The city is the space in which the poetic voice of Fiesta, and horror joke (I had literary editions, 2011. Galeas Edwin Rodriguez, Riobamba, 1983) passes and survives to face the obstacles of life and the cruelty citadina lurking in every corner, under the shadows or the most shocking clarity. It is intended to flee, ignoring the violence and frightening background that transgresses:
Outbound
maybe,
necessary erased the bloody maps.
Until then,
of both humbling to not be humiliated
my legs still in its attempt to be calibrated to this life,
negotiate the opposite direction.
I refuse to walk as a victim and witness. RodrÃguez
Galeas, through this work, intended to testify to their reality, play the roles of victim and victimizer, being the voyeuristic eye that society ignores, but also maintain the analogy between city and emotion: both marked by forgetfulness of happiness lasting.
From a block
Sometimes I'm an old beat banished
distress and is easy to challenge all-that includes all-
think them as a last resort,
a rope to the tree in this sad night, the circus
cracks in the corners, no matter
embrace me with the darkness under the arm or axes
predicting laziness and peace.
shore just need my cold. Other
;
my strength is a mythology to spare my hand
a leak of numbers and bodies,
someone's voice-that includes you, a trace of affection
incident that becomes a mockery of cora-sonsitos
gutted.
This author has been a welcome finding in Ecuadorian poets. This publication (which can be downloaded here) shows mostly work and finding a voice, that's enough.
House
Now that the raw material of heart
thoughts seem to be I do not mean an act of obsession to do anything, but the resource
of self-creation, see the puppets
swallow their roots
night I hear the footsteps of the holes
feel my arms give away
giving way to screams
to create a new state of tragedy.
I decide not to strive not to seek weapons of mass
innocence where there is only
errors and drop, this symbolism
force finds its absurd
border in my pockets.
House
Now that the raw material of heart
thoughts seem to be I do not mean an act of obsession to do anything, but the resource
of self-creation, see the puppets
swallow their roots
night I hear the footsteps of the holes
feel my arms give away
giving way to screams
to create a new state of tragedy.
I decide not to strive not to seek weapons of mass
innocence where there is only
errors and drop, this symbolism
force finds its absurd
border in my pockets.
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