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# NOLESVOTES

writing is not a partisan, not a radical manifesto. You ask, claim what is ours. Require that represent us properly. We have to make a vow "useful" and that every vote is valuable, in any manner whatsoever. I hope people go to vote and start the change, or continue with, rather. It's time to change PPSOE for your area there will be parts that may represent you better than these two, and if the final vote for him to choose one of two that is at your own risk and knowing what you do.

From here my sincere support for REAL DEMOCRACY NOW, to all the people who are camping in the different cities are not alone in Madrid, the movement has reached to Orihuela (Orihuela Mr. and souls of right ..) there may seem at first that there are few people and yes, physically it is. It is SOL. But if you go into the group and discuss with those present see all the gestures of people who have been going and donating food, drinks and other aid. Paella unexpected kind bakers, cafes and warm smiles every time he passed the local police WATCH EVERY 10 MINUTES!! As if we were to do something wrong .. You realize that "officially" can not be there, because they are in a town where what people say is very important. They do not realize that unity is strength and this can not be stopped.

End and saying that I hope the English come out to vote for change in politics, social change, a change in our mindset. Because everything is to achieve, we have no fear, we are on the street, we will where necessary.

Regards and good luck.

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Stand by

That's the word, because I have not gone through any of the blogs that I follow in time, almost as much as I have been slow to return to mine. Not if I could be laziness or binge that gave me the weeks prior to reading web sites that I said ENOUGH nonsense up here. And again when I get out of the balls. My most sincere apologies, as There are people who deserve to be read and that will soon come to pry into their lives bloguianas. Those who read me you would have to thank me, for letting you hold a time without my ewes and musings on the sleepless nights. So for an indefinite period (from this afternoon until You go know when ..) I retreat to reflect on the bars of the bars and the beach sunny day when time permits me. Return to microstories, these are followed and scribiend but do not hang around here, cheesy poems, malicious statements, obscene and morbid thoughts policy .. Until then .. Good luck! While starting the week

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OFF!

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light sheets are turned

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look that start

sighs ..

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boredom going on instincts

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what you want and I will plug in

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A taste misunderstood.


Beyond the recreational and sports, soccer is a pleasure: a feast for the eyes and especially for the soul. The letters and the ball not even seem to be fought, it is well known that football "professional" is a business but that business is more rooted in the idiosyncrasies of the people, soccer is an indispensable part of contemporary cultural understanding. For the primary playfulness have always been lousy football, the stadium definitely is not mine, but few things can excite me more than this business culpable misunderstood. If you lose you suffer, if you win explode, so it's a passion, he suffers. True passion commercial football is off the pitch, the players do not suffer if they lose, most play for money and if the payroll is in your account the penalties disappear.

The Mexican soccer am fan of Pumas UNAM, why be a cougar? Am puma by tradition and began to grow to be puma for consistency. I'm not the type of fan who goes every fortnight to the stadium, much less one who sees the games on TV every week, I use my shirt only on special occasions and yes, criticize the team if necessary, but many call me Villamelon there is love for a few colors, for an institution, a tradition most of the past.

No words can describe this feeling guilty, football is entertainment, football is opium, soccer distracts people from the revolution and especially football is a mafia, but all this is a product of capitalism, and few things unite and secrete more than the football. The football, at least in Mexico, has nothing to do with ideology, I know Americanist socialist chivistas reactionary chauvinist and pumas. That's the magic of football, the world's most beautiful contradiction.

And in a week of new outbreaks, cougars will win. While in Mexico, be champions business is low. The fans deserve more than this, that is the quantum step from the European leagues and the Americans, nothing is sadder than two champions in one year.

football in Mexico has no accent.

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Janus

The heart of the earth idyllic ride through forests

Feel the wind strength, fast and
Rider libertine!
Following
back off and was bleeding a long way
Red on Green points out, live
fluid
Passage In other hearts have to gallop
determined:
herded with noble
arteries that carry Al ferus
Y the inferior vena cava
foothold in the stirrup. Laten
Finding
avid air near the target blood stem
That marked
fine strokes in red. Aortic valves
dream and propel
ductive Oxygen
Y sighs aorta
In this heart of mine! Happy and exhausted


triumphs and the locus of the mediastinum in
That heart has come
In trot fast and sneaky.
left behind all other
and accurate step and felt pleasant

Conquest this land that others have traveled.
opens a landscape in my chest and rests among flowers
tended surreal
The rider who rides horses
Light and airy.

rests on a bed of verse, Lord of the forest
fruitive;
lulls you with soft murmurs
This brings soul river.
And in the silence of the night sky behold
While lying,
You will see written in the stars
These lines have emerged there.

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Litany of my faults - Guadalupe "Pita" Amor (Tribute to the forgotten muse)


A 11 years after his encounter with death.

Guadalupe "Pita" Amor was born in 1918, was the last daughter of Emmanuel Love Suverbielle and Schmidtlein Carolina García Teruel , members of the aristocracy of the city porfiriana of Mexico and declining "consummate" the revolution. Pita was the typical girl shocking and odious that always exists in any social circle. Owner

an impressive culture and an unusual beauty that led him to be an actress and model photographers and painters such as Diego Rivera outstanding (the image for this entry is a portrait of Pita made by him in 1940) and Raul Anguiano , Guadalupe Schidtlein Love was all a prima donna who initiated relationships with leading intellectual aristocracy of the mid-twentieth century , people like Paul Picasso, Salvador Dalí , Diego Frida , Mary Felix, Luis Buñuel , Gabriela Mistral Juan Jose Arreola , Salvador Novo, Juan Rulfo and Alfonso Reyes frequented his house, was also a lover of Pablo Neruda and literary enemy ever (to my taste) overvalued Octavio Paz.

Pita Amor's poetry metaphysical poetry was a direct, pessimistic and provocatiba , typical of a diva lover of writers, painters and bullfighters. His work shows a clear influence of Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, Luis de Gongora , Francisco de Quevedo , Juan de la Cruz and Jorge Manrique , today I will show my favorite work of this great muse.

Litany of my faults - Guadalupe Love

'm vain, despotic, blasphemous,
Pride, proud, ungrateful, disdainful, yet retain
rose complexion.
The fire of hell burn me.
cut glass is my system.
I'm egotistical, cold and violent.
I break fragile as a butterfly.
I myself have built my curse.
I'm perverse, evil, vindictive.
is given my blood and fugitive.
My thoughts are very moody. My dreams of sin
are nocturnal.
I'm hysterical, crazy crazy, but eternity
and sentenced.

Shakespeare called me cool / Lope de Vega infinite / Calderón, witch cursed / And Fray Luis the Bishop; / Quevedo, great immortal / Y Góngora the contrite. / Sor Juana nun unheard / and the mayoral Becquer. / Rubén Darío , hemorrhage, / The Enchantress of magic. / Machado, the mind-boggling. / Villaurrutia , alienating / García Lorca , the grandiose. / And I called the Goddess!

The creator of Disney 68, Elena Poniatowska wrote on Pita:

" A Pita always difficult to adapt to the world, was always the voice that isolates choir in the city, within family, including six sisters and one brother Chepe, in Monterrey internship did not last and where not endured at the College of the Sacred Heart. He could never get away from herself to truly love another, the only delivery was able to consummate delivery itself. Too much in love with him, others interested him only insofar that the reflected, were but a narcissistic gratification .
In the midst of their trips to the Cabaret Leda Pita Amor occurred suddenly and to the general astonishment his first book of poetry, I am my home. Don Alfonso Reyes immediately sponsored a Pita: "(...) And no odious comparisons, here is a mythological event." It
contradictory that this woman who did not let up in their quest of scandal and left naked at midnight at the Paseo de la Reforma, in her mink coat , announcing the river of cars: "I am the queen of the night "back in morning at his apartment on River Street Duero and solitude of bed to write on the bag of bread and eyebrow pencil ".

Pita died on May 8, 2000 at his home in Mexico City alone, neglected, abandoned and their works gathering dust on the shelves of bookstores Donceles. She died with her past and especially the pleasure of being Guadalupe "Pita" Amor, the latest muse and diva, now forgotten.

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Entry 68-43 years of that in May ..




68, before 69 after 67 ...

As post-modern dweller neoliberal planet is inevitable not to be moved to speak, write or think about this year, perhaps failed, perhaps useless, but at least it was something. In France youth of 68 was reading Sartre, Camus and his estranged short skirt girls "were released" with Simone de Beauvoir, the boys abandoned the family tradition, both dreamed and fell in love with the chanson française, made the love after learning that sex is revolutionary, Reich made them feel.

The Cuban Revolution had taught them that the ahistorical facts are possible, had the beach under the cobblestones. "Liberté toujours" is smoked Gauloises while cursing and complaining about the system of old, goodbye De Gaulle. Blood ran in the barricades of the Latin Quarter, young-old reactionary as ever stopping the movement.

Although gray also had come to Marxism, supportive young people were singing the Internationale, the barricades closing the street but open the road. It began to dream and idealistic and utopian that air mixed with the peculiar smell of Paris Paris not only perceived, it declared a state of permanent happiness, the poets took the city and knew that anything was possible, the policy was also subject personal. Banning

life ban was changed to transform the society of gray concrete, life was beyond red and the girls were more beautiful every day ...

But anyway, was not achieved aHistory and now that May has gray hair.

Ceux qui font les

Révolutions à moitié ne font that a tombeau Creuse. - Painting in the Latin Quarter.


Translation: Those who make revolutions by halves do but dig their own graves.

Today we must act ...

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Eyelid boreal thresholds open in a timeless face. One eye cries the past, the other longs that future utopian ideal. We come to be, a deep wound in the middle of the forehead, are blood flowing, dynamic, present ...

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first thing I remember feeling it was his breath. Then, look at the neck.
The inevitable nervous sweat began to explore the ways usual on my body to end up where ever.
tried to simulate in my insides a halo of stability, integrity and self-confidence, even know myself discovered.
Mas is the only look that I know, the one that breaks the surface and destroy my walls with ease plays irritating.
And then, as always. The sense-certainty of being seen in a deplorable condition and attitude, understood, pretending that it is dropped on account of their being discovered, and even more pathetic, daring to convince himself of it.
is to be the last in hiding and have chosen the worst and most predictable of hiding, is to be the tortoise in a game where you have to run for free.
He knows he has won. I knew from the outset.
never had the opportunity to break free, because I never wanted to hide from him.
In the end, always wanted to find me.
I hope while I'm exposed, vulnerable and visible to his desire to win.
And a moan escapes my lips, almost an accomplice, while I hear him tell the mischief of the hunter who goes in search of easier prey.
He will always know where to look.

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La Mort des amants (The Death of the lovers) - Charles Baudelaire


Poetry necrophiliac, poésie Necrophile.

La Mort des Amants

We shall have beds full of odors, light
couches deep as tombs,
And strange flowers on shelves,
blossomed for us Under more beautiful heavens.

Exercising at will their last heats,
Our two hearts will be two immense torches
Who
reflect their double light In our two souls, those twin mirrors.

An evening made of rose and mystic blue,
We exchange a single flash
Like a long sob, charged with farewells;

And later an Angel, opening doors, will come to revive
, fidèle et joyeux, Les miroirs ternis et
flammes les mortes.


The Death of Lovers We

a bed of soft smells,
couches deep as tombs,

and stems and flower vases will give us the strange aromas
under dawns purer.

Our hearts, loving stubbornness,
will torch the flame of his season:
two twin flames are your soul and mine, watching mirror
the eternal shore. Lightning

single spark beautiful, mystical
an afternoon of blue and pink, we
farewell, crying, sobbing. Then

an angel, opening doors, mirrors
murky and stagnant waters, shivering with joy
rise.

Le Fleurs du Mal, Baudelaire

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Asleep each in our own welfare state. On the eve of the Revolution that lies ahead, with eyes closed to not see around us.

bells ring, time to go to church. Time to bust out lies to be out of place, feeling away from you.

Because I do not need something to believe, I have my own ego and your silhouette sylph. I do not want salvation right or option when you reach the final trial, I'll be laughing from my grave, or perhaps to touch the balls back from the beyond, what I want ... Seeing the misery

member of our time is turn my guts to see that nothing is done, to see that we do nothing, we do not want to do anything. We

era of conformity, consumerism hypocritical society of posh punks with colored crests and expensive perfume, new Nazis, much fool. Virgin

me to stay as I am! my grandmother would not even lived. But I do not believe in more virgins than those who have yet to open the legs enough.

This is a hell of which we are complicit, all. Accomplices to vote in a sham democracy imposed on us from above. Corrupt politicians tied hand and foot by the banks named capital and entrepreneurs. Ancient institutions stand complicit obsolete and false, complicit in letting us play at your leisure ...

But do not worry because I live in fucking with a plasma TV in the living room and a hot dish for lunch with my two races and the road Standing in the folder. For what to look for a better future if I can allow red eyes on a Friday night ...

phenomenal live in a country of shit jobs, employers fascists and operators of underground economy and job insecurity.

and not suffer for the children to starve while they do not at the door of my house, I do not mind the screams of terror of a young woman about to be raped by her "husband" or slaps hurt me aguantais that more than one out of fear is not that macho shit.

I feel very safe under my flowers and crisp linens fat cows. Here dreams are always hot and humid, occasionally disturbed by a surfeit of greed and occasional disappointment.

And swatting flies and watching the hours go by I enjoy in my corner, away from the news, rejoicing in my microclimate, avoiding contamination by trash who is not me, hiding from the truth, drowning my sorrows in football passion crowds, executioner of truths, OPIUM of the people ...

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for whom he has not captured .. ironically goes ... no metais me in a sack but it deserves .. at all;)

that begin the week but not better.

Criticame on twitter .. @ Yojuank3