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Credo in unum hominem (in memoriam)

started the way back to infinity.
is time that we miss you here collect
soberly your words to save the soul.

---------------------------------------------

Credo in unum hominem


I believe all the uncertainty that removes mountains,
in uncertainty of not knowing morning or fixed dates on the calendar,
in what will come unexpectedly. I

unstoppable force of the words spoken without artifice,
at the push of the vast mass of people like me
without hope, with conviction (in the words of poet).

I believe in death as a farewell to life without tombstones or crosses or inanities
said solemnly and out of season. I

in the solitude of man stripped of all their rags,
reborn in the other to be triune.

I believe all the things we left on the roadside
if anyone collects them with temperance and save on your almario.

believe in you, anonymous
enemy or indecipherable friend
in all you can do to change me,
to dry in the sun so much sadness that has no reason and another remedy.

I

that nothing in the world is immutable
or written when you have to change everything if we want it.

I believe in the communion of all who seek and are not,
in the advent of us who have
solidarity without messianic qualities of a prophet,
in nonsense words full of feeling. I

on what I can and I can not,
in the resurrection of the impossible,
in the open streets, avenues
to be reopened. I

that you can love many people at once without being mad nor sane,
in the arms of all the hugs, the infamy of all lies,
the untold story. I believe in tears
not emerge all at once and settle in the inhospitable corner of so many hearts,
waiting to go out and really mourn. I

that nothing is mine and yours, much less his own, that our
should not be a trope unpronounceable. I

all crazy. I believe in you, believe in me, believe in us. I

that was worth having lived though there is so much to do yet, so
penalty in the bodies and souls, so many obscurities that I fail to shine.

believe in man. ----------------------------------------------

------------------------

Note: If someone booked at the time one or more copies of the book "I see the bullet in my head "and have not received it yet, please stop this blog to send their contact. Also, it is possible to make new orders, both of the aforementioned book and the CD "Kisses and Cat."

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Today, scrofula

.

.

this time I will be very plain that we know that we all a little busy. It has been distributed around an email about some "fix points" or so. I certainly have not done it, so it is spam. As for any emails that have come to me I see that can induce confusion, clarified:

Presenting I see the bullet in my head keeps day 25, Friday, at half past 7 pm . So, tomorrow. I will point and, of course, is not needed any invitation. Admission is free until full capacity.

The duration of the event will be approximately one hour , jokes and firms separate book.

The presentation will be provided by Elvira Daudet. Read poems to me Elia Maqueda Medel and Pablo .

Montero Nares made a great photo essay. The teacher team Enrique Gracia Trinidad record the event. Elia ruin the music mixes. Fran Cano is the poster that was distributed. Finally, David Alvarez is responsible for transportation and uniforms.

That's it. Is clarified.

A hug. It loves you,

Zuni

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Freedom bullets

. Raspa whiting

curled tail biting,
made an eight, a hack
in the tavern, scrofula
fat on the tablecloths, darning socks
the candlelight. Butter.
I ask for peace and especially the word. I can not.

NOBODY HAS INVENTED THE WORD.

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.

There is always an eye is an eye looking
onrushing is an eye is an eye

you have to close one eye
Viroj

there is a jinxed
eye is an eye with tears
and there is an eye
dry


there is an evil eye crying eye
gossip is an eye is an eye

forger is an eye on the street
is an eye that looks beyond the navel

is an eye that has been inadvertently


beam is an eye is an eye
triangle
there
evil eye is an eye with the eyelid bags



there is a divine eye is an eye is an eye
buenojo gypsy

is an eye lost in the haystack.

There is always an eye.

There is a distant eye.

There is always an eye

who has lost the apple of his eye.

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eyes casisoneto casialegre

.
When the hard struggle
everyday just to try to give songs;
when harass tribulations,
what happiness is healthy!

When you say such rubbish journal
in mouth, not sparrows
when impregnating the night clouds,
what happiness is healthy!

I pointed to the chacota and laughter,
the wildness, the partying, singing,
to stay broke and no shirt.

Woe to him who succumb to the cemetery!
I'll tell you more calm and less haste;
I, though sick, I fear cured.

Blotches Rash Stomach

story Sunday

.

passes the large gate home. There two girls sitting on the stone bench next to a hydrangea. Walk slowly, the old, suffocating. Pauses. Look at the picture of blond curls, the old man. A mariamulata flies open. Which seems larger of the two girls up. Says something to the other, waves to the window nearest the door, jumping out. Which seems smaller man as he dedicates a song with a thin little voice. Raise your hand to the old hat: Good morning, he says. Still air. Hello, "she replies. What a beautiful day, is not it, and still the old walk.

In the next house, which resembles a buchinche beyond the bush that marks the end of the trail, another mariamulata is picking the remains of the cat and other girls talk about things with caution. The shock of its hair care call him. shortens step. Follows a path that leads to thinning the castle. Flanked by a low oak, hill, climb wearily. Raises his hand again, compliments to some site and removed his hat. Ventilate. Perlan minimum sweat their lips. Upload. Soon you should sit in the dust. Today is Sunday, thinks, and Sundays are for rest, is a sorry for not bringing the fan, well. Also think about the two girls with the braids and the two walls. Strange, never saw, never saw them before today. Tired, gets up and returns. A mariamulata crosses the road. Removed, get away from here, unclean bird. It perches on his shoulder the furious flapping bird. Why, gossips, which Sunday rarer. Back to see, girls brunette, this time hear screams inside the hut. A domestic dispute , no doubt. The hoarse voice of a woman burst in the heat. I like to approach, but his mansion is waiting for a table set especially because today you have guests.

already in the early morning, the service has dealt with his instructions, always so thoughtful, the same instructions that attends the service every Sunday morning when the gentleman is invited, like today. Getting back the Panama. I like to go into that house with buchinche air, even with these cries, the girls would think dirty, the woman who claims any kind of help. A pen mariamulata blurs your vision briefly. The trot is now bearable. Girls of the loops, kills dividing again. In the distance, the guests begin to arrive. He keeps wanting to enter the den, but today is Sunday, maybe if it's Monday or Wednesday ... He assaulted a breath of heat and you can hear, mingled with the clamor of women, the almost forgotten sound of a marimba gourds. Hell, he says, and throws to the top of his hat farther oak that is lost in the air. Not without some inkling relieved unbuttons vest and white shirt. The barefoot gurruño ago with his pants, starts to walk uphill again. There are three that follow mariamulatas squawking. Is removed, now with Ansion, clothes that fit and well, like a misplaced marimonda, running rocked the little girls kissing blondes. The girls fled in panic. Better. Look at the sky, blue, as it should be, whisper, and looking for a woman of enormous breasts, guess, and odors, there, where the marimba sings. Today is Sunday, shouting, today is a holiday.

[walk]

Thank You Letter Destination Wedding

. On the table
black ink spills
also black, black dolls
two
cry because the table is thickened, enlarged, approaches.
And the fourth is black,
and the world goes black,
and dolls, and stuffed ...
(rains, the rain breaks
slab patios.
All is black, because
rain and lightning
are black).
dolls, black as they are,
look absurd.
quicksilver is fucked and glass!
do not see anything.
Everything is black.

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table Eighth

.
Chieftains, the state supporters,

greed send invites I

to weigh myself to see you pretensioners

of thing to me so much was due;

because of my age , you see, gentlemen,

I'm starting the next world;

more love than ever, I have shown,

kindly counsel has encouraged me. "

Alonso de Ercilla

I am that I am not in my right mind, that is my urgent

inconsistency that I appear in the annals
the blind hermit without patience.
Will I know my troubles
or without me lack consciousness?
unanswered question is my question,
not want to mount the scrum.

José Luis Zúñiga ---



Some are lovers cathedrals,
and ladies of all my sorrows,
other, so sincerely venal payment
the tears of colors poems
cold water floral
also loves illusions .
So I, lost to kiss in the mouth, lips
remembering your crazy laugh.

José María Alloza


--- EIGHT REAL


Flushing Ladies, you do not know the suburb have been inflaming
to my face vermilion worthy

signal that the heart goes as a playing
chessman the blade of the knife sunk by Cupid
true reflection that the perfidious cunning
has pointed
and within my chest has exploded.



Sil ---

invited to write rhyming
octaves alternating consonant.
In practice, give us the materials of italic line

structured and although sometimes resulting
hellish exercise in style, I've tried. Eight
verses with rhyme and meter left.
Now I hope your vote: No complaints. Leonel

Licea

---

illustrious vultures

* In the great walls will reinvent
as if greatness depended
screaming and measure our insults, but you will not find
voice or flag, as there is no reason
in storms
not know the wood
gesture that tattoo is worth in the eyes of the sleeper
no moon on the road. Paloma Corrales



* the title is a verse puddles



--- What skill
yours my friend to show us step by step
lines and ride on them by the spirit which
metric known and perhaps
continue the eighth, which is cool,
only thing real in this case,
overwhelms me, haunts me, haunts me ...
this month at the end, I will own. Isolde





--- what if my hair crazy rhymes
what if
dream flashes blind what if the wind is stranded on the tops
and what if I let every day watering and
what if I cry over
pallets and what if I write verses on your sheets
awards seek not your
zones only relive your white sources. Luisa Navarrete





--- Countdown

not matter and that meaning, content
; today!,
words lie broken, empty, soul murder,
white on white, without the hocus-pocus. Created
beautiful, to be humanized
Today! Killed by macabre minds.
What once narrated a warm sunset,
speaks today of blood in the open skies. Montxu



---

real Eighth : verse of Italian origin who settled in the English during the initial metric Renaissance, created by Boccaccio (1313 - 1375), being introduced by Garcilaso de la Vega and Juan Boscan. It consists of eight lines hendecasyllables with three consonants rhymes, the first six rhyming alternately with the first two, the latter two are a final couplet rhyme different: ABABABCC.

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her real mad (13)

.
I say, Come.
I come to your lap.
sleep on your overcoat. ---




All of my fires burned in your bush.
Today I am ashes. ---



Seal your mouth
transparent time.
you instantly. ---



When
penetrate my thick grove
I no longer am.

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Maria Gongora more I win the poetry contest Amparo III Bletisa and other crazy bunch. NOTICE

. According
just announced the organizer on your blog necessary Unscrupulous the winning poem is entitled "blade Vacuum" and its author is Maria Gongora . The winner gets $ 300 and attaches their name to Sánchez Mayte Sempere and Luis Orozco, who won the first and second editions, respectively. Congratulations, Mary!


CUTTERS VACUUM

love this dark pain
this vacuum chewing blades

these twenty-seven melodies and tongue full of saliva

I love him, but I sink
skin and leaves me and fills me

salt and I delete the words.

I love him, because I immersed
placing your index finger between my eyebrows

pushing down cold, hollow.

I have to love do not you see?
but miss the
hours and bite me
eyes and mountains make me day.

love how I bite my stomach
how I click the trapezius and the clavicle
how to open the lid of my brain
and delves into his hands full. I love this pain


this dark black cloud of uncertainty that cry

the distress of my soul.

I love him, because it opens my eyes
put red lights on the world tour

forces me to learn
taught me to accept.

is life.

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.
Before the announcement, many thanks.

I can already say that the book will be ready the last decade of March. I have the addresses of many of you, but in disarray, we, as chaotic as everything I have. So soon I will send a new mail by requesting the data and giving mine.

For now, continue with the post. Although there may be presented in early April. However, although I would like to hand the poems to those who can attend, let me address, you never know. And just when you ask for, lol. This distribution is not mine, but will be perfect.

Besos. Hugs. Honey, at least as great as yours.

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Forthcoming: I see the bullet in my head for a while

.

Hello!

Finally I decided to edit the book myself that I have in my hands. A pure and simple desktop publishing, with no middlemen and almost made the traditional way. In order to fine tune the shot, I'd like to get an idea of \u200b\u200bhow many would be interested in purchasing. The book will be ready by mid-March, and while his stuff is there a presentation and send the fees, I am now able to secure a series of circumstances that are irrelevant. So you may only be distributed by mail.

For that, who wants to tell me as soon as possible here or in my mail. And materialize later. Ah, the price: it will be as low as possible.

Here are some comments I received regarding the new book:

"The author describes in this I see the bullet in my head to undress, for embarking on a journey through their most intimate biography. In the manner of a serene and lucid dialogue with itself, which come together introspection, tenderness and irony, the poetry book advances without artifice or frills, as if to emphasize at all times, without sacrificing the deepest lyrical, this conversational tone. "

"After everything written, Zuniga strikes again."

Anyway, give a little grilled with a mass mailing, hehe.
loves you and is kissing you.

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There are songs that are worth a thousand poems. For example, this ranch that I sing Mary Passion:

a little while.

I do not want to be alone,
I want to be with you,
since you left
I'm shattered.
I want to see a little bit,
even a bit,
want to be a second,
a second in your arms.


Lord, Lord of heaven,
not take away my glory, the glory
you gave me.
Lord if it was sin
love him so much and so
why you let .


I do not want to be alone,
I want to be with you.
afraid of everything I have
I could not kill me.
Come and tell me a coward,
taunt if necessary,
but then you go
want to see a little bit.

Poptropicathegame Online

. What nonsense

accumulate memories alive when the light! In front of your chest lifted
no sunset, dawn
surely a new day,
presence endless, inexhaustible source of hours
alive lap
futures suggested breaks.
Yours is the light, no one can snatch
that the former clearly
no memory, no beautiful story
against irrefutable today glow emanates
just today, especially today, gentle

light that filters through every pore of your body adult
powerful, chiseled
shock wave. There is no recall, just die
loving every sip.

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yours is the light between my warm memories

.

remember those days when silence was a cry for love. I remember nothing solitary

streets and between two people who were
by mere chance, men and women, or maybe
boy and girl caught in the middle
trance live.
remember those days, smiling,
your hair in the wind above the cliff, I remember the laughter
sad goodbye, confident
festive paper, the momentum
am sharp on Sunday.
I remember at the station lost the wagon loaded
desires, so wet
the platform, so many rumors passenger
unknowns, scarves
banal writing the story. I remember every breath
involuntary

each lightning through our anatomy
light caress of the tongue, mild clamor of stars,
sudden sleepiness after furtive passion,
remember, sharp knife
blind to the precipice,
a jump in vacuum kiss, hope
filling the horizon of my days on earth.

Oh, yes, I remember,
yellow image, love, love ...

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. Boca
mine, my breast, my
coat your mouth, chest, love.

especially when you're in,
sling around your shadow, your peaceful
unfading passion, your whispers sound,
a tenacious presence.
slow climb like ivy, spherical, you
possession of space, memory
do fateful
toy because all are you when you're not.

Your mouth, your chest, wrap my
my mouth, my heart, love.

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.
The story is not written, not written dreams,
the subtle yawns when the sun rises, perfect communion
chores and gestures,
the pleasure of that body penetrated, tangible,
absorbed in another, alienated
in simple solitude of being loved, loving.

The story is simply, you miss the words to tell
glacial light on the eyes,
ecstasy, hope, serenity further

pierced by a sudden flight of pigeons.

Who said love, who can say that without being written
going to be all true.

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letter written story in the hostel Henry II of Castile

.
write for myself and for you in this house

recollection bare words, they wanted
be called life, and history, and now only
rain, are plain
that penetrates the night comes
river water to the window dark.
and the bells are ringing in the tower
distant
sound two strokes, two in the morning;
sound, and no longer serve
words for something more than a gesture serves.

for me write myself and for you
and are two in the morning and cry because finally
know that words are
only to mourn, not make history,

write daily letters sometimes, indeed, also comforting. Free

all thought this hostel
inhospitable border
I write, therefore, the letter which will keep him from morning
forgotten books

My dear, is now the dawn
and I feel that my heart is yours ;
are not yours, are you, because you are
being of my body.
While life goes on every day freedom is today
address these poplars compliment
wind a rain calm and quiet.
Today, when the two in the morning,
and I have wanted to mourn, and cry,
and I feel that your lips are prodigious
eternity.
a big hug and many kisses your good friend.

When I finished the letter you were sleeping.
When I sleep, I woke up.
And so we spent many, many hours.

Who's Face Shape Do I Have

.



No matter, no, life, life is what matters.
Life is the homing instinct, stick to the form
being of those living, clinging to
inexorable death, true. Live is another thing.
; ;
pans shaped moons mourning, sheets
fulfilling its role shroud prison
felt like home sweet
and the words spoken at the right time:
life is.

Callar, wanting
love, to feel in the depths
the unspeakable sadness of knowing that loved one,
negligible because everything is priceless and madness last
to crave what is yours:
that's living.

Only the lover lives, everything else is life.

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lover was only in metric

.
verse despots, many hesitations,
is not possible: I always tell you what
callus should be easier this whole ordeal
laborious and violent literature. I have

tangos and auroras, tango and bolero
tingo total, to say "not much" I love you;
you are at the origin of magma conjunctive
in the blur of hand cut in the poem number
twenty point where everything
cease in the haze
view through the mirror, rose gardens
between
Retiro park and the town more regrettable stubble:

're where you should not because you, you do have a time and space, has
gone to here in this bottomless sea that sucks
relentless and does not satisfy your thirst.

And thank goodness after all this time I can
share more or less the same words: dead ants
spend days, we Invista

presumed innocence and sometimes even think that somebody thinks of us.
I think about you.
With so much love that I can get time to hate,
with much love that I have to love myself,
with love and hate that consumes my nights,
both love I blow my head and magma
conjunctive and fuzzy omen
and hands cut off and the transmitted light of mirror the rhetoric
heck, right now my desire is to destroy the metric
. Thus:

love you.

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.
is true, I prefer you go:
is the only way the whole house
is claimed as yours, objects always so discreet
drive with tact and efficiency are
when you are not the subject of the most rendered
admiration, all without you shining, his sharp profiles
recovers the house everyday. Then the tenderness
invade
corner crying and I'm happy and I hope you return.
So
is true, I'd rather not go.

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absence RECITAL II "CENTURY ANTHOLOGY. This afternoon

.
.
RECITAL INTERNATIONAL POETS

"ANTHOLOGY CENTURY"

Blue Devil

c / Apodaca, 6 (M º Tribunal and Bilbao)

Madrid

FEBRUARY 5 HOURS FROM 21.00 HOURS TO 23.00

ORGANIZED AND PRESENTS: KNOW FERNANDO SÁNCHEZ

read his poems:

-ANGEL

SOUR CHERRIES
- CARLOS HUGO MAMONDE (ARGENTINA )

-CECILIA QUILEZ

-JOSÉ LUIS ZUNIGA

-MAR BENEGAS

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- Zhivko BALTADZHIEVA (BULGARIA)

SONGS AND CLARA BALLESTEROS

THE RECITAL will be broadcast via the Internet at the following link

http://www.lahojaenblanco.es/

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may need your love

.

may need your love

to sweep

somewhere in my journal private. Quique González

I see you slowly.
time I want to see how the older

the contour of your lips, your eyes
surely your laughter ring
glauca, I want to see
slowly
to see you again.
life has edges of nostalgia:
is better slowly, which gives the time
past. Life.

I see you slowly.


.

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. Pena
of silence inside you
I will find,
not ask me how anyone
end the match.

Words
slip through my fingers, points
are running
senseless dancing in a notebook.

I have been lost
z and V's, I do not understand
iota of the alphabet.

Pena, blacks penalty
omens, go to your meeting.