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RESUME Issue 33 - Virtual Poetry Magazine -

Tupacamarú. Miguel O. Menassa

Poetry School
Group Zero Director: Miguel Oscar Menassa
RESUME - virtual magazine of poetry -
Sunday Workshop at 17.00h.
Alcalá de Henares
NUMBER 33. Sunday 28/03/2010
Coordinator: Carlos Fernández Goose

His hands. Miguel Oscar Menassa

KEY TIME

Open your eyes to heaven,
these eyes of clay, interrupted night, where the tremor
your pupils
a hobby becomes dizzying.

Open your eyes and look, front,
the shadow black, embellished with your eyes

steps death. Open your eyes

trampled by the slowness of time,
by the body that stirs in the silence, by the madness
incandescent
discovering that loneliness is a song.

Look at your teeth, hiding
those whispers of silk,
that climb endless stairs
and rest between sources of hardship. Injuries

like grooves,
where your blood does not run,
where your smile is covered faces torrid,
between the pearly skin of your forehead.

Have you awakened?
Where will you go now?

The time key is forged steel sleep.

PRADA VICENTE GÓMEZ

See how other row. Miguel Oscar Menassa


STREET UP FLEEING A HAT.

A hat flies up the street,
lost men telling stories that never happened,
on the left bank of the river,
around the window is hidden in the caress of lovers.

A gust of breath fills strange landscapes,
evening dresses in the ashes of a skin tight
that the hours of silence broken,
opens a voice without a name.

The landscape has been stained blood hungry

world shaken by ignoring the slight melancholy
throbbing behind the tears ignored.

Nothing happens, is the swing of the afternoon,
that motionless hours
covers a lengthy time in the shadows,
tattooed with the adventure of life until death.

CABALLERO SOLEDAD CASTRO

I myself rowing. Miguel Oscar Menassa


BRAID YOUR LEFT HANDED

there, where we write the sentence:
have died now.
had been selected for punishment and forgiveness,
by heaven and hell. Olga Orozco


always amazes me the stupidity of your left foot braid, embroider afternoon
when five to six
and then a wild gallop undo the work.

stirrings also amazes me the night that beats in your eyes,
when frowns,
in the days spent by the leaves of the tree.

And when the smoke turns your voice and scream deafeningly
the beasts of the underworld and the law
change your seat,
I raise my voice and cry to your clumsiness,
while I am witness to die in the maze over and over again. Yesterday

straw reign among the wildflowers,
and a fleeting perfume led me to the next fall,
not judge me now!
Wait for the next life, the next word.

I witness the charm of a stubborn love
maybe this dead tomorrow and on my lips
violet, posing one last kiss.

Damn you crazy heart!
When you stole my freedom? How
that night I drowned
rusty with your blood?.

This time there is no sentence,
remain dispersed the last thought,
between the ooze of humidity
surround yourself with your arms when the parapet of the well,
and sink your head and you drop your voice,
deep, very deep ...

ORTIGOSA CARMEN MARTÍN

bloody from the effort. Miguel Oscar Menassa

SHE WILL BE YOUR GOD

stone should be beyond you!
those feet and bubbles stray
rain-soaked green with soft moan

the passenger will be needed
who struggles with his clothes in the sun
ten yards from Hell
to scratch him a wisp of dust must be calm


a drum or a long and laborious grunt or a geometric abstraction

to guide your eye to the sky
and if she will not be your crying then
be nothing! PIOTR

RZANY

to find in this movement. Miguel Oscar Menassa

SOMETHING NEW

His eyes were tired of holding the floor,
sank in the mud of the mirror, trying to flee
ahead,
without baggage, without broken arms or mouths of gingerbread. Only
would take nothing, go
filling their holes with short sentences,
with a new way of liquid gold and sweating
of aromatic forges effervescent.

Now everything is the same as ever.
Their swings are just the rhythm necessary to trigger earthquakes
envy. His antics will
with culture.
And no need to fake diaper
networks and carmine. Their laughter
know where
fresh strawberry and travel of their language without embarrassment, my brain
Arel hidden under a fine frost.

And do not let it live, without
not learned
thousand and other poems about death and a song with bitter mouth
harmonious tints.

FRANCISCO JAVIER RUEDA DIAGO