Después de Azul... después de Los Raros, voces insinuantes, buena y mala intención, entusiasmo sonoro y envidia
subterránea -todo bella cosecha-, solicitaron lo que, en conciencia, no he creído fructuoso ni oportuno: un manifiesto.Ni fructuoso ni oportuno:a) Por la absoluta falta de elevación mental de la mayoría pensante de nuestro continente, en la cual impera el universal personaje
clasificado por Remy de Gourmont con el nombre de Celui-qui-ne-comprend-pas. Celui-qui-ne-comprend-pas es, entre nosotros, profesor, académico
correspondiente de la Real Academia Española, periodista, abogado, poeta, rastaquouer.b) Porque la obra colectiva de los nuevos de América es aún vana, estando muchos de los mejores talentos en el limbo de un completo desconocimiento
del mismo Arte a que se consagran. c) Porque proclamando, como proclamo, una estética acrática, la imposición de un modelo o de un código implicaría
una contradicción.Yo no tengo una literatura «mía» -como la ha manifestado una magistral autoridad-para marcar el rumbo de los demás: mi literatura
es mía en mí-; quien siga servilmente mis huellas perderá su tesoro personal y, paje o esclavo, no podrá ocultar sello o librea.
Wágner, a Augusta Holmés, su discípula, dijo un día: «lo primero, no imitar a nadie, y sobre todo, a mí». Gran decir.Yo he dicho, en la misa rosa de mi juventud, mis antífonas, mis secuencias, mis profanas prosas.-Tiempo y menos fatigas de alma y corazón
me han hecho falta para, como un buen monje artífice, hacer mis mayúsculas dignas de cada página del breviario. (A través
de los fuegos divinos de las vidrieras historiadas me río del viento que sopla afuera, del mal que pasa). Tocad, campanas de oro, campanas de
plata, tocad todos los días, llamándome a la fiesta en que brillan los ojos de fuego, y las rosas de las bocas sangran delicias únicas.
Mi órgano es un viejo clavicordio pompadour, al son del cual danzaron sus gavotas alegres abuelos; y el perfume de tu pecho es mi perfume, eterno incensario de carne.
Varona inmortal, flor de mi costilla.Hombres soy.¿Hay en mi sangre alguna gota de sangre de África, o de indio chorotega o nagrandano? Pudiera ser, a despecho de mis manos de marqués;
mas he aquí que veréis en mis versos princesas, reyes, cosas imperiales, visiones de países lejanos o imposibles: ¡qué
queréis!, yo detesto la vida y el tiempo en que me tocó nacer; y a un presidente de República no podré saludarle en el idioma
en que te cantaría a ti, ¡oh Halagabal!, de cuya corte -oro, seda, mármol- me acuerdo en sueños...
(Si hay poesía en nuestra América, ella está en las cosas viejas: en Palenke y Utatlán, en el indio legendario,
y en el inca sensual y fino, y en el gran Moctezuma de la silla de oro. Lo demás es tuyo, demócrata Walt Whitman).Buenos Aires; Cosmópolis.¡Y mañana!El abuelo español de barba blanca me señala una serie de retratos ilustres: «Éste, me dice, es el gran don Miguel de Cervantes
Saavedra, genio y manco; éste es Lope de Vega; éste, Garcilaso; éste, Quintana». Yo le pregunto por el noble Gracián, por
Teresa la Santa, por el bravo Góngora y el más fuerte de todos, don Francisco de Quevedo y Villegas. Después exclamo: ¡Shakespeare!
¡Dante! ¡Hugo...! (Y en mi interior: ¡Verlaine...!)Luego, al despedirme: «Abuelo, preciso es decíroslo; mi esposa es de mi tierra; mi querida, de París».¿Y la cuestión métrica? ¿Y el ritmo?Como cada palabra tiene un alma, hay en cada verso, además de la armonía verbal, una melodía ideal. La música es
sólo de la idea, muchas veces.La gritería de trescientas ocas no te impedirá, silvano, tocar tu encantadora flauta, con tal de que tu amigo el ruiseñor
esté contento de tu melodía. Cuando él no esté para escucharte, cierra los ojos y toca para los habitantes de tu reino
interior. ¡Oh pueblo de desnudas ninfas, de rosadas reinas, de amorosas diosas!Cae a tus pies una rosa, otra rosa, otra rosa, ¡Y besos!Y la primera ley, creador: crear. Bufe el eunuco. Cuando una musa te dé un hijo, queden las otras ocho encinta.

Metro mágico y rico que al alma expresas
llameantes alegrías, penas arcanas,
desde en los suaves labios de las princesas
hasta en las bocas rojas de las gitanas.
Las almas armoniosas buscan tu encanto,
sonora rosa métrica que ardes y brillas,
y España ve en tu ritmo, siente en tu canto
sus hembras, sus claveles, sus manzanillas.
Vibras al aire alegre como una cinta,
el músico te adula, te ama el poeta;
Rueda en ti sus fogosos paisajes pinta
con la audaz policromía de su paleta.
En ti el hábil orfebre cincela el marco
en que la idea-perla su oriente acusa,
o en tu cordaje armónico formas el arco
con que lanza sus flechas la airada musa.
A tu voz en el baile crujen las faldas,
los piececitos hacen brotar las rosas
e hilan hebras de amores las Esmeraldas
en ruecas invisibles y misteriosas.
La andaluza hechicera, paloma arisca,
por ti irradia, se agita, vibra y se quiebra,
con el lánguido gesto de la odalisca
o las fascinaciones de la culebra.
Pequeña ánfora lírica de vino llena
compuesto por la dulce musa Alegría
con uvas andaluzas, sal macarena,
flor y canela frescas de Andalucía.
Subes, creces, y vistes de pompas fieras;
retumbas en el ruido de las metrallas,
ondulas con el ala de las banderas,
suenas con los clarines de las batallas.
Tienes toda la lira: tienes las manos
que acompasan las danzas y las canciones;
tus órganos, tus prosas, tus cantos llanos
y tus llantos que parten los corazones.
Ramillete de dulces trinos verbales,
jabalina de Diana la Cazadora,
ritmo que tiene el filo de cien puñales,
que muerde y acaricia, mata y enflora.
Las Tirsis campesinas de ti están llenas,
y aman, radiosa abeja, tus bordoneos;
así riegas tus chispas las nochebuenas
como adornas la lira de los Orfeos.
Que bajo el sol dorado de Manzanilla
que esta azulada concha del cielo baña,
polítona y triunfante, la seguidilla
es la flor del sonoro Pindo de España.

¿Por qué me lo preguntas?
¿Acaso, no sentiste, como te entregue una nueva vida al besarte?
No sé qué significo el beso para ti.
Pero para mí ese beso insospechado;
ese arrebato de tu hombría que me incita,
esa valentía de robarme ese beso…..¡me regreso a la vida!
Te bese, como beso Adán a Eva, cuando la encontró a su lado.
Te bese con asombro,
Te bese con gratitud,
Te bese con toda la magia de mi universo,
Te bese sin medidas,
Te bese como si fuera a escondidas,
Te bese con la misma ternura que beso Martes a Venus ,
Te bese como besa Dios las nubes antes de volverla lluvia.
¿Qué significo ese beso?
Fue darte el permiso de escribir poesía en mis labios,
Maravillarme de tu dulce y sutil verso,
que fue destacando las prosas que creabas con mi boca sedienta,
al guiarlas con la pluma de tu lengua, con cual eficaz corolario,
sentir la calidez de la miel y leche que llevas en los labios.
Fue permitirme perderme de amor en tus brazos,
perdida en tu regazo que me ataban a calor de tu cuerpo,
con tus manos derrumbando cada parte de mi ego, de mis miedos.
El olor de tu saliva,
de tu cuerpo palpitando,
de tu piel húmeda con olor a lluvia de mayo,
fue rimando sin interferencia, hasta que me otorgaste, la transcendencia que siempre he anhelado.
Que significo ese beso?
Fue darte ciegamente la semilla de mi siembra para la cosecha cual tanto he cuidado.
Fue darte permiso a pulir las astillas de un pasado cual con recelo había guardado.
Fue encresparme en tu esencia dejando detrás toda mis dolencias.
Fue beber de tu influencia, que fue llenando mis espacios con divina esperanza;
de volver amar con potencia,
de volverme a entregar con reverencia,
de amar sin prudencia,
de atarme a la idea de besar así mientras exista vida en mí.
Fue darme cuenta que todavía existía una mujer vibrante en mí,
Fue darme cuenta, que tu hombría, era lo que necesitaba mi vida, ávida de un amor sincero,
de un beso con apegos, con respeto, con ternura, con locura, con desatada e incoherente pasión,
Eso es lo que significa el beso para mí.
Gracias por ese beso y en el.... devolverme la vida.
LeydisProse
7/7/2017
https://www.facebook.com/LeydisProse/

Therefore, the Lord himself will give them this sign: "A ****** will conceive and give birth to a son, and she will name him Immanuel." From this calami lapse, all of Patmia was refracted in the chromatics of Emmanuel, alluding to Isaiah as an infallible God of Salvation after having sent Sennacherib's mesnadas to his turn. His ministry came to be established along with all the soldiers who did not finally confront each other, but he came to support them from the waters that came from the eastern sea. The kingdom of Judah appeared in glory and solemnity anticipating seven centuries before the Mashiach came to the world of Israel. Hezekiah appears again after seven centuries in Patmia, to decline the fraternal help of Isaías, to save the collective quasi shipwreck in the mountains that would strike the edges of Patmia later after the conclusion of the battle, Etréstles intervening from where he entered the Hydors, as the sixfold brightest star of Aquarius of the Gulf of Skalá to protect all the landowners of the Oikodeomeo, litigating the swells of the sea that should refer to the synchronous beats of the Ruach Hakodesh. Etréstles entered the pointed mansards on the tops of the allotropic waves, carrying a scarlet ribbon in his right hand and in the other with an indigo hue when he swam he did not hold back from moaning for fear that the whole island might disappear, he deprecated while He floated imploring in Hellenic all the Prosas of Rhodes, thus leaving hanging on his neck the suffering of mercy that looked at him from the expectant shore, but the scarlet ribbon cried out for the Emmanuel who would be born among the cerulean granules, concomitant with the Mashiach that clung to him on the blue ribbon when a fragmented chroma emerged from the rib that divided the seven colors into fourteen, from where he propelled Etréstles over the calvaries of the water that prevented him from seeing how undaunted Saint John was reflected with his staff. The Vernardicidal ***** harassed the ministry of Isaiah who came to save Vernarth from the Hercules vortex, where everything will guide him with the conception of Vernarthian and Saint John the Apostle, with from afar they encouraged him saying: "Epoikodomeo" with the aim of building geomorphological waters of the Dam or blood of the Mashiach, forging, increasing wisdom and security to preserve and encode them with the Talmudic essences of Spirit / Pnevma that is the essence of the Messiah to make the ephemeral phase of Jesus with the prosopon of the fit in the primordial scale of Patmos, along with all those who entrusted their ministry to him. Isaiah stated that from a Maltona the Messiah will be born soon, the same one who has accompanied Vernarth throughout this journey par excellence from Judah when he sublimated the iconography of Saint John the Apostle on his return to his inheritance, thus the requiems said that Isaiah had been sawn. by Manasseh, indicating that his prophet's remains would gather on Patmos to materially reintegrate themselves before the panorama of any, beyond the scriptures, only the Pnevma prevailing, which ingratiated itself with the apocryphal papyri. The laws of the sea opposed the arms and chinstraps that Etréstles wore in the joints of each arm, creating with them psalms that indicated the presence of the divine mother of the Mashiach, with the divine contribution that embroiled the scriptures by the Psalms of Etréstles by besieging at once on the cusps of the waves, making use of the same phalanxes and of the Apsidas Manes with watery and ****** meddling by Sennacherib's troops, who by a narrow imbalance in the authorship of the debate segment on a defense that was with the angels, who had already slipped through the opening of the dying parapsychology, to enter the purging compass of the blanket with a Venerable who would speak to them in the first person about the lashes of the breakers enclosed in the annunciation of the Emmanuel that was going to radiate with his counterpart Jesus Christ in the scarlet and indigo Hydor of the Kosmous water compendium of all Patmia. The exegetes were all in their robes on the top of the mountain, they were all and at the same time, they were not. Isaiah wanted to predispose the messianic perception to unite the generous ends of the Majestic Tikun and the Gam zu Letová, so that the scarlet tekhelet itself merges with the chinstraps in the joints and Etréstles that came from the Seventh Cemetery of Messolonghi, to present them the chants of the seventh parapsychological regression of Vernarth's wounded hands that he could barely hold, having the Pisan Verses of Ezra Pound, agglutinated with the Psalms of Etréstles saying thus:

“Humiliate your vanity, You are nothing more than a dog beaten under the hail, just a swollen magpie in the fickle sun, half black, half white, and you can't even distinguish the wing from the tail. Humble your vanity, Petty is all your hatred nourished by falsehood. Humble your vanity, eager to destroy, greedy in charity. Humiliate your vanity, I tell you, humiliate it. But having done instead of doing nothing, this is not vanity. Having decency, called for an obtuse to open, having picked up a living tradition from the air or from a magnificent old eye calls it undefeated, this is not vanity. Here the error is everything in what was not done, everything in the shyness that hesitated ...

Etréstles answers with his Psalm:

"In the main, I attend to his voice that undresses small when they fall cliffs ...when the fierce sentinel hides the Xiphos from the evil ones who shield them inthe iniquity here on Patmos of his tongue-lashing sword that spills bitter blood,that she is thrown on famous vices of Pronoia and dry crops in the storehouse ...
with dormant grasses between lashes of hunger, thirst, and angry sleep.

This is where the Mashiach sleeps and does not lavish the drowsiness of the world! that he shoots and is not afraid of spitting a splendid Hercules cloaked with fullerides of necromancy and flashes of unsustainability in the bitter Pashkien eating the sores from the ferments of his hemlock fingers.

Who will be in the glory that calms his fingernails over the joy of Anubis? inquiring pustules of bolted injustices that stagnate in the
Sagittarius tongue flaring up trilingual on their own languages ...
If there is the blood that I can retain, it will be by submission with declined sphincters or not! seeing where everyone is without pressure or punishment of stuttering or fact that will never happen on a Patmian Reichstag, understanding that their voices
They are the proscenium of the Elohim containing the glory of the fallen when the periphery of the incisive tenebrosity are slices of the Vernarth Psalm, and of Rabbi Masoretic that shelters you when you sleep, however in a thousand years ...

I've been stragglers collecting extreme remains of immortal bones,
In invisible frames with the vanity of seven verses that escaped from my hands, thousands of them being built away from my Duoverse of love towards them atavistic ... almost become adopted children of Masoretic ignorance ... and in the confusion of the
Elohim translated into a genome after an open heart between the Alef and the Tav, between the arrow that serves as accommodation in her mind, unable to sleep if she is not there…! but high up where I can dwell, I see and I abide by being silenced in my vanity, seeing that nothing is mine and of those around me on the battlefield, who sublimate themselves by walking a lifetime on the side of my enemy wounded by the Dorus, and that I have never tried to take it off completely with slight iniquity, only avoiding zafrales and scrutiny in its search.

My vanity will perish undefeated but failed to revive itself with dazzles and sagites that pierce the saps in your children and mine, being poles of renewal of a Hoplite Raeder, cutting the thymus of the cattle and saying that their wounds are the same splendor of the Sagittae Parvulum, like Seraphim children prior to a hyperonym, fracturing sacred bravery that they enumerate him to lose himself in the numbering of infinity ...! As gladiator children, eternal infants and children of Zeus, also being Seraphim of Zeus and Cherubim who will make mustard its fragility, unstitching the time that it carves from the thyme trying to be the Kashmar "

From the eye of heaven, everything was supplied when Emmanuel himself, who was tried at the end of the battle of Patmia, was recognized. It was six o'clock in the afternoon when the omnipresent presence of Isaiah's interface antiphons was marked from where he would make them hold onto the mega Nazer as the offspring of the uncontrolled branch of his hyper parapsychology that expiated itself from the trunk of the descendants of Vernarth, alluding to to Wonthelimar as one of them who was on the wheel of Capricorn as an internal element of Hydor when it was made effective between the golden hands of Isaiah, with full genuflection enumerating from sinister to right the upright derivation of the Psalm of Etréstles with the Nazer, which is It would take refuge in the foundations of omission as a new shining principality, from where the light of the fifteen hundred years between the seventh heaven and space of this same inaugurating the stolon from where the angel Gabriel would make of all the natives of the Notsri of Nazareth the energy that surpass the masses of matter above the average of its brightness, implanting the Duoversal advance where the Mashiach. From Ofel will come the palmar remains with Marie de Vallés propitiating from the Notós or the South of the Mandragoron of Patmia, like a Bull of Concession of collective rights from Jerusalem with the remains of Isaiah in his living Status. The vernacular spirits of the Bethany journey were incarnated as the ruling planets, which would thus all be similar to Saturn, leaving all the rest with the same unrestricted semblance of cosmic materiality, with this transfer of Saturn's atmospheric outer pharaoh overshadowing all others. planets, under a stepped level towards the Messianic primogeniture, dislocating the vibrational levels above the primary embankment of the lithosphere, like a Qliphoth or shell of Saturn's debauchery when experiencing the bonds of emerging Christianization of the emotional state that made up this external preferential layer, of which of this genre they would create multi-natalist phases with the Qliphoth of the configuration of the vibratory cessation of the physical body of Patmos. In this way the seventieth Qliphoth or farfara of the compendium of exteriority and interiority would culminate, giving way to the Fos or light that would constitute the hybrid Greco-Hebraic componence on the braids that lowered from the Tekhelet of Etréstles when it levitated towards the Megaron, specifically the Naos that It would incite an end that just headed the engagement of the spaces that will be covered by the reviewing archetribe on the acroteria as the Lux of the beginning of the transfer of quantum of energy, which would begin to form the browbones and chin of Euclidean incidence in the cockades of Etréstles, by structuring itself in the cosmic rhythms of the tzitzit of its right hand, and in its left the Tallit that westernized all the supreme dogmas of eternalism, that carried a brand new covering of Áullos Kósmos with this mantle of hegemony, hanging from the tzitzit that would finally be the dragging ropes of the body of Etréstles to the cosmic ridge of Skalá. From a Genioglossal Muscle; where the Etréstles stimulation tendons were inserted, great impulses of language opened towards the pre-Adamic gates, radiating like wide puffs of the superior process that strangled the phraseologies that indicated error of omission, making everyone could conceive of each other before heading towards conversion, and to be able to aspire to the Naos from the Megarón. The most experienced used to expectorate and move sharply with their jaws when the membranes of this region fled from the tip or hyoglossal of their mouth, shuddering from its sublingual base when they saw that the Mashiach carried Etréstles half-dead from the sea, amid so many prosaic waves consuming him from a breath that was separated from it by a thin layer of adipose cell tissue, and by the Middle Septum towards the definitive Seventh Heaven of God, speaking to them of spaces that will be filled by the magnanimous who have reaped him from his Eternalism. This was neither more nor less than the protruding border of the Messiah speaking through those mouths with insignia of enunciation, and portents of words of reconversion.

Es que soy tonta,
tal vez inculta o seguramente las dos.
Es que no se leer!

He leído todos los poemas por Nicanor, Galeano y Neruda también.
Más nunca imagine, que su poesía comenzaba con la
primera letra de mi nombre
y terminaba con el beso que nunca me dio!

Es que no se leer!
No sabía que su poesía era para mí,
yo nunca he sido poema, verso o rima.
De versos y prosas lo único que sé,
es que son inspirados por musas que son virtuosas,
las que provocan pasión desmedida
y cuyos cuerpos no han sido marcados por la vida!

Como me iba imaginar;
que mi decolorada naturaleza
mi coraza que intimida,
mis espinas por la vida,
mis ojos nublados y alma fría
un poema inspiraría?
Es que soy tonta, tal vez inculta, probablemente las dos
……no se leer!

Y aunque he leído todos los poemas de Nicanor, Galeano y Neruda también;
como suponer que su almohada hablaba con la mía, cuando su tinta poesía escribía?
No supe que su poesía terminaba con suspiros en alba
y el beso que nunca me dio.

Ahora…..
él le escribe a la misma soledad, que nos alberga a los dos!

LeydisProse
2/2017
https://m.facebook.com/LeydisProse/

Un amor que se encontró en un pensamiento,
entre líneas de un verso escrito al viento,
deseando algo más etéreo,
algo más completo como lo es el firmamento.

Amantes que diseñaron su amor en un silencio,
en una revelación divina,
una tenue luz guiando su pluma,
trazando línea tras rima,
soñando despiertos logran disipar aquella
inquietante agonía de ¡que si algún día llegaría¡
eso tan preciado, ese sueño tan añorado.

Ese sentimiento depositado…a veces en un cuerpo erizado,
a veces en el hechizo de un pasado,
a veces en el ímpetu viento,
y fueron plasmando letras con dueños sin caras,
pero dueños en almas,
que no se reconocían,
mas siempre se escribían,
llamándolos con el pensamiento,
por si estaban listos,
por si ya habían aprendido,
por si ya les premiaba el destino.

Siempre con una constante esperanza
de que hubiese alguien que supiera descifrarlo,
esos códigos disfrazados en prosa,
ese poema largo, como lo es el océano,
ya que larga fue la espera..,
un escrito, un poema, una canción llena de sensibilidad,
llena de erotismo,
llena de un amor que se añeja como el vino,

Y
escribían sus prosas esperando un mundo distinto.
En un instante de agonía por pensar que ya habían escrito sus últimos  versos,
cansados de embozos disfrazados de amor,
en una agobiante desolación,
escribieron un último verso lleno de resignación.

Y vuelve el destino, tarde pero justo a tiempo,
leen un verso escrito a un tiempo sin dirección,
que les ha relevado que sus últimos versos serán escrito
en el reencuentro de cuerpos rimando de deseo y amor.
LeydisProse
10/18/2017

https://www.facebook.com/LeydisProse/

Of Wernarth's three mirrors, the second was stationed at Cape Prassonissi; on wings of Prosas de Rodas who were waiting for him in Kímolos; silvering in the extreme south of the western Cyclades. Following him behind Poliegos, who is on Prassonissi. Knowing that here the irrationality of his antiscientific prose, channeling reform and august prose in Hyper-meditation, will take you through the aureoles of the industrial poetic volcanoes of gems, following this journey in the necropolis of Hellenika, in familiarity with the harpies . Before being sunk, the prose prose were found to the west of the island that Ellinika is mentioned today. Here is where Wernarth with a constant suffering in his chest writes the prose in the necropolis of Hellenika, from his oratory vortex:
“I have to become a hidden ghost that closes the taverns, where it smells like a cimarrón of a trough of live gunpowder, of shelves of foreign implants, outlining parallels of Kímolos in its rigor that descends from Taurus. I must here, in these rigorous words of darkness, common in something belonging to the feather of a hummingbird in the midst of the storm of the brave steps that tell me to get to Prassonisi and the epigraph of the berries collected in the retreats of the defeated harpies, with a voice convinced of what makes them aware of the prose, more who compulsively covers them from the darkness where they are born with light and incipient accent. I have to build the intuitive of parallelism that sinks entire firmaments of poetry, rebuilding itself on itself.
"Here I am sunk that I am in the unknown ... Seeing myself only in a few, who have to find me in their magnitudes and sanctities that sprout beyond Poliegos, who remain to receive me with bells and trumpets ...

Here I am with everyone, some together with all the obeisances, and with each latch Aghio Andreas… of Saint Andrew jumping over all the crypto lines of Kímolos, husband of the daughter of Taurus, Sidis, noble and majestic inhabitants among the mansions of the abbreviation of the storms in Wahlheim, with a juxtaposed desire to inseminate *******, between Etrestlian creatures and the immateriality of the Hellenika necropolis.

Lotte, look over the abyss that unleashes the death of Young Greece ..., but re-alive in the prose that sleeps in the chapters that are about to be redeemed from the powers of those who swallow figs on high tide east of Hermes, with two coins of gold in each hand without parliament ...

Here is my storehouse, full of baskets to take to the gorges of Before Christ, reflected in the fountains of their undefeated anathemas and psalms with bulls and offices ... in anarchies of loves lost in the struggles to redeem Hecate's heirs, of my harpy who looks at the second mirror ...

Second mirror ..., the aversions of passion, whose participle is anticipated in the corridor of all who attend to the din of their own grief, of which in noun was evidenced when Wernarth with her steed Alikanto went to Werther's funeral, on the day that in Wahlheim the graffiti of the gloomy mists, gave the noun to the prose and verb, to all the conditions of Wernarth's pain, pashkein "Greek suffering”...

On the other side of the Rhine estuary, reflections of the first two mirrors, there are cults of reversal shudders, congratulations that plague the taste bond with bitterness ..., which lives close to the acrimony that transitions from sweet-bitter to bitter-acidic, to who treasures the goodness and salubrious premises of a good mirror full of composite pieces, and that have never been cracked….

Court of the three mirrors in the crypt of Werther ..., says no more than regret, acquiescence of the consent of the legal guardians, giving him for alive even though he is dead ... “what hypothetical laws affirm a man who wears clothes of a living heart in a body that you saw a soul of irrational officialdom preexisting ...

Seventeen angiosperm raptors flew from the high clarions with seventy-four of Wernarth's lamentations, sophisms of Greco-Germanic essences vinegars, in his hands of hoplite blood that writes illustrated verses of Aryan and Hellenic plant, of never cloudiness or Etrestlian logic, which she wanders alone through supposedly illustrative anti-romantic socio-bourgeois prostration in the lodge of the camaraderie of the wise foolish fingers and brave with their weapons of death, in her hands of prose that tastes like a pompous reading of loneliness and vagueness of abstract illogical, but redeemed Picnic passion and expiration.

The verse gives to the stanza what is left over in the poetry and what in the central verse arrhythmia of its cadence it gives to the prose, as a vital instinct ..., with glory and literary destitution, that's how the grunts and eyebrows of the ejaculators of successful love fall under the insidious morality of Wernarth-Werthiana.

Here is the ill-fated light-dark episode of Rhodes, the ethical pandemic over the heartbeat, more than an ideo-logic, frustrated with poorly acquired logic in dialysis from other prose that are not sonnetized.

They are the spacious, multi-different, of theories that incriminate the verb to retentive of reactionary policies with a neat effect, of which effective life is to fall asleep in the silos of consciousness in a nap behind the back of the worst dream ...

The purely assertive, with another the convictions of the extra-bourgeois class, with a certain tinge of drum major before the hated intelligentsia. Here is the new man, in the tremulous sound of others who identify with vital love, subsidizing understanding  sapiens...

Wernarth destroys treasures, which do not fit in a storehouse, being part of what is left over from the surplus, for true socialized and compulsive ones, in reflections of those who march with their heart of chaste origin, evolution and withdrawal of Hellenic actions.

Here I am with my argument in humanity, with a bouquet of flowers returned to the sender ..., we are or I am enlightened, if the dependencies of sunsets Werthians grow, with projectiles in our souls without leaving.

My delay does not exceed my progress, every day I am more reclusive of rational delay, and a simple voice that keeps silent so as not to wake the King! Here I am with my Greek roulette, one of its edges points in tragedy in the Dorus lances on the temples of the creator Wernarth, with dramas of thirst and passion, but having all the love of solitude.

I speak to the gods in their language, but they answer me with repeated nouns, I reiterate them with apothegms, and they slide me through their crowns ..., who one of them does not know who I really am, that if I am more historical and comprehensive than themselves in matters of love.

I am omni Wernarthian, I accompany those who do not sleep and do not tire, because they are my pilaster, they are my bed when they wake up from my dreams resting in their dreams of utopia that calm the currents of the disguised Prassionissi temporal.

Whatever the rival destiny, it will not be to leave alone for the Lette, made piece and scarce, in the piece of a whole man that I carry in me, omni Messiano, opposed to the distances that linens spend on whoever wears the gauze in the defenders of these little princes, who border on the pauperism of their wandering singer hormones.

My multi-versology, and urgency of oscillation, is locking the intruder, which undermines the one who offers and does not give pause to the one who symptomatically requires it…, Lotte; it annihilates the struggles of those who confine them to guilt and psychological-matriarchal authority.

I have to progress with over times, while the sun in Rhodes asks Zeus to illuminate me more, for an enthusiastic sentence to be his master and lord, because he was before all of us who were his poets servant subjects.

My successive oracles allow me to go further than close, I cannot get out, but nevertheless vehemently, I slide through the winning marks of those who institute the freedom of a scientific love, to a divisive love, of egotic economy, that shapes the iron delirium sacrosanct, and the composition of the reciprocated enmity.

I am vague, but with flammable passional decrees, of my nature as a wolf and single parent, in the shape of a man in a different personality, as a phobic wolf ..., here is not to belong to this century ..., reverted to an uncertain meditation ...

The rule and formula of my love is the intensity that makes me abhorrent, if I lose my control, say, the world that I represent here ends ... the truth of my maxim, as nothing fits in everything, I do not inspire what does not replace the whole…

I live in a half-realism, of entire externalities that make up the rules that make me a slave to austerity, that runs after simplicity…, I walk through clouds that only let me fall in the breaks of their metaphysical and rigid odes.

My basic involution is not intense; it is more than a stable system of poetic verbal sacredness, with great movement, of ethics that haunts the idiomatic devotees of the awakening of the renewed personality, but with open arms in limbo...

As an individual he foreshadows collective miraculous mysteries, contradicting the corrupt purpose of a man, who dies behind bars of his own acquiescent death. Greco-motor and promoter of systematic divinities, in the hands of magicians or millers with the instinct of a suicide ministry, even without being prepared, trying…!

Here is my dialectic, if I bring out the prosaic passion; it hurts me by giving me false lessons, only done in my field to work. Wernarth, is a believer, more believing in Werther; Lotte consul of disbelief, in the hands of the peasants to rub her abolition as a maiden, before the wiles with mendacious devotion on the harpoons of the suffocating victim...

Harpies are atheists, just as atheism martyrs them as immortal, even not giving it into the hands of their failures, Wernath enters Olympus with his steed, and it venerates him, and mythology opens its myths to him, and he despises them!

Because I have to commit suicide if here in Rhodes they sing the prose of Kímolos for me, happening at their table of superb menus and portents, with his novel that is graced with my lantern that gives cause of light, before the storm is folly before a society olympic.

My drama is hoarding and describing, the measurements in brief scenes, do not fill those that should not be measured, if I fall in love with my creatures, they self-eliminate, before the boast of the ****** right - late Werther in chains.

I am not resigned to my agreement with Zeus to divide the world equally, but I will supply myself with cults and friends on the stage of the confinement, as a liberator exclaiming unharmed...

I am not lost in my revolution, I am percussion in sounds against my own trials, enraging myself at others with failed feelings, perhaps in a felt preparatory and not being, but aware of the outline before my bishop's departure.

My triumph is to share the enthronement with the Werthian world, over, and without initials or termination of legal conditions, with the goal of artistic lines, with the art of dialogue, with the tetra-winged Lepidoptera silhouettes, four times vivified.

My parapsychological regression between flowers and rose bushes I have not conferred on the augur, nor did I doubt an appendage of a micro second device and divine inspiration, to conjure them to the last bastion of something or someone that cannot hold me back.

Idyllically, transit between the nobility and the plebs, in drama and comedy, but my explosion does not have to fear great distances, my parts being plagued in colorful themes and verses throughout the desolate world, burning in the embers of my beloved….

But my God, who is my everything today, made me have a colloquial friendship with my courting, but the imaginary…, she doesn't know… !, but I am still enthusiastic, I continue to venerate the possibility of making a mistake trying to be an enemy friend.

I bring rings in my pocket close to my essence, but a good part of that has a conflict of truth and fear, which accuses me with which finger I have to braid myself, and I accuse myself of measuring my words of seductive ruin and contrition.

Today it is up to us all to die, because I will do it for everyone. I have to return due to the fatality of an imperishable reason, before a nebulous tutelage that germinates only in past springs, what a great conflict!  But what a great solution, of someone who flourishes between loves and conflicts...

My ranks have deserted its worst category; it suffocates and does not move the feeling, only the heroic predestination, which moves my transit to Rhodes, between feelings ..., for and from others, who will never be an award ruling, on my sword Xifos!

The heroism of love is to go beyond the imperishable madness of anti-heroism, with the spirit of a clear heroine and undeniable jurisprudence of love before any pact with Leviathan ..., it is to be hoped that they will not forget to make a copy of my Contract!

Yo trate de ser como decían que debí ser.
Me comporté como todo una dama.
Hice todo lo que se me pedía en la cama.
Más de una vez, calle hasta mis perversas ganas.
Calle tanto, que mi verdad fue a parar al manicomio,
ahí, donde no bregan con demonios.

Yo trate de ser como decían que debí ser.
Aguante infidelidades por una estabilidad inestable.
Hubieron clavos penetrando mi espalda, en vez de rosas en mano.
Perdone tanto que la absolución me tomo antipatía.

Yo trate de ser como decían que debí ser.
A veces fui sofá de ilusiones transitorias,
vestidas en finas sedas de perpetuidad.
A veces fui pared…inopinable,
solo un espacio donde colocar preciosos retratos.
A veces fui lienzo en blanco,
para quien en mi cuerpo quiso describir su arte.

Yo quise ser como decían que debí ser.
Una ilustre carrera deje para que
el ego de un indeciso no saliera dañado.
Se enfermó mi dignidad y con tristeza la medique.
Tome el brebaje de la inseguridad.
Debilite mi sistema emocional,
y mi fe, se encogía de vergüenza en una esquina.

Yo quise ser como decían que debí ser.
pero existía dentro de mí una rebeldía.
Una insolencia a ser parte de una perpetua esclavitud,  
algo en mí, desistía ser juguete de nadie,
a ser menos que el aire,
a rebajarme por mantener un amor.

Yo quise ser como decían que debí ser.
Pero mis pies en fuego ardían,
y recogía y me iba,
y no sé a cuántos le alce la voz,
y a más de uno, los mande a comer tusa,
y me volví mi propia musa,
a veces la propia medusa,
y me refugie en mi calor para abrigar mis grimas,
en mi inteligencia para resolver con astucia,
en mi pudor para seguir dando un paso en harmonía,
en esa insistencia de que había más en la vida,
que yo tenía algo que aportaría,
alguien al que estar conmigo y soportar no serían la misma cosa,
y algunos los deje amándolos como mis amos,
a otros el corazón les deje en pedazos,
y talvez me merezca todo lo que venga,
talvez me merezca el cielo y todas las prosas,
talvez mis serpientes nunca muerdan,
o talvez me llamaran impúdica,
me llamaran Medusa,
me llamaran el mismo infierno
pero nunca dirán que
“fui….
¡lo que otros quisieron que yo fuese”!!

LeydisProse
10/17/2017
https://www.facebook.com/LeydisProse/

No merecías las loas vulgares
que te han escrito los peninsulares.
Acreedora de prosas cual doblones
y del patricio verso de Lugones.
En el morado foro episcopal
eres el Árbol del bien y del mal.
Piensan las señoritas al mirarte:
con virtud no se va a ninguna parte.
Monseñor, encargado de la Mitra,
apostató con la Danza de Anitra.
Foscos mílites revolucionarios
truecan espadas por escapularios,
aletargándose en la melodía
de tu imperecedera teogonía.
Tu filarmónico Danubio baña
el colgante jardín de la patraña.
La estolidez enreda sus hablillas
cabe tus pitagóricas rodillas.
En el horror voluble del incienso
se momifica tu rostro suspenso,
mas de la momia empieza a transcender
sanguinolento aviso de mujer.
Y vives la única vida segura:
la de Eva montada en la razón pura.
Tu rotación de ménade aniquila
la zurda ciencia, que cabe en tu axila.
En la honda noche del enigma ingrato
se enciende, como un iris, tu boato.
Te riegas cálida, como los vinos,
sobre los extraviados peregrinos.
La pobre carne, frente a ti, se alza
como brincó de los dedos divinos:
religiosa, frenética y descalza.

¿Nadie te lo dijo? Eres bien famoso por aquí.
He derramado tu nombre en las calles y playas,
como vomitar después de una buena fiesta.
He manchado mi ropa y mi cuerpo con mentiras,
y le he contado a desconocidos una historia de amor ficticia.

¿Pero no te lo contaron?
He susurrado a las conchas sobre el sonido de tu voz,
para recordarlo cada vez que me ahogue en el mar.
He cantado en las iglesias sobre el color de tus ojos,
para que te recordaran y te besaran en mi lugar.

¿Pero tú lo recordarías?
Que reescribiría todos los poemas, escrituras y libros,
como limpiar hojas en primavera después del otoño.
Que le escribiría incluso al sol, reiniciaría el verano,
para que su calor te encontrara en cualquier parte del mundo.

¿Pero te das cuenta? Eres una leyenda por aquí.
He elevado tu nombre entre las estrellas y los dioses,
cómo he soñado y escrito sobre ti cada noche.
Has superado a todos los emperadores y reyes,
cómo un mito, cómo construí nuevas islitas con tu nombre.

¿Y finalmente lo entiendes?
Eres el tema de mis poemas, mis verdades, mi leyenda,
aunque no estés aquí ni a mi lado.
Que eres el recipiente de mis prosas, mis penas y playas,
que nunca será borrado por ningún tratado.