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"What happens is that Tina is overwhelmed. And Tina went crazy, and Tina did things because when they were testing ... Tina did not appear to offend the sister with a knife a sister and Tina's head was lost. Thus ended. Thirty-eight years of his life and it is a shame, a shame because it has broken all alone, being such a good artist. "

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Grace Church, 'Screams vertical'


I wonder how it would look
my cold white body
swaying like a ripe fruit on a branch
dancing without rhythm.

The feet are the first thing we see a hanged man.

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Grace Church, 'Screams vertical'

This is real poetry. Shouts vertical reading of Grace Church (Seville, Cangrejo Pistolero, 2010) I remember José Lezama Lima, in their quest to create a poetic state, a parallel universe of metaphors without the perceptible reality. Hermetic poetry, but because the poetry is well capitalized, mysterious and shrouded in veils.



can not write from the vacuum
burn without getting your hands
without a ravenous hunger

you nestle in and be feeding on viscera
until finally wound
break into consonants and acid
all words
destroy tissue and become
voice in
in painful cry in a loud scream of pleasure


cry of anguish or perhaps groan louder than the awakening of the world.
Unable to write on dry land stripped and naked


bitter blood trying to make the clay of the dead. Unable


swear you can not.

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Tomorrow shallots, looking for (more) loneliness and silence. I'm dying of nerves, curious to know how they live, what they eat what time they sleep and what they do when they get up.
Who knows, once inside the cell, I will not ever want to leave.

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Shallots, "Diary of Divine Mercy in my soul" Psalm 138

"The soul must love, is in need of love, the soul has to turn his love, but not in the mud, or in a vacuum, but in God. Much I'm glad meditating, as I feel clear in my heart is only him, only Jesus himself, and love all creatures as much as help me to join God. I love all men because they see in them the image of God. "

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Lord, Thou hast searched me and known me;
know when I lie down and when I rise,
from afar you realize my thoughts
You see my path and my break, I
are familiar with all my ways;
is not yet word on my tongue
and now, Lord, You know her entirely.
You wrap me behind and before,
and you put your hand on me.
Your wisdom is a mystery to me,
is so sublime that I can not understand.
Where can go from your spirit,
where you could go far Your presence?
If I ascend to heaven, there I find you;
if low to the earth, there are present;
if I go back to the origin of the aurora,
if I go to the last of the sea, even there Your hand
keeps me
and Your right hand grabs me.
If I say: "The darkness surrounding me
and the light has made night around me,"
darkness is not dark to Thee, to Thee
night shines as the day.
For you created my inmost being,
You knit me together in my mother's womb.
confess that I am a prodigious work,
as all your works are wonderful;
then I am quite convinced.
My frame was not hidden from you
when I was made in secret,
tissue deep within the earth;
You saw me when it was just an embryo,
all my days were written in your book, my days were written
and counted
before none existed.
Oh God, how difficult they are to me Your thoughts,
how great is the number of them!
If the story, are more numerous than the sand;
if I finish, I am still with you.
Oh God, hopefully kill off the criminals away from me
the murderers! Ti
They say wicked things, but in vain
rise against Ti.
Oh Lord, do not hate those who hate you?
Do not hate on those who rebel against you?
hate them with an implacable hatred
and they are my enemies.
Search me, O Lord, and acknowledge my inner
Explorama and know my thoughts;
see if there is any offensive way
and lead me in the way everlasting.

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darkness That I do not have a voice.


Christ Jesus, oh fire that burns,
that darkness in me have no voice.
Christ Jesus, my shadows dissipated
and talk to me only your love.

Lord, You have searched me and known me.
I know when I sit and stand up.
I close behind and in front,
you have laid your hand.
If I go back to the edge of dawn,
if migrated to the ends of the sea, there
reach me your hand.
If I say that the darkness cover me,
darkness is not dark for You :
the night is clear as day.
God, sondéame to know my heart.
me go in the way everlasting.
I am thankful that you are sublime. You know
to the bottom of my soul.

Dispel my shadows, because your works are unmatched. You are beautiful as freshly poured honey, "so the girls fall in love with you." Log in to me because the night is not dark to You, where You are the night is clear as a summer day and dirt are swept with a stream of sea foam, and flutter of a swan. Pour out your saliva on my tongue so that it sings the glory of the Blessed Sacrament. For you alone are holy and deserve sounding harps, you alone are with me and know my thoughts, only you have managed to again say "I love you." Yes: I have no doubt my love. I love you.

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fully understand the mystics. Armed with a immense capacity for love and thrown into a building in continuous decomposition urgent walking to nowhere, have set their sights on a distant entity and higher makes life more bearable. Humanity does not deserve this love even more is his natural inclination mercilessly trample the interests of personal liberty and costumes do not know what else to hide the selfishness and cowardice.

why I like to get in the place of mystics and then write, to relieve boredom for an evening and believe me there is someone or something you can love yet.

But what if I really think so? I'm not hurting anyone. Could burn a house, or smash a perfect a bourgeois family and bring to ruin, or kill a person or abuse of children ... Instead, I would like a charm, I write from time to time I love to anyone outside the stream and over my head ... Is that so bad?

Another reason why I write about these things sometimes is to try my own hand, refuses to write about positive things. I've only written lamentations, but you have to rotate the view to the Song of Songs . This is the book that shed some balm on Zygmunt Bauman, that will help me sleep and not be afraid at night.

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Because I am a poet / even shitting / I give /

give you, / a little turd. / The rest for me.

Fernando Merlo

Would you like poetry? Well there you have poetry. Masturbaos with it.

can be seen at the top of the palm

the Insane, daughter of hate,

is drunk with blood of suicide.

Citrine and naked, hidden

mud-stained arms.

Palms will hold the nipples,

pulls them a stampede of bulls.

No pain.

The Insane, daughter of hate, provides

hedgehog with a cruel smile

smeared with faeces throat

the abyss.

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Zygmunt Bauman in Badajoz

I found in the Book Fair Badajoz Bauman Liquid Love, ranked Bookseller Sweet Madness, and I have not been able to resist. Enough of reading in the library of the University: now I have at my side, whenever you want, confirming the idea that outside these four walls no more than inequality, violence, apathy and contempt for love and humanity.

I recommend a new poetic of how Peter Pan took me too , Syracuse Bravo Guerrero. Syracuse gives me a lot of curiosity and in a few hours, dizziness, because that is all I am not and never will be: a lively person, full of optimism and projects, with faith in people and itself. What opposite me, who wishes only to leave and lose touch with the world until my will is to do nothing. I retire in a few years, but Syracuse is going to get very far. Only the strong shall inherit the earth. So be it.

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The brothel The brothel NARRATIVE NARRATIVE

Brothel I'm not talking about the narrative, is a slut and a perversion of love, the more dirty and cynical thing that occurred to me a long time.

Yes I recommend visiting the poetic Brothel Barcelona, \u200b\u200ban amazing site where among other works Txus Garcia, which will soon be part of the family of Crab Pistolero.

Tomorrow I'm in Badajoz Book Fair in Syracuse Bravo and Saray Pavón. I think I act 19 to 21, I just do not know where.

Today I am happy because I finally realized what I really want to, considering what you would expect from humans. No. One thing is for charity and other people will bring me anything but frustration. What I want, all you can fill a barrel drilling, not of this world. The only thing I have to do my part is encouragement and willingness to be consistent, just that.

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Tonight I'll no longer I, nor my house is not my house: Brothel narrative remains open.

CONTINUED ...

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Where charity and love, God is there.

I have a need for love that does not fit in this bad world. And the devil, who never sleeps, I was off the road, putting across the nostalgia of the times with Carlos, the desire to be with many men despite my disgust for sex and stupid illusions that a couple of one day being married, that I love as much as I am able to love. Traps, all are snares of the devil you do not want to miss. I plead guilty of
mundane, frivolous and capricious. To offend Jesus, whom I'm unfaithful in thought and work even after I played with his hand several times. No, this has to stop. This great love in me can not spot more, because it is intended to be burned as incense in other altars. I do not know if they will be unscrupulous fruit of my pride, but I am convinced that this love can not be used for one person but everyone around me. Ubi caritas et love, Deus ibi est. And trust, trust in Him, in His mercy. Everything passes, God never changes.
Satan, whom I have always served and adored, is now raging and putting stones on the road. It appears to me form of Carlos, which I have most loved in this world, I kneel before him and be faithful, because there is no bug outsmart the devil. But I have already stalled: it appears in this form to hurt me and leave the road, so I drown the grief and do not praise the grace that God has given me. It will not be with me this time, the house built on rock, not on sand. Jesus is my fiance, and he will not allow me to continue enticing.

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Twelve poems of loneliness and a song of hate, 'Dump' by Fernando Bazán Vice

http://www.sevillaactualidad.com/noticias/cultura/literatura/10704-doce-poemas-de-soledad-y-una-cancion-de -hate-dump-de-fernando-bazan.html

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Tonight will not be alone: \u200b\u200band I have in my hands Landfill ( Sevilla, Cangrejo Pistolero, 2011), the book-album of Fernando Bazan, " vice. "

feel how the pages marked by throbbing twenty-four years of neglect. Groan inside inconsolably, fall poems about love, friendship, faith, solidarity. Fernando bones creak under the dirty paws of weak thought. But I'll be in my bed, wipe away their tears and my eyes will give you the touch readers who never been given.




DEAD BIRDS

The floor is covered with dead birds,
some feathers still floating in the air,
will fall upon my feet.
write staring at the ceiling,

naked on the bed where the last bird
dying after falling sharply, thorny

with broken wings,
dying in each line, splashing
paper
my hands dirty,
filled with life.

I have only my dead bird.




Tonight I will not be cold. Fernando is here me, and bitterness, and anger nearly killed the first fly, to cause the cataclysm. Do not litter in the kitchen, Fernando, because tonight you do not kill. Deictics change and for a moment, I will be Cyrenean to hold your cross and spit on the dead birds for the birth of flames from the ashes, so that their shadows do not fill you sow life that you and I know so well . Until such day, I will watch your Landfill.