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Today, scrofula

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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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. 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.

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story Sunday

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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]

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. 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.