... more than a thin model posing for a painter
A. Tobar
Saramago has died. And I look back as his novels were flaking paint the ceiling that was so close to my head. I recall for example the chapter of Christ in the Sea of \u200b\u200bGalilee arguing with the devil, and how my eagerness to think about things from many perspectives began to become a vice inevitable. Such uniformity inherited from the dictatorship of a small society social climbers and accommodating. It was a popular uprising against my learned behavior curfew. Fortunately I was young. More than in years, my insatiable desire to try to destabilize the structures, especially their own, here in this prison we used to be ourselves.
And in the innocence of those who evade the everyday, I met with Niall Binns. I think London is a poet by accident, resident in Madrid for strictly personal reasons unknown to me, and as several unconscious would love to live in Chile. Is a antipoemofílico, at least he seems to recognize their merit. And so the rubble, some toothbrushes and hair in 69 of his muses, I found few but essential residue of their existence. I could not but feel a carrion-vulture of the same that he describes-damn those letters for some letters for me as the most appetizing raw meat to feed my creative organ verses.
I am neither are vultures, as any neighbor could draw, but survivors who thrive on the ground substance of poetry. Only heard poets read poems there. Scavengers poets themselves, I thought around here.
is past time that I met this man named Saramago (as we write Sepulveda). But what matter the weather. Today he ran to a big one. But today also began for me as Lavoisier legislate, my fluttering in circles on the remains of Niall. That stuff is not lost. Saramago's work either. And so I, as they've seen how my flaps scavengers gnawing my life, I will continue feeding on the subject immortal Saramago and stalking of Niall. All of it alive. All of them "exquisite corpses?
hair tangling
atándome stealthy feet, sparking memories
The tracking and pick
and I've been tying
one by one, to make a necklace
serve me, in passing, as a rope
night I'll tie the bulb of the room will climb
a chair,
and then to get me head and uttering the words
well known
give a slight kick, and then
see if they are weak bonds of our love
(of songs under the mistletoe)
definitely then, I've left and I have no trace of your way to a miserable toothbrush, which is accompanying me on the usual dirty glass.
Your brush is pink, blue mine: what has been our line straight into nothingness. But while you're away, our toothbrushes, day after day and long nights of lust, silky weave their tips: tireless.
Sometimes I give them back or they invented the most unlikely positions, and as the man sketching in his cave Altamira bison in the act is condemned, I rejoice to hear you scream, shake sleep-without knowing why, "
(De Five love songs)
Vulture the dust off the memory of his broken family
Vulture which sterilizes the landscape of your rotting organic
who cry vulture , masturbating, so it could have been
Vulture which still cherishes his first love letters
Vulture which hatches its endless sunsets nostalgia
trailing behind the a lost paradise
Vulture who lives in the rugged peaks of the mountains
Vulture the autobiographer of childhood lit
manufacturer journalist Vulture of sordideces
Vulture that digs for food tailings
Vulture carnivore who does not feel the death
who inhabits a universe of junk
Vulture fanatic Barbara Cartland
Vulture an official of the intermarriages
the Vulture returns to being a child in dreams
Vulture reader
Vulture heights drunkenness
Vulture devotee Dictionary
the bookworm Vulture
voracious vulture heir
Vulture which cleaves the clouds
King Vulture
Vulture collector
Vulture sacred bird
Vulture the maligned
that slander
Vulture
remains
Vulture vulture
poets of today (the poet's poet, the poor poet, the poet esthetician, the poet, scholar, poet and the poet indignantly formula 1)
1) The poet poet takes to the streets dressed in black cape embroidered
back in the black cloak bearing the letter P
invisible poet The poet walks through the nightlife and
poet sees a car approaching and says
"Two fireflies are coming
to 110 mph, "Cries of emotion
Go away
car and says" Two are smokers evening
to 110 mph, "Cries of emotion
Call friends and tell them the finding
2) The poor poet is in a trance
when you pass a car on newspaper pages
A new car cool again, of course, that
The poor poet notes
goes to a bar, gets drunk, babbling a melancholy verse
about his childhood or his girlfriend lost
bought another gin and tonic with
beefeater "I'm not poor nor poet says:" I am a poor man "
3) The poet esthete walking around the shopping and buying a blue vest Many
mercedes taxis and many and many BMWs, but he does not see
despises the appearance, the epidermis of things esthete
The poet goes home and writes
"Rock" says, and shudders
"Water" he says, and
shakes "Air" "Earth" "Fire" and shudders
says three times
Feel the boiling of essences
then sits on the couch, smiling
Think how you will shake other
4) The poet scholar
measures its verses with amazing accuracy
This, he says, is a
pentameter pentameter This is also a
This, however, is not nothing hendecasyllable:
is an aberration (this
verse that begins "an aberration" is an Alexandrian
very wise I said, the poet-scholar)
5) The poet indignantly refuses to appear on my poem
"Again I am minority," I protest
" A six! is outrageous, "he says
6) The poet laughs Formula 1 mimetics
" No cantéis speed, oh poets, "says
" That flower in the poem, pussy! "Formula 1
The poet prefers to stay in the garage writing a poem
high speed of benzene borbotante
His poems are many, long
energy and lack of punctuation and meaning
but are very much impressed anthology
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Photo 1: Marcia Zegarra oil taken from his blog: http://marciazegarra.blogspot.com/ )
Photo 2: vulture. Taken from Http://www.galeriade.com/angel/details.php?image_id=777&sessionid=36fc63ecc21b45c33fc3508642799b8c
In Salieri a musician that we do not stop watering with words. To listen click here.
