How To Make Pollo Loco Dressing

Angel Fernandez Beneitez / 3 poems

of epic Dark (unpublished)

old

My mother every day, is entrenched in their pills:

the blue for the pain that breaks the back, the white

will stimulate the flow of blood, the rose

gives him the dream of the night,

calcified red density is low its skeleton.

My mother has managed to addict too late.

my mother in her old age suffer from dry eye left

And if you cry about something, you tear morning two empty deserts.

As if that were not enough, suffers from selfishness,

maturity

but we took care of everyone.

I never knew his happy childhood, although

had any.

They seem to confirm some photographs

that reveals a fascinated air

to Imperio Argentina. So long ago can not remember

kisses or love affairs.

has arrived, what a shame-a

decrepitude and the size has diminished so that now

not find the waist that was passionate and children.

can still know me, but not interested

beyond the moment I know

adult

embrace, under darkness. Do not want

-is natural and logical for me to drag a limb that is not theirs.

My mother gets rid of

itself and us with great reluctance.

Focus on your health that is fading

grows as time accumulates.

But even flirts with the mirror I see Green

, son, this was not my color.

already know "I tell her how beautiful you were.

(And I know that I act very badly in the past.)

Of all my sisters, really, the most beautiful. And repeats eight hundred

ninety-eight times how beautiful she was.

And if the kidneys, crying like a little girl.

But never compromise with the decrepitude

it useless prisoner says

in a gesture of suppressed rage, and demands

with salt tears

only day the plot of its own.
. Δ

travelers

write, for now, from this airport

where the air is absent and the gate of destiny.

The floor is polished by transits and goodbyes and I write

choked

shady solitude after many years they have been homeless.

At the mercy of oblivion always awkward, remote passenger travel

stays riddled banks whose light variegated:

new flamboyant executives in suits, tourists

Harlequins stubborn anxious

of scheduled courses, couples

thaw

with the urgency of love nailed the look ...

All human vanity fair errant partners

more sad, lonely and dark

keep his distress at a newspaper

with me here at departure time.

is a crowd in the lobby dismisses

open

breathing vacuum left here that different transient dark.

Very serene, the edge of nowhere, the air traffic

share

crouched trying to forget the forgotten.

A modern airbus will escape these shadows.

Its modern suitcases to slogans rare

will carry the secrets kept a hand in distant room.

I bought some sweets shop, a perfume

Italy without taxes and I had a coffee sitting on the edge

of urgent concern to alert speakers.

Meanwhile, a gentleman glances

me prone to urinary and kids

excursion away from their parents, school trip certainly

I booted up the soul in his rampage.

And now I embark

soulless, with a dull oblivion.

My air is absent and the ground and flying

intangibles farewells.

close my letter here and give myself to

flickering corridors.

Δ

lost lovers

Who would decipher the signs of his fingers

written

at night on the back friend.

The night so far completed fifteen

against so much concern that the pulse imprisoned;

night

flushed seventeen

those who drank the other acidic springs sex

pressed completely failed.

shelter the night of the Awards night: sweet

roulette was sentenced to be together

dissidents

their bodies at the expense of a sheet,

Iron Curtain

better than that other Eastern.

The night of the party, the pension dark, damp

in town, dodging

for five beds were two without square as possible,

a lot of luck and three blue

envy

in the remote, but love drinking

drink

harvest with restless reserved.

How fortunate to know the deal quiet,

and two in the bed next to nudity

that everyone loved: a fabric is distance

and modesty, not the skin, a very thin fabric of

pulpits and deep prayers and commandments.

And when the lights went out, and spurs,

something written on the back of his friend and erased

with outstretched hand, caress best ever, to keep saying

with road signs or

indecipherable book of hidden desire, history

cuneiform writing tremor,

not a type of God prophesied both

and stop such confusion signals.

Who was going to translate the hieroglyphic

the smaller of the two proposed in freshly shaken

traps, just amazed,

certainly as tense as that

erection that caused the greatest silent words, words

understood only in the skin taken

dictation. The back, storm and dunes.

And in that next to that without the Nazis, absurd,

against each other, border the sheet,

pupils without sleep, with dreams back

and thick as lava, the one after the other, forming

worst logo with their bodies never

crossed the dark night of shelter, the

constraint night, separated only by a curtain

of wear from steel, canvas

a shroud enveloping love

born dead, that did not prevent the hand of the youngest

tell

quiet back finally accept a kiss from his mouth,

or not said that, who knows what he said,

if the speech was touching or path was not

lassitude rather than darker game.

Was much the friendship of older, she loved him,

that was ceded to the desire or fear of both

what languages \u200b\u200bbanned entangled in dialogue? Perhaps

were pulpits wire spikes,

those fiery pulpits, like ramparts of man hit

hunger, edited, educated

in such prohibition was bleeding passion. About

beeswax back had little

write another mourner, how I love you,

and repeat the sample pulse and the phalanges,

silenced lips, open the dark

that kiss had found no way.

Beneitez Ángel Fernández (Zamora, 1955) has published Spirals (Sañudo Foundation Barquin, Toro, 1980), On the banks of joy (Ayuntamiento de Teguise, Lanzarote, 1989), Epistolio (Libertarian, Madrid 1994), innocent conduct (La Palma, Madrid, 1998), The outfit of the night (The drunkenness, Zamora, 2002) Fall Notebook (Elguinaguaria, Arrecife, 2002) , The mist system (Iria Flavia, La Coruña, 2004) and The calm sea (Cyclops Editors, Reef, 2007).

.

Homer Simpsons Tattoo

This already happened ...

now to the next one! : D

was pretty good, like last year: very nice people, artisans also met new people and bought me some stuff, so repeat as many times as may be required:)

Now I

leave some pictures of almost everything I brought.

And you know, if you like something you are watching do not hesitate to send me an email and ask prices, quantities, materials, shipping or any questions you have about everything that I offer

Swollen Glands In Butt

rs thomas / 4 poems


The clearing in the hedge

A Prytherch, that man, the cap broken
saw him often framed by the clear
between two hazel, eyes bright, bright
as thorns, looking pale and light yellow
covering the
valley at dawn, where the dew off a halo of gray fog
on sheep and lambs.
Or was it an appearance that, with vigorous strokes, drew
branches on that piece of sky
naked? For there is,
early, when the light is good
and suddenly, passing a bird, looked up.

Of An Acre of Land (1952) Δ

Christmas in the hills

came for the snow to snow even more pure
bread, sobaron
with huge hands,
approached his lips like beasts, staring at the cup dark
where the wine shone, I knew the language
acre, trembled as he recalled
a sin and mourn love
heard momentarily in the manger of your heart.

got up and returned to their lands
poor, naked under the stark light
December. His horizon is contracted
the small rock-strewn field
and the tree, where the weather nailed
horror that the body had asked

birth

Δ

Combat

have no name.

We fought you all day and night now approaching,
the darkness from which we emerged
looking; anonymous
you retire and leave us
healing bruises and dislocated bones.

No
remedy for the failure of language. Physicists tell us how you measure
, chemicals

ingredients in your thinking. But no one says
who you are, or why
be addressed by the innocent marches
in

vocabulary and beaten us with your silence. Die, we die knowing that resist infinitely

border of the great poem.

De Laboratories of the Spirit (1975) Δ

Hunched

head tilted
on the bowels,
on the manuscript on the block
on
rows of turnips.

Do not ever stand the sight?
What makes them think that kneeling

is Prayer? It's

walk upright in the sun.
Was the weight of the jaw
what their backs hunched and

vision remained below the horizon?

took two million years to straighten
,

but they bent over maps, tools,
the drawing board,
navel
mathematician who is the nod from God.

De Between Here and Now (1981)

Ronald Stuart Thomas (1913-2000) was a poet and pastor Anglican Church parishes increasingly remote from Wales. His poetry begins with The Stones of the Field (1946) and ends, fifty years later, with No Truce with the Furies (1995). In English, can read poetry anthology (Ediciones Trea, 2008, bilingual edition, translated from Albarracín Misael Ruiz).

In his early poems, marked by his experience in small rural communities, irritated, and pities the same time farmers, describes the attitude forthright mediocrity of his parishioners and, overall, offers a bleak portrait of the environment claiming. For twenty years and eighteen poems fed Pryterch Iago figure, a farmer unable to object to its destination. The character, the result of the failure of the poet to find a rural hero, is, nevertheless, a "victor in the battle." Since the seventies, his poetry became more introspective and philosophical. RS Thomas spent the last years of his life in Aberdaron, west Wales, compared to the bird sanctuary on the island of Bardsey. In 1996 he was nominated for the Nobel Prize for literature.

.

Courtesy of editor and translator Reasons flyer offers three poems from the aforementioned anthology and one novel, "The light in the hedge."