
by black hands by anarchists
in Jerez de la Frontera.
Why not asked by the noble
bellacones by shreds
by Pedro Madruga, the blackmailer, why
not thieves and accumulators, bloodsuckers?
The ammonites that saw the colonial
Juan de Samano, executor of the Poli SalavarrietaPolicarpa
and her boyfriend Alejo Sabaraín
you seen the man who fought Nariño,
he knew his name,
Viceroy of Santa Fe, you know him,
fugitive in Panama, whether you knew
its cruelties, its presence in the carriage
dragons after their defeat in Boyacá
where he fell his reputation for Administration.
Huyen, people like him, because they have their crimes
infamy infamy, fleeing men,
children of Erebus, birthed for revenge
and greater nemesis, the sons of Nergal
and caves, children of being truncated
that the Plaza would provide, not burnt
pleasing, pretty Poli,
but innocent children to Moloch. Ammonites are
they have eaten
of misery in hell
as censers of the Oblate
of injustice, you know them,
teacher and Colombian heroin,
and saw, galloping mystagogues
Occult being the portion
macaques as honey. Firewood
cast their doctrinal Erebos
and sambumbia beam and disposal, the dolamas
to their niches, oratorios in the shadows,
offerings of holy bodies like yours;
six heroes of the libertarian cause
night plunged into the military,
in the shooting, in walls, mihrab
at the scene of shooting .
warn that you bunch of murderers,
and seen him face to face, Poli,
(Juan de Samano is called);
know who the sergeants
that killed your future husband;
dragontescos know their carriages, slaughterers
to plot your freedom back drill
rarity and white blackbirds;
you know about swallowing
Belly bodies and leads to Hades;
you were shot by the Viceroy of Sámano
you know the silence that death
accumulates and deaf ears are complicit.
You know what made
Bogotá holy faith and dies and dies
in the hands of murderers
like him, children of
Nergal and the Great Empire.
Why you treat me?
I asked, Changa-Lumia,
I Demophoon, subject to your rudeness,
me, I asked, Chang-rattles,
that's why yesterday, when and how
this, you do not now,
me, I've had your maco so hairy and I sucked
as the mollusk
that, through my fingers, playful
was excited jets and, finally,
left their moisture in my mouth ...
... Noise of war in the camp ... And it happened that when he arrived at the camp, and saw the calf and the dancing, Moses' anger burned and he threw the tables of his hands and broke them beneath the mount: Exodus 32: 17, 18, 19
blot me out of your book.
Take my verse, my tongue twisted
in itself, awkward and nasal.
As another matter
melts my song.
with so I can not excommunicated
I can not
females with no dance or write their stars
mirrors of joy, why are you silent? You want a
mundarro silence. Back to Mount
then. Get away from the partying
to tell you how Fatum
irrevocable words of God unknown, unpredictable,
impatient with the least sin.
to repeat just for you, but do not fuck
... I am not sent but unto the lost sheep of Israel: Matthew 15: 24Son of Israel, meat
cavernous voice, but
advance of promise and splendor,
going to step, with its own light, slow
and tired, road sandals.
cry for you The blind
Sidon and Tyre to call you Posted
and have you thirst for all,
injustice persists and there is darkness
pull and shape the sun just
with your own eyes as a lamp.
A Canaanite girl is sick.
As insane cries as
barking dog, and in a dark landscape on the way, every hour is possessed
Help her, the contingencies of the future
the fatigue, the innocence of his body,
the lowers, do not repeat as your flock,
is a bitch, foreign ...
even the dogs eat the crumbs from the table
that jump master ...
"drop some crumbs from the table of Your Love?
What about your bread, you pull it
your offering, Rabbi, check it to dogs Canaanites
what you want, but my daughter
cure suffering, console
xenophobia and misanthropy.
said than done is a long way:Dusk afternoon and night grinding and are
my colleagues, anxious, ashamed. Both
cartel in vain, flyers were distributed.
was warned by radio, "is to get the poet,
he read his verses to us "and there was evening
afternoon and evening
ground and no one has gone. None.
"This partnership is a dunghill, Poet"
told me. "If you claim a narco fellowship
with banda music, if the agenda was
compulsive sex and prurrito, if history
tried to run over or kicked football goals,
of Christ the Savior, who never comes,
of how to make money without trouble,
as if by magic
this show would have been met,
filled the room to the bottom. " They would have done
be here present, I say some ...
Everyone! because we organized, we work to pull
hearings and no one has gone and those who said
"We'll be there. We promised. "
not arrived. Neither will come.
or tomorrow or in near future. No wonder, my friends.
This afternoon, before he came, I saw the poem.
I floated before my eyes, I spoke privately
to explain them in words their meaning.
was a leafy tree, very tall, with green splendors
and branches so thick with flowers, weighing
on a bench in the park. A tree was
he carried the expectations of someone to clean your eyes
and sit there, where nobody can now
, where they leave it alone.
Excess flower buds, foliage, berries
and rot and fall on the bench Grove
hooks that stick in hand the places where the seats are located,
tangled branches still occupy the seat.
This is the message and you guys like roosters
hurried her singing
forgot that the poems, the sacred silence, no one calls them.
come alone. In the poems come
who are humble vigilant
who clean the roads to the grove. Those seeking the
space and express the sharpness of the solo voice
like the cock heralds the end of the day
with his song when everyone is asleep and the house
until he comes back and sings
the beginning of another night .
Dawn is safe.
someday be the "Poet Tree, the tree-Gallo,
of the parks
guard who is who leaves the place clean and aderazado,
to reach those who want that light
that does not impose any propaganda.
We'll smile, poets, organizers,
useless after hours of vain expectation.
not let us lick the
sadness because in a
park bench piled
saw much sadness and not a dump.
was not the ordeal.
I found the most beautiful trees, worth every shade
its high crown spread.
And the breeze is worthy of the empty seats,
but was only later, not even
night for the amount, not less inadequate
point of waking.
The poems were hidden black ink: Samuel R.Quiñones Juan Pasquino, salt
purria as bad breath and be the Lampoon
that mock and twist in caatinga. That
regret and flies on their floppy ears;
tell them that the vigils in
from your hiding place, give them your stock
aesthetics people ...
What are impure, publish
walls of latrines in public shrines
against palaces and conferences.
Do not be unpunished forever
the reputations of their canallerías. Be ruthless with
Marforio's children, rabble
Cascaret salons and forums and conferences.
language Speak with your barber.
Sharpen your blade and scary and your tongue
Carry On name them all, great Curriches;
sew them skirt the cape two
if so good tailor you as they say.
In the Piazza Navona, takes ingenuity, they are worse mob
all your pamphlets, all of them: proxonetas
the Duke of Olivares, the Conti
hiding in the Church,
the whitewashed tombs of Ortes
, Grandi, Casanova, Cagliostro
Together purria as baton,
Pythagoras and Orpheus A
What works for one
... men's music is but an echo of the Music of the Spheres, but his innate instinct that makes your soul resonates with the music, gives an indication of the nature of mathematical harmonies are at their cosmic source : Pedro Miguel González Urbaneja
a broken string guitar? What the song
of infinity? What the harmony of the spheres?
Why is tired of humanity who live
to find a perfect chord for metaphysics?
Why not tell ya, like you, Maestro /
Pythagoras / of the finest ear, sing the planets and the Cosmos
kept as a secret
for those who hear, heart discernitivo, arithmetic proportions fascinating
the movements of celestial bodies, scattered tones, melodic
sing and vibrate in the whole universe
like a choir for the anthem of Ares ?
Now that I know, semi-captive in this coordinate spatiotemporal
de mi Tierra, my guitar and my voice is thinking the same order
music, obsesses me ask,
Pythagoras, what will I do when missing
string on my guitar, what will I do when in Thrace
the despair take me to destroy my lyre
as Orpheus, Eurydice what I do when I miss
or say that I gave birth to a dog, not the muse Calliope
What ... when not sleeping Cerberus
the world, that when the district
to be smiling by the concrete jungle is sad,
catabasis inframundana, where all is discord,
crimes, dangers and ask me as a mariachi loco
to sell my soul or my basic decency
by the figure of a burden?
What good is the mouth that would
singing, loving and Pangea Mount
from the very dawn of the dawn, if misleading
is / poor my mouth
for drunkenness in the world and the old pattern
Dionysus loved by the mob
their avatars are lovers
punishment and retaliation,
milicos of cannibalism and nihilism? ... In vain, I'll go with your song,
Eurydice, in vain to talk of world harmony and love
own forces that keep in balance the solar system, all children
oven, because everything is energy,
all his children, and psalms, all born
to embrace it harmonizes
although geometries seem divided
colors and voices that are the same thing that sustains the universe
All: Sound and Light Waves.
But in vain, in vain.
What I do when the mob in Thrace
say they are the gods punishment imposed as Orpheus
and I see the sadness of anger,
deaf to hear from the silent
the song of the heavens and tempts me to hit
lyre or guitar on rock, pop
each string and the noise is the inheritance of
asked me songs and I hate
just me, or discouragement? Why what it does,
why in future guitar,
in the hope of this, the withered heart
in tightrope tumble? 07/08/2000
For discovery disfigured
the whole thing has set a price.
Losses cry with tears
hard cash. Fine sluts
sell all the pleasure and charm
coin paying his stardom. The truth begins
be taken from.
The statements by Mr. Nobody is hearing
want is already going to pay
Numerata pecuniary debt
disfigured for discovery, we are complicit
and objects at hand jump
and useful reward,
oh, sensationalism vain! Processed
sovereign credit and usury.
Accomplices, of necessity, forged
buy a knife and his heart is open and vicious
defaced by ambition
discover all that requires digging with hoofs
and have claws and a no! the estuary.
Just pay and you're a piece
the system, a nut,
a yardstick, a partner
what is accepted and repeated. 02/21/1974
The oh! amatory lyric ego
"The genetic need can be considered a need for evacuation, the choice is determined by a more pleasant feelings that make the evacuation of the sexual products ' A. HesnardOh, confident Poetry, Buddy love, of misery pimp
amatory, each beautiful
Trotaconventos (wanted) boars libido!
what can we do? when young, the adult
... the vejacas, kisses
oozing from every pore and sometimes look like butterflies fly
are not the flower,
as sighs are not the loving
when more saturated data is the soul of hormones
and more hungry for kisses .. .
Oh, tell me if it's wealth of Eros, Cupid
or because he failed to crush and the man is
rat on two legs, or body
frog is croaking in the distant well, where there
it worthy of loving fellow, that friend
worthy to be kissed.
Tell me, psychologist of love, guess
of words, magician, sorceress spells.
They have become too many poems
meat, texts to swooning,
my terms of nights of passion ...
Help me sentimental advisor,
restorative of orgasms, a veteran of libidos,
to organize the pleasure that makes us
(to us poor poets of all genders
and avatars) to flow this issue
of sexual products.
Almost every word that I find in the texts
rhymes are repeated as love, join a caravan of nomads
hungry for tenderness,
are hatched to see you and you offer advice,
Gitana, with marked cards and aces
comfort of hearts.
Ay! Who can be like Chafer
ben Abu Said, and join with the fire water and offer advice
Calixto and Melibea?
Be yourself in their place, Free Women and Matchmaker
doubt the tormented
the inmate who love
virginity to redeem, or purchase basket
magic place, the blind date with who will
caresses and whispers the word
more sweet and sincere. Pull the comb
, Celestina, and not escape the desire
bee, but you eat honey
full eyes or hidden
oh, what love love bites on the eggs, which wet
warmth hides under her skirt, what sweet mystery
that Poetry does not know how to shut
winning all his love ...
without anything we fuck
or mute your lust lute
or the feathered headdress of the young smiling ...
magical moment in the middle of the dark and gloomy Caravaggio muladeres
she wants to see "Gerard of the night"
and feel its good intentions,
if no future with him, or just drill
by hasty passions; oh, how libido in pot!
each word how it infects the language sings,
or fingers to write, con todo vaciamiento
en iemanjá de zamba para el gozo
y la pomba-gira, escandalosa...
¡Ay, LocaLorca, lo caliente no se quita.
Mi caballo negro está fuera de control
pues ha visto la rosa, ay Carol Baker,
tanto líbido, naufrado en la colcha,
y facilita de amar te he visto en Baby Doll...
Todo me habla de ti, Misterio Voluptuoso,
espasmito de biología, ansiedad metafísica
de mis progenitales versos, un cuadro,
un jardín, una película,
una suave melodía...
turgencia de los órganos bellos, disfraz
de la palabra coactiva, incentivante
de un qué sé yo
that is the Ouch! amatory lyric ego in order to evacuate
intensely immoral. 03/11/2004
My god is called the Eternal Myth:
activity, social inventiveness,
God is artifice, industry, ajor. Fingering
high as fruit cup
and tree sap, gather food.
thumbs primates These mammals,
their hands in vertical
seeds and their eyes to heaven, hope, human
are my gods, my god straight. And
ponds gibbons, goddesses I have!
The encounter when they sing, or dance naked.
nymphs are crying, celebrants of glory,
and they have been and will as Almeida
on the streets were once populated,
hopefully can be again and always, dancing the areito
In the forest, gods and goddesses with drums, bells ringing
cast, put together their smiling joy
in Ceres-OM-Nias. It
survive in primitive innocence of my tropics.
The secret of Fortune
A Tykhe / FortunaBC will be fortunate. Drink
Daughter of Zeus Eleutherios (Liberator),
Tyche (Fortune), Our Saviour goddess:
Alcman, Fragment 64, Lyric II C7th
memory of my Great Vessel, the Horn of Plenty.
I'll be on Earth, without you I see;
I will be your portion, the cry of your spirit.
exilaré where you can take the helm.
I put the sea and the boat, you sail.
and arrive at the port, floating like a lotus.
And see, you'll find the captain, and evidence
adjacent to my being, the call
Your World, teleology,
purposeful power of chance,
possible, kairos, timeliness.
You know that everything is mine,
thing is that others do not know, you know say yes.
A was you who did, poet. A
ask you more aware than none.
So accept my vessel
(now you feel small, like a haiku syllables
intense), but where you grow your words
control and the size of your spirit
be more abundant than the Horn of Amalthea.
2. Never be alone
I have this secret: I
whispering softly to your soul almost. I'm scattered in every kiss
female in the living.
Every woman is a moon, every emotion is
has bitten me tenderly. My passion, for them, life.
who wants to see me ...
up in the flesh I'm giving the welcome, I hang them in the soul
and I take my Olympus, my Source.
are never alone, my son,
even if you are mortal and miserable, and you hold
Karma, with his scythe
dark cycles of Saturn and biting sadness and injustice
your macharrería belt.
I leave you my blessing law. Respect me in the Nemesis
just distributing my jobs, do not do that She was indignant.
Distribúyeme for the love of ALL.
Just do not leave you, do not let just anyone.
If you believe in me, call me the righteous and the faithful.
I am the father, Keter-Zeus-Jupiter,
but in the end, more than nominal.
I give my past girlfriends, daughters
my present, the heiresses
of your blessings.
3. Seek out your brothers
I Eleutherio the Liberator, I'll give you fortune.
Son of promise, then, makes it
the persuasive word. Defend
Eunomia when you go to ground because there are demons
hard and sinister, brutal men
, where you arrive.
You know when you can.
not ask you to cut heads,
you are the guillotine, camera ardente,
gallows, gallows, electric chair. Do not make others
repressive apparatus and the police, the soldier, the vengeful soldiers.
urdas not violence against others.
not be tortured or phalanx or guerrilla.
alone, because there Ennomus Order.
And everything has a time and sequence tillering.
Everything is, after all, my teleology.
What grows is the final harvest.
In the encounter with reality, I strongly
the signifier, not stirring
added to the chaos or blind automatism.
not be the beast. You will not impersonate
the subject or break the vessel.
When you get to the countryside or the village
are not even shadows of themselves when they see the compulsive
with their impurity and fanfare, the girl looks sweet
your sister. She pays.
Make your way between orchids and hyacinths.
identify it. She lives in gardens. Call her Tyche
or Agathe Tyche, Good Fortune.
is the first gift you'll
to reach the ground and float through my lotus.
4. Open your hands to your blessings
Those moved by a spirit of good
are your brothers, to call her family as relatives
although not born from the womb of the moon.
Blind are deaf. Do not see your vessel speech, which is the vessel
that I call your spirit.
not give drink to those who can not hear, do not come near
the taste of your joy at the mouth of the donkey. Sealed
were their postcards with yoke,
cut their ears with silence, their eyes blinded
Tike, the savior, beautiful in your sisters,
denied providence have to eat our fruit.
not know of plenty or blessings.
To learn the process,
and not feel sorry to those who do not deserve,
Make him walk with you and do not call Capricious. She is
Agathos Daimon, the spirit of good.
the birth of my voice
Hephaestus, the lame and ugly craftsmanFor a poem is born
as it should be born, I
not accumulate the best of flowers, exquisite gardens
(which are taken for granted, even illusions
spectra ideals, subjective
only in appearance).
process (the non-process) which makes it desirable
and which suffers, whatever it is inside
the suffering ... A flower does not exist without first Bonfire
is at the root in the land of desbrujo,
in the dark humus,
in the tread and clay shelf, violence
wetland with worms, in the seed rotted,
in litter that nobody draws a text or song
... born there, as raw material,
what is the joy of the eyes, the splendor
air, nest on high for transparencies. I
the poem conveys deep that no
the beneficial astonishment, none foresaw
(to dodge their trouble).
After the flowers are
as people rush for their aroma,
after the butterflies have left
to be larvae, how to run the network
hunter forward to see if it catches one.
Not me. The poem interested me when it's just a start of rejection
of indifference, but ...
I'm going to polish,
what I get out of the slime and mud, the pot
that Bello was born and is cradled deep ...
I like poems that had eyes that saw
and dirty hand that got
in utero ignored
going for him, stage by stage.
So, no company, I shall be in
task and will have few friends who understand
what I do, I will not have to oquis
eminences, or Parnassus.
As my song I was thrown into the void.
fell on the ground with the voice thirsty
lame, depressed, confused, abandoned the delicacy
but goldsmith finally
between worms. 03/06/2002
These things said
Vitoc These things said, without lying messiah
tambourines and singing and dancing,
to take a tree to sweeten bitter waters
and beach life. Thirty
vitamins or imagined, from that day, the people rebuilt
Triton and mouths to eat leavened
in the days of holy convocation!
vertebra in each space, give them the perfect rhyme
genome for the song!
sink them in the pit of your yellow viscous
lymph Manalo tocofenol
as vegetable oils
phone from being sterile or lean
and multiply in the text of your sun
to drink the blood of your spinach? ,
your vegetable broth
and potions of your potatoes cooked in oven
To learn to bite, gums
painless and without tedium,
the flavors of your
ascorbic acid because of you, lord of sounds, beats
the complaint and the tusk conspirator! So many galas
violence and do not resist until the third day these children
comegofios Sandy! Give them
the Axis Mundi, suélvela
in the waters of Mara and drink
the riches of your cupboards
of vitamin H, farm by farm, Epistrófeo
of the sacrum,
alpha to omega.
That lick the whiskers, they forget that swallowed
powder and drank urine from
cobras and pythons, like strawberries and blackberries
jetas they know the owners
those hard necks!
poem Puebla on freshwater
your reddish substance! Countering
anemias cruel soul. Exilia
pellagra and establishes the Kingdom of Consuelo
folic acid on you because there bloodstreams
disgraced and parturients with ruptured uterus and stills warm
maidens who die in Maneri
with deceitful men
and females that have no tie or ligament
they know not Madremonte
psalms and songs for the wood fire.
The place of truth is not the trial: Martin Heidegger
fox who saves me. Marsh nutrient
gave me his language.
vulpeja In their footsteps, their truths
and hooves, clay blending nipples
was my support until I bit off
to grow Solute bread.
In cave in the gorge, the cave
between weeds, I called my house
smell of the fur, my refuge. Blessed be the
be wild nature gives me. Lying in mundane
stubbornness me, I find myself still
licked by his kisses and his language
give my shouts.
The lactate bicha
with me watching over me roar. With no dolamas
rebuke me as I grow.
Grande as the cosmos is the dependence
nurturing and instructing the mother
for his discovery: Dasein
is possible with the danger.
This truth is summit and summit.
Grande because it can not be at trial and because
said the fox of my days:
-life mother-in its entirety. 02/03/1976
Index: Aesthetics and vital vacant / historical legends and stories coloraos / Of Teth / "Teth turned 33 years": Carlos López Dzur. / In THE LIBREPESADOR / Mayors Cucumber / Cucumber Mayors / book on behalf of His Names Segade Standard / A Trial / procrastinator / Books and Letters / Carlos López Dzur: The press sold and anesthetized / Poetic Aletheia Research Center / Graciela Maturo