I wrote five verses ...
And none were half as good as those of Neruda, even the black trying to be green, even if the bread was round, was flattened by yeast and missing home, instead of rising, blaming collapsed Poe. Not to mention and which should be a ring, which was bracelet, necklace and collar to the neck of love lastimados.Y the fifth, the fifth by the grace of God if it was a lightning that scorched the coal from the other taking small diamantillos worthless ...
And so, men and women came, they took that and extravagant waste matter and felt rich, escapandoseles the home was worth, the simple matter ...
With these cristalillos they wanted to buy houses, cars, lives, dreams and nobody sold them, obstinate, I called for poems, stories, cartoons and uses heavier gauge and inspiration exhausted I surrender to my fate.
of no earned me exclaim names bases, gods, titans, eternal channels pick up the slack, where to get blade, wind, glare, clay, wood and indispensable for dreaming.
They reached more readers, blind all walking without legs on Brown's books, covering the light with twilight and new moons, without hearing, with a thousand ears hear the sound of many voices other than that charged mass reading. Approached hesitantly, wondering who took my cheese and drinking pitchers of chicken broth for a soul that knows no mercy.
took with endless hands Tablada my books, my books of poems by Neruda, stepped on the black heralds my locks guarding and science scholars felt that even God did not.
And critics raised on dictated that I had never built anything, my pages were a crime against the marketing and my sheets smelled of old paper and boring, dead men's clothes have time.
Her long nails tore my lap and I rebuked the lack of secrets and Feng Shui, Metaphysical ligth, philosophies cheap, useless advice, vulgarity, of the things that sold me said.
All, editors all of them looked my bat and wanted abusing fashion take my poetry and show the world, except to mutilate all.
That's all they told me, stubborn to remove titles, removing words, they wanted to censor his morbid malignancy word art naked, full of adjectives, I said, we remove the vowels, the pink paint me said, he bleached his ills, one by one, went from readers critical of publishers and then to define something that I did not know, an amorphous mass that engulfed my texts and threw up into pieces.
By refusing to do business my poems, the gigantic body that were all, with his mutilated hands, with her long fingernails out which lashes of her eyes, ready to scratch my writing the tome, the squeezed and did nothing, careless bow and soak in water that was dyed with the color of my words, drank tea and was still thirsty swamp by water, leaving me alone with my poems.
not tried to return those who had initially toyed with my cristalillos were busy buying what they thought was love, settled home, fireworks, cars, jewelry, false dreams, tremulous laugh, other lives and shallow success, feeding on the best seller bright gave them.
And forgive
the reader not to continue this story, but I decided to take my marbles and my worthless crystals under which unite in love, by the grace of the great, the flash and ring.
Angel Caballero
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