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

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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.

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. 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

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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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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

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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.

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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

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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

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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

-PAUL GUERRERO

-RAQUEL Lansera

-SALOME ORTEGA

-Saenz de Tejada YOLANDA

- 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

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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.