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THE TIME TO DREAM STILL

is Sunday and a hush falls over the world there are no clocks

no ties

no shoes no going beyond living loving breathing


previous days are postcards
and key in a cork with thumbtacks

trying to forget or maybe watch them here in this light

with eyes looking sideways at some


encyclopedia reluctantly today is not the time to die
little desire to remain naked while

relaxed face without a touch

just want to enjoy this Sunday morning down

still doing nothing
not pick anything up without ordering anything

anything just me with my dreams lulled into laziness
transported to the peace of utter denial
no news or letters or ghosts that oppress the way


leaving me by the foam

of imagination that you dream
hit me with the image of places where there are exquisite

trenches where there is no past, present or future
only weightlessness
a slow song by the Beatles played the cello
that appears
filtered drilling concrete beams


brick walls of the double windows of the soul
soundproof

May

How Do You Play Poptroica.com On A Psp

Thirteen newspapers
report of a worm that pierces the heart of the apple

the weight of life is embedded in the arteries
air smells of gunpowder
soul aches at the edge of a knife lewd

but everything is broken when I see
eyes the eyes of my children, for example
or anonymous people who built their history
with salt and sugar licking
complaints

a clear look when I feel his hands as white
building the future promises
and waving a flag honest

illusion when I hear their voices whispering a love you
artery pressing against the skin feeling

the extensive beat
pace of life and say to myself that it was worth
overcome the eclipse of the May 13
in
lunch and hit his unreason
scythe of chaos they engender their news
that old slimy madness that causes so much anxiety


much disbelief as abandoned ruins
because I know that pain is part of life
much as that
and hides the hand like a hard fist

a gentle touch a tree and barely manages to give us shade and shelter
amid
cement and more
yet and we will keep on dreaming

stubbornly continue dreaming dreaming

Thick White Mucous4 Days Before My Period Is Due

LUIS ROSALES, POET THAT CALLS ME



COME YESTERDAY afternoon going to die. On the way
acacia flower
dissolves in the wind. Among the branches,
deadly, almost vibrant
is the last sun. The earth smells,
starts to smell, and can not be
within itself and rises:
now no land on earth and in the air.
And there's a sunny Bardal, until he arrived;
shadow is the summary of the afternoon. I've been
mourn. Do not know who to cry. A distant smoke

-perhaps a train again, while saying:
I'm your pain, let me love you. Poem

Landscapes LUIS ROSALES

Wedding Welcome Note Messages

ATARDOLIENDO


Time is transparent but appears opaque

dasaparición leaves a trail of ruins

convulsed on the skin livid whip
strengthened stillness is dismembered with shrapnel
chipped dust
soul atardoliendo


time is slow but fast manifests

passes through our eyes vertigo on
mouths open heathlands

dodging fallen branches swirl of altered pulse disappearance
arid wind friction
atardoliendo


time is slight but manifests dense

atarduele the influence of his step lost
exhaustion without
name forgotten region of extreme solitude broken
brands in the porous bone scrapings fear

atardoliendo
always atardoliendo