Fixed Deposits In Brazil

Different sounds of the absence to fall.

A house is a hollow object. An empty house naked memories of its inhabitants. An abandoned house is the summer of nature. A house without you is the appearance of your absence. Is entering its ghostly embrace, in his deepest fear. A house with me here is that it will or not, and the cafe and the symphony will be finished and out the rain will stop falling, the night disappear. A house that is showing me what would be a future without you. A home sad, too beautiful. A house that I dare not pass beyond the staircase landing, space studies, the futon without the wrinkles in the sheet to let sit. That's right. Your absence was deliberate. It seems you cleaned all your presence. Dust and wind and your breath be that these spaces are gone. Is your house twice without you. While looking at your things: your red purse, your pots perrier, your basket of postcards rescued from a sinking city, your bags, your books arranged in chromatic scales, your computer, your refrigerator full of Orangina. Maybe your hair removed ant the floor, the last vestige of you were here at this table layered blue writing. As I look you in this order that has your absence. Your shoes are not disengaging stroke geometric tiles, there are your papers scattered stabilo your feathers scattered around, not the resonating box of your smile, you're not. It seems to fit everything so you will not find, not find your tenderness wrapped in the chair, your beauty, your tall, your neck fine dispersed at some point in this house. Not, it seems that I write with this provision from where you are. Your house is a small world without you trod. Stir in the page, let it all go past his place, let the traffic is less heavy. At least I'd let the barking of dogs in the street, the howl of machinery, nothing. Only a huge roar in the sky. Only this symphony that is languishing. Only the half-cup coffee. Only these mediocre noise of the rain: without force, without you too. Only this house I get a free sample of your presence, not to find traces of yours, to enlarge absences. Still I wait, accurate, hunched in the blue table.

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MOVING (UP THEN POEM)

I have no why I'm giving up.


The flight lines are two-way road.


Go and come back here and there.


Each kick is followed by two hugs,
three routines for a surprise.


need both tears of laughter
as the smiles of sadness.


The verb talk is empty without a glance,
we already know that we combine blablabla,
and also nor
.


What if the words are dressed in carnival
eyes take away the masks.


a reflection of moving water
I can restore lost consciousness.


That is good to escape and fled toward
platitudes
of blind alleys.


addition, today there has to be like yesterday,
but if photocopying, and will arrive tomorrow
to see
opaque mirrors who we are,
who I am,
if today is the day
that will change the world.


Because the world fits in a head.


Listen if the motion of the tides
in the bustle of the dark.

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LETTER TO LXS who stroll through HERE AND MYSELF (CLOSED FOR HOLIDAYS)

Hello,

After a night with several very productive discussions, preceded by another night with several other equally productive conversations, because conversations are productive in kicking off the masks and let us dirty words raw, all these in a range of fifteen days, and they mean that sediment left behind, say goodbye. Until then, I have fifteen days of vacation, and although this is not a job, do not live as such, if it is becoming an obsession. Also, I feel I'm losing my only value type, the only thing I claim that until recently was pushing me to do so. I have always tried, speaking from inside of me transcend to another level. Lately, I write compulsively, having nothing to tell, fleeing from me and I do not like. I feel my voice is evaporated. I feel like I'm doing well. I think I'm being dishonest with myself. I do not like.

That said, I'm going to spend these two weeks. Entirely, because I do not think I've gone away and I can find, or find another way and refine. Because the only way I can keep feeling clean and not become a liar. Only then will also devote myself entirely to those around me. That matters more than a verse.

Therefore conclude

throwing the alley closure, two weeks on holiday, two weeks because I need to stop running and stop for a while, two weeks and if I need some more, as well.

Thanks to all the comrades.

Besos.

Sergio.

PD That if the following entry (in the morning to close my eyes) is a poem from you soon.

Esti

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TIMBA Poetik + WEAPON X in Pola de Siero

vienres Mayu 20, from 10:30 them, the hiphoperu WEAPON X will per La Pola Siero interpret pa últimu so trabayu discográficu, unconstitutional. you love to review trabayos're afraid of the past, and hiphop classics more comprometíu Asturian.

With it, the first time in the history of Mundu worldwide, Timbo Poetik va Presentations Judah landed him the verses and visceral comprometíos:

- David Gonzalez , tou a reference of poetic underground Asturian

- Sergio S. Taboada that from Aviles in Vien-col under espectáculu terrorist Music The Vidub , nel qu'acompañáu of DJ Dani Antistylo

- Paul X. Suárez representing ritmu d'electro Pop Retórika and The coolant should a chocolate system

- David Fueyo, Traira us so last test of the holster, Dreaming

- Miguel Allende, cabbage're coming p'apurrinos Payasu Words the beatnik ritmu Llaviana

- the painter-poet Lara Rios ,

- and they last surprise of the kuenka'l Nalón Timba:

The Turka

and Erizuka .

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DID NOT PLAGIARISM

not forget the work of the simplicity the male

not forget the screams of complexation

or that I could fuck the living

me I could not fuck me.

because I can not forget

cling to it as a certainty

and without looking down

ask who are here who are ill jar

degenerates who are here

who lives here

which he tries.

is not forgotten and

memory which keeps me alert

he avoids roads order of God

submission

male

and away the doubt that

child I was struck on the balconies

who interrogated me for years

and I walked away from the tops

and people .

If you jump?

Liberation

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air concepts.


Inspiration is a fallacy.


lungs are filled with words.


For expansion. Blood.


the brain. For expansion.


Inspiration. Fallacy.


Plagiarism. Fallacy.


Cancellation of our ability as human beings

-in power-
creative.


Original is at the origin.
rest derivative work.


Plagiarism. Fallacy.


Dimension intellectuals
Parnassus a single thought.


all LA are intellectuals.
all LA we creadorxs. We all LA
derivative work.

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ODE TO THREE-MINUTE

RESUME TALKS.


Yes,
continue pulling the strings
of this web.


SEDENTARISM MINE.


The hippocampus
in the quiet sought,
became desert.


inconstancy.


The task of this
yes, yes, host,
'll finish it.

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For him there was nothing more fragile than see rain. Transparency picked up a weight such that it moved a few inches to hit the ground. His distress increased with the first burning, indecipherable events occurring always at the edges of the city and were orchestrated by invisible characters in the early evenings May. This anticipation prone to despair made him bellow and sealed in the fourth private home. However, the rains come yet be visible. Rain fell in hearing your thoughts and then the thunder, the incessant peals on the glass of the window as thousands of flies. Sky while cleaning the water were the cracks in sidewalks and railings: pieces of the reflections of the world, in the yard wet clothes hanging on the bonds; of the shelters fell a persistent leak in the rain last vestiges of architecture built for infinitely squeezed . The trees became more obscure and far as the eye could see, it appeared the rain had demolished with its intrinsic strength that wall of smoke that surrounded the city. The rain was a victory. Now for the moment the world was more like how I knew. He believed that every rain renewed the relationship of the people, relationships, parkas and subtle, tender and invisible relations arising from before the rain. It was just the water, fragile as conceived, unveiling each of these stories that people write to walk the streets in their day to day. At minimum mist between the people and the city's sidewalk was eloquent. It traces its inhabitants embodied the rain, each sole each step were not given a kind of typography that mingled in him a figure promoting constant multiple meanings. The water still invisible at times in writing the history of this city and all. The second story of him and his hours, his breath.

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HAIKUS Lune

between thinking and planning projects pantry

excited dreaming dreams dreams.

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BEFORE SLEEP! SILENT POETS!

unprofitable words In

think.

! Silent poets!

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wooden horse. EME EME

Remember the wooden horse was once a tree. Salta. Prison escapes his swing. Expect to find roots that will return to earth.

dreams of the possibility of re-sending messages with the wind. Wait for news of other trees. Drinking raindrops. Loved every outbreak of the trunk. Shelter among their foliage the bird. Protect its shade to the thirsty. Sing the song of centuries patient impatient traffic.

But one is a silent forest of glass and cement. Hell of silence impossible under the roar of burning lights. Wind infected quickly that does not stop listening. Missing memory and memory disappears after each storm clouds.

defeated the horse back to his prison wooden beam.

rock in roll is autistic. Erases memories of a world one day and now belonged not want.

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A.

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disgust. NOTES

The transiting through an unfamiliar place has a risk. "If you will excuse the exaggeration Lost. On the other hand it is fun. Questions. I explain. Resume its journey.

How not lost. I approached the girl leaning against the railing. I smile. Wonder. Raise your head. I returned a smile. Indeterminate accent any country in eastern, guides me. Avoid at all times meet with my eyes. Her eyes just say a word. Sadness.

cross the street in the direction indicated. I can not help, I can never - turn around. I look to the railing. Observed seen the faded beauty of this woman. With the hope of seeing it emerge full and powerful, breaking the chain that seems to tie her to that rail. Play as your eyes to the world submit their dignity.

often forget that cruel reality beats off the weak beats of the heart of my dreams pilgrims. An old man soba, tries to approach her mouth to her neck. Her body seems to be left to do. Our eyes are in hundredths of a second necessary to shout in unison.

disgust.

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dirty realism. VOICES OF HER MY

is praised in the poems

use bitch .

(linguistic symbol of patriarchy

women's autonomous

which

not bow to the arbitrary male)

Motherfucker.

(mention offensive to an unknown father.

If a motherfucker,

feel proud to be

choice of a free woman)

Images testicular

as value as satiety.

(paradox of the balls,

ugly and weak,

as totalizing power)

explicit sex.

(women delivered

a tireless penises)

Anglicisms number.

(do not believe so cool)

Street as idyllic

space realization.

(ask the street)

carriers say

; -only-

of social criticism.

(but an empty message

value to the other alleged)

Muchxs, want to be like Bukowski.

(and fill their poems bitch

motherfucker, fuck

)

(a message, devoid of value

the other intended)

Fuck in Bukowski.

(and in all LA Anarchist poets misóginxs)

dirty realism, they say.

(as if reality was something

clean)

tags, or clothing.

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: LARA RIOS. POEM-POTA

Between laughter, you can also share verses and stir consciences. Lara did not know the other day in Semiente happy joy.

FELIX AVE

going to see how easily write poetry;

you'll see how I flow, as I leaned

unbridled gallop and go to the couple

the floor, shoulder to shoulder,

teeth chattering.

'll see how I bleed ink

hear my voice deeper,

my deepest and heartfelt voice lunatic

tormented and capricious my beauty

and my elf, my angel and my leviathan.

You will hear my heartbeat, the rhythm

crazy my pulse, my symphonies red

my own blues.

'll see how I write for hours

drunk

and vomiting in the paper, the tranquility

that'll put fire to the paper;

how I easily forget the words!,

how, great, great, I burn,

and disappear!

L.

SATURN IS CELIAC

Power crisis to contemplate what they call live

is the best thing that has happened in many years.

The crisis is a place of imagination

like the south is a mental state.

Revolution and served there for something

revolution is a complete turn

a centripetal force, which brings us back

proud to be alive, is the song

of a body made from ground wheat,

chlorinated water and yeast for bakers to pay.

A mass sold at a time with bulimia

wood devouring bread and vomiting

in a loaf pan Bimbo bark.

celiac More and more, was clear.

Gluten intolerance is a cutting-edge disease.

But no pain today and so I said,

because I like to feel alone in a crowd

singing in languages \u200b\u200bI do not know what imported.

I do not understand;

I've gone solo concerts and I give them crickets.

toméis me not to bad, I love you and admire your commitment,

I support and need to wake up, it makes sense.

But I can not help thinking that when this happens,

shall return to be the same:

as I

hope that I will retain

of a revolution:

Centrifugal

south

L.

MANIFESTO reflexivity

Do not mistake no, no, his great love

to a fault;

is not missing something, but

no what

you should,

My word extensively as a bridge to recovery

weak braid

flight

With this I say everything, and yet

craps OF DOGS

Stray dogs are not entitled to the city.

In the city there are buildings full of dogs with pictures of dogs and dog food.

The elevators did not end with the heroes because they are full of dogs.

Schopenhauer (philosopher prominent), questioned the intelligence of women.

preferred the company of his dog to humans. I, too, so I have no dogs.

A woman walking a terrier takes me almost eye with his umbrella.

a Husky pulling a man and I almost start of the bike.

In the cities there are bicycle lanes and dogs go through parks, streets and walks

full of dogs. The wind blows leaves in handfuls and dogs carry rain gear and go cars adapted for dogs.

Cities are full of kennels full of dogs.

Claim: Social security for these poor animals.

The Doge's fifth and second in heat Setter and bitches are Castro's right (Bitches).

What gives me my dog \u200b\u200bgives me no!, And it is true;

your dog can hold you and tell you what you want.

never contradicts

and looks a ti. Te saca de paseo y conoces personas nuevas

con las que hablar de perros y perros con los que hablar.

Pero lo mejor de todo, es que el perro, es, siempre, tu mejor amigo.

Por eso en la ciudad, la gente, recoge sonriente la mierda de su perro.

L.

.

Because laughter is an ungrounded lightning

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PRO P (KNU) OESI AND POETIC EXPRESSIONS AND HARD spontaneous popular DIGESTION BY ORDER GESTORXS LXS and his henchmen. CANSA

Look well

are a lot different bichicitos

galore

we put our foot on occasion

VIVA LA IMPERFECTION cry together.

Fermin Muguruza, disk-Bugs Xomorroak

poetry without form or limits without major publishers

poetry without rules, without spelling

poets or poetry as a defense barricade

POETRY-STONE against power and his lie

(not forgetting their satellites)

POETRY-SURF revolts always gut-POTA

POETRY vomited on the paper and asphalt-FIRE POETRY

against money and trade

poetry against mercenarixs vegan

of poetry poetry against the Parnassus and universities

POETRY-PAD against progress and poetry

mental illness stigma and poverty

poetry

indigestion and sleeplessness

tantxs poetry against both and both and

tantxs

but

PEOPLE WITH POETRY POETRY-VILLAGE

days

shared poetry as mutual support and affection

free poetry and poetry as self-managed

egregious exercise of FREEDOM

STREET POETRY-POETRY-POETRY-BARS

CENTERS

collective poetry against

POETRY-EGO PAMPHLET in brochures and photocopies

poetry from the conscience and consciousness-JOY

POETRY by road HUGS HOPE POETRY

non-impossible

POETRY POETRY EXPLOSION

EXPRESSION EXPRESSION without censorship or pressure-POETRY

EXPRESSION of everything we love

if a poem comes in between

-potable because it looks good

you

while they say they say that I do not care ...

(the latter is the King Putreak)

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Ana

be tired

crumb

feeding sparrows and signaling pathways to cope with being

in this beautiful world of shit

tired and I see in your words

and I hear it in your eyes

and I read it in your hands

tired as tired not finding

illusion and output

the appropriate response at the right time

know

I see I see.

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TIEMPOBSESIÓN

niñxs

Since everything grows around

least absence of ru (t) ina decline

all

all

less time pressure

always pushing forward.

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Seraphine de Senlis

"Seraphine" tells the life out of the ordinary, the French Seraphine de Senlis, who was born in 1864 who was a pastor, then a housewife and, finally, a painter before sinking into madness. Early twentieth century. Seraphine Louis, 42, lives in Senlis and makes a living cleaning houses. The little time that it takes plenty of painting. It's the cleaning woman of Mrs. Duphot, who rents an apartment to Wilhelm Uhde, a German dealer fascinated by modern painters and naive. At a dinner hosted by Mrs. Duphot, Wilhelm Uhde discovers a small box he had brought Séraphine few days. Fascinated, buy and convinces him to Seraphine le enseñe otras obras suyas. 2008: 7 Premios César, incluyendo mejor película y mejor actriz (Yolande Moreau) (por Peliculon.es)

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ANYONE LIKE HIM

look I do not see
that no one is more handsome than him
not tell
idea that nobody thinks better than he
shut your mouth when you stay
that nobody talks about how he
not tell how much you try
nobody works harder than he
or share what you feel
feelings that nobody understands unless
he or you are alone and you will get
anyone accompanying you better than he



he he he




supreme god your home

alpha male of your life


taken away.

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Poetik CENTRU TIMBA SOCIAL CHRONICLE THE STATE

face a poetry reading, people come. She sits. Vegan poets begin their number. A hair. With music. With visual support. Or, as is the way everyone chooses to project his lines. People listen. Sometimes applauds. Sometimes not. Vegan just poets. Grateful for the attention. Occasionally, someone comes over to discuss something about it. End

LÉntregu On Friday, it was not. We got together about 35 people in the Social Centru Semiente (no leads or open two weeks and have already made a host of gigs, a space very welcoming. For the space and people) poets and no. Turn off the music. Lights out. The concert begins. And people, from the first minute, delivered. Then, the Timba Poetics, changes from a yoteofrezcoturecibesono, a total act of communication. Transmitted worldwide, everyone gets the whole world in one way or another, involved. Understanding poetry as an act of communication, among other things, is a strong adrenaline rush that day.

La Timba in itself was a party where you grabbed the microphone: La Turka and Erizuka, two local surprises, Lara Rios, who appeared at last vegan delight hour present, Miguel Allende, with the mastery of his Pallabres Clown David Fueyo with canana Dreaming, which was heated Delfo and remembered an old poem of his, Alfredo Huerta, who was there recording (great job, all things not going to lose at the moment) and recited a poem Suarón, Paul X. Smith and the writer of these lines, sharing the genius of Dani Stylo to dishes. And the absence of any micro grip, people Semiente Social Center. Personally, I did feel a part.

end with something that Smith said during the event, more or less, "Poetry is the people and is in the town where it belongs. "Do not rob us, add.

Thanks to all the comrades. And thanks to Abel and Caesar, which the team would not have reached its destination.

TURK

DAVID Fueyo

ERIZUKA

LARA RIOS

ONE

PAUL X. SUAREZ

DJ DANI STYLO ANTITAILO O O SO

DELF (AND ONE TO WATCH)

MIGUEL ALLENDE