Poetry: / A crossbow. / And the spotlight, / a heart. loud poem, too much for one night. Roger Wolfe was born in England in 1962, but lived in Spain since his childhood by the Castilian tongue array. Everything: poet, novelist, essayist, etc. To my luck, this time I come across a book containing a number of his poems and stories, where the troubles of life and literature in recent years are reflected. The Words are useless, stubborn, twisted / as screws that do not fall straight. / And I'm tired. But they are all I have.
this author's vision is no more to give on the head, not until the emergence of the pus, but merely until the individual loses the status of individual. Hitting the nail, and liquidate.
One of those last vestiges of his own voice, honest and free. One of these lucid minds that always make us much needed. But why say more, better let him. VIOLENCE
My daughter (a year and a half) we see
strive in good times or better: when we hugged and
kiss
when things run with smoothness and efficiency,
when no screaming or threatened dishes,
when our routine is fluid friction
and no rough edges that make us explode.
is obvious that the other-usually, the bad, the worst-
also sees and hears, but I think that after all
we managed not too badly.
is happy, our daughter, and no photo or
time they do not smile. It has given
, perhaps all,
to hug when he sees other kids.
is launched on them and wrapped his arms
and I plant a kiss on the cheek.
In return for their efforts and have given some
another smack. Before the self-satisfied
concerned parents.
And yesterday was, as a final confirmation,
the icing on the pattern of habitual behavior:
a child, something greater than herself, seeing her
spread their hellos and kisses
among a group of kids,
turned to a child and whispered softly,
"This girl is dumb."
I'd like to slap
the snout on the asphalt. And their parents
then crush their heads.
But that would have called
violence
WORDS
Words are useless, stubborn, twisted
as screws that do not fall straight.
And I get tired. But they are all I have.
toys a poor child. Lie
gutted around me.
all its charm is spilled on their bellies open.
The mechanism has long ceased to be
intriguing or attractive. There
challenge. No spark. No color.
The world is so gray and my disgust.
The words are the cornerstones of my apathy.
But they are, as I said, I repeat, all I have. POEM
prejudicial to the AUTHOR (For Carlos Tijero)
ESPERO
SMOKING Smoking:
time within the time;
pause
parentheses
world outside of this world.
many cigarettes
-time.
to create a time within the time
in your absence.
