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... and goodbye to Gonzalo Rojas.

BEAUTIFUL DARK

Last night I've played and I've been without my hand
fled beyond my hand without my body
flee, and my ear
almost human in a way I have felt
. Pulsating

,
not know if as blood or
tag wandering
by my house on tiptoe, climbing darkness, darkness
low, run, sparkling.

run for my wooden house

windows opened and I felt you beat the entire night,
daughter of the deep, silent,
warrior, so terrible, so beautiful
that everything that exists,
for me, without your flame did not exist.

FAX TO Guster

Fax with gale

and a rose today

Rojas left this

-Gonzalo as put him in the water, was alone, there

epitaph to write about their fate, nor

body to breathe, scarcely

be said of him that came

fast and has left,

is no longer then that

no stars for him, carnally

goes over the glass that imprisoned a rose

as an instrument of destruction, which has come

and that's it.

How Are British Men In Relationships

was once a great writer: Congratulations, Ana Maria Matute

who does not invent, not live.

Literature is the savior of many storms lighthouse.

... women were clipped.

... and knew the terror.

At last the story has entered gender respected literature.

Here you can hear the speech of Ana Maria Matute to receive the Cervantes Prize

Figurine With Crossed Arrows

EXQUISITE CORPSE, 2

Today is the last Saturday of the month and I'm at the hairdressers in the morning. Maria spends her fingers with water and soap for my crazy head. I hope. What do I expect? Looking to keep parted lips, a touch to remove the foam of the ear, a kiss on each eyelid closed ... But Mary is no me, never answers.

Meanwhile, a girl reading a magazine. The Doorbell Rang. She gets up to open and I hear her say: this salon is only for men. Then look to Mary and smile. The girl with no water and no soap in his eyes. I pushed against her friend. Violence. How embroiled see them kiss. How to bite. See them destroyed.

But instead, what I see is how my fingers are falling gradually. Under my sleeve stumps poke sparse, like my bald head. How can I cherish now to Mary or his girlfriend or any woman in the world? Hide my stumps in his pocket, looked at the floor and see how their narrow ankles are directed towards the end of the salon.

then returns. Pass me and not look at me. Better, I think, and does not notice my lack of hands. I also notice that your feet fall, little by little, that I can not touch her in any way. It addresses the girl again and I hope I can only sleep and dream of Mary with her head inside the dryer. Noise centrifugal us and makes us one thing crazy dream that turns in his swivel chair, while outside on the street, some pedestrians look into the salon through the window without noticing the pictures of models or fasteners. Note, in any event, are turning the chair, but do not understand.

And that's when I begin to imagine. No longer touch but the madness of my imagination kneading her waist, falling waterfall soft and tender meat I imagine. Butter Mary, Mary licked with tongues of my memory, which devoured them with ice cream and lollipops in preschool. And stop being old, while I climb the mountains of her hips .

Talk from when I was six. I'm sitting in the kitchen with my mother offered me a cup of chocolate. The chocolate is hot but bitter. - Take it! - Bittersweet voice whispers to me as a hand up. But do not take it. He looks away and goes to his room. They spend a thousand years. From the open door of her bedroom look like lava slides red satin china for its left bank. Curly clouds moving over his face and fall, fall, fall. On the nightstand is a scythe .

Scissors heavy, unwieldy, so different from the graceful, elegant Mary earwigs that open and close in the air like a dancer's legs. "Chis!", "Chis!", Jumping, moving, touching my hair, agile and sleepers. "Chis!, Chis!, To get you going." Let me do whatever comes. I feel a shiver his touch. Also rubbing his arm, arm warm chocolate mixed with vanilla. How could sour?

Mary's voice suddenly returned me to the barber chair. His fingers flying across the hair I have made travel between flavors and memories, far away. She looks at me waiting for me to pay up and that's all what you want the old man. I rub my chin I fake distress. Do I shave? Mary snorts and goes back to get the bib, aerates the cream smell around me while I lather, and is to lay the knife on the leather when I look without meeting, his eyes lost in thought, to arrive finally at the time desired, in which the metal is cold for the first time my throat.

desire to die if that beheaded the rictus of pain relief that now I guess on his lips, longing eyes that exude from the mirror, I dig into the swivel chair. It is a dignified way to return a tiny portion of juventur elixir that gives me his reverie. Mary female cream, chocolate and butter in a world of men, perennial football pundits and bulls.

Six Months To Get Off Valium

Baseline Andrew Neuman:

Mary is: thin ankles, thick waist. I'm not sure why, I love that. No fine ankles. The thick waist.

Maria has: a hairdresser, a few customers. I am the oldest, almost. That does not mean I'm old. But cas i.

Almost as old as the book I read at night, book fine point average. That's all I can read now. Others weigh in bed and if they print, they become flies undaunted. Not that much progress in reading, come home defeated, but at least at that time, I think of it, in Mary, who, apart from ankles and waist, has chocolate and cream skin. More chocolate cream. At least, I imagine its taste.

I imagine its taste because Mary has always refused to accede to my proposals. A single lick! "Please," an ear to the other sliding the forehead, dropping by the nostrils to the upper lip, the lower skid cascade your neck, make a stop on the tits-two stories, on the right and left, "swim with Power to the navel, cast anchor in the Sargasso Sea curly dawn on the thighs and give a pinch happy to toe before the dismissal. But do not consent, or even paying.

not even paying. That tells me. Because I never cobgra. She's very own for this stuff, very professional, and when he falls can not joke with the silver, no sir. Love is with lovers and business customers. So I never wear anything en los bolsillos, apenas unos caramelos.

Ser el más antiguo, o casi, de sus clientes, me concede una serie de prerrogativas. Ni María me las ha dado, ni yo me las he tomado. Pero lo cierto es que me pertenece el mejor lugar, la silla giratoria y abatible del fondo de la peluquería, desde donde María me deja contemplarla a mis anchas, su ancha cintura removiéndose como un calamar bajo la bata mientras se inclina solícita sobre un cliente.

Me gusta cortarme el cabello en la peluquería de María. Tengo poco. Los años han ido esquilmando mi poblada cabellera hasta dejarla rala. Por eso prefiero llevarlo very short. I love to fix it Mary. It seems that this will be the only physical contact I will be allowed. That and shaving. I like that his hands caress my face. Your hands soft, plump, cheerful, expert. Sometimes when you are rushing me stronger chin, my head resting on her tits. My pleasure. Each month return to feel them. Some consolation!

(To be continued ..)