Sometimes Writing a poem looks like an orgasm: stain ink as much as semen, He also undertakes more sometimes. There are, however, in which the words gandee, I bite his breasts and his agile legs, I lift my skirts with my fingers, I look at them from below, I do the usual And, despite everything, Ved: nothing happens! Cesar Vallejo expressed very well: "I say it and I don't run." But he hid Algunas veces Escribir un poema parece un orgasmo: tinta manchada tanto como el semen, También se compromete más a veces. Sin embargo, hay en el que las palabras gandee, Mito sus senos y sus piernas ágiles, Levanto mis faldas con los dedos, Los miro desde abajo Hago lo habitual Y, a pesar de todo, Ved: ¡no pasa nada! Cesar Vallejo expresó muy bien: "Lo digo y no corro". Pero se escondió

A veces Escribir un poema se parece a un orgasmo: mancha la tinta tanto como el semen, empreña también más en ocasiones. Tardes hay, sin embargo, en las que manoseo las palabras, muerdo sus senos y sus piernas ágiles, les levanto las faldas con mis dedos, las miro desde abajo, les hago lo de siempre y, pese a todo, ved: ¡no pasa nada! Lo expresaba muy bien Cesar Vallejo: “Lo digo y no me corro”. Pero él disimulaba

I will never tire my trade of man. Man I have been and will be while there. No more man: project between projects, thirsty to the attached pitcher, unsafe feet on burning dust, Espìritu and vulnerable matter To all the opprobriums and the sayings ... I will never feel dethroned king nor abolished angel while he lives, but an apprentice of man eternally, man with those who go to the hills towards the garden that always repudiates them, man with those looking between debris the truth necessary and prohibited, man among those who work with his hands what never inherits a dignified soul, Because of everything that man has done The only inheritance worthy of men It is the right to invent his life!

dispuesto a hacer realidad tus fantasias

Hay un hombre desnudo que resume Una oración de estrellas milenarias Una ecuación de gemido salvaje y un misterio de Dios excomulgado Un hombre que se viste con la tarde y sangra el dolor que enciende el amanecer Un hombre, en el pecado de llamarse a sí mismo epicentro del deseo que me explota. Hay un hombre desnudo después del velo: Un jardín de huracanes en tus manos Y esa triste lluvia de su cabello Dibujan el olor infinito de sus años. There is a naked man who summarizes A prayer of millenary stars A wild groan equation and a mystery of God excommunicated A man who dresses with the afternoon and bleed the pain that lights the dawn A man, in the sin of calling himself epicenter of the desire that explodes to me. There is a naked man after the veil: A hurricane garden in your hands And that sad rain of her hair They draw the infinite smell of his years.

I think of your sex, I think of your sex. Simplified the heart, I think of your sex, Before the mature hijar of the day. Palpo the bliss button is in season. And an ancient feeling dies degenerated in seso. I think of your sex, more prolific groove and harmonious that the belly of the shadow, Although death conceives and stops of God himself. Oh conscience, I think, yes, in the free gross That enjoys where he wants, where he can. Oh honey scandal of twilight. Oh mute rumble. Odumodneurtse!