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I suffer a drought of loved lyrics

heartbeat, blood and tears

and groggy in the nocturnal not hurt me

I struggle between weight and lightness

between year late and meaningless born

between my youth abducted

and the next evening to death.

If this is inspiration, I am an execrable poet

empty as the endless strumming with

not only know who to write

lost the grail that gave me the answer

to why my verses scattered even to nothing.

A key he sang like a bird abrileña

reminds me of being "born"

in the month of Cervantes and Vallejo.

infinite Aprils undated

these graphs only eternal

deafening crowd

with my lonely feelings

as roulettes victimless Russian

steps playing forever.

Sometimes I wanted

just that.

Herf

not enough

to earn the horizon

the scaffold unconscious.

struck me

not enough

to embrace black death

eternity and love immensely.

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DECEMBER APRIL COMES THE NIGHT * LETTER TO JOHN LENNON

* Inspired by the Second Act "Barcarolle" from Tales of Hoffmann Opera by Jacques Offenbach .

Walk my body without a soul to the beat of the gondola Barcarola
with elegiac lament in tears and numb under sail
unshaded foliage
with the gondolier rowing and jet fateful cloak

Groove Dark Water channels
suffering from masked carnivals
my being is just a whiny sap
could not run or save your heart imprisoned

light was made to shut down the
darkness of death love and cruelty in conventions
antipode what boat you stand silent gall courtesan?
and whispers: "The heart, deserves warnings"

Queen of my world go to sea channel
to bury under the socket in your dark cold
where my poetry is rooted in his suffering
where they do not feel your voices and writings, only peace

I
sharply embraces melody caresses me like my mournful cries nonexistent
me be your listener, it is inert
pain goes away without unabashed glory

Zephyrs
warn the train reaches the grim epilogue
give me beloved troupe under the moonlight that kiss
before the descent to eternal mortar

Beautiful night, beautiful night ...

Anne Sophie Von Otter and Stephanie d'Oustrac

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Lima - Peru, December 8, 2009.

Dear "Johnny"

was five when Mark David Chapman shot you cowards that night of December 8, 1980, later died in the ambulance in the arms of your beloved Yoko yea that everyone hated the Japanese and the hypocrites who cataloged the "ugly" as if love hath color, shape, or what not, but you represented in the tangibility of your "Real Love." Paradoxically, that ominous day in the morning, wanted to live on the radio to lavish more hope to the soul of the people. I could barely stammer
songs by The Beatles when it happened, just heard on vinyl records on home consoles in the 80s. In that context I could not know much about my childhood, I knew what it represented to me were just a hairy grunge resembled hippies and potheads who sold leather bracelets and bangles around the main square of my city and looked at your picture as if he is a tramp of those, but when asked for you always told me you were a good man, a fighter for peace and a great singer love. I envy today's kids that you can learn in just hours and days, not have that advantage, but I think our friendship has been the most spontaneous and unexpected.
Peace? Love? What it represented to me everything because I think anything at that age, then seeing the end of an excellent film called "The Killing Fields" once again heard "Imagine" but could not find the reason why the decorating theme in order of the film, I remember I started a tear after the character Pran told his friend: "There is nothing to forgive." I began to hear from you and give response to my concern that emerged in the film, I learned that you left your old and born just sixteen your mother Julia, who taught you to love the music, died in an accident. These episodes we sang it with "Julia" from the "White Album" and "Mother" in solo, you had a hard life, but learned to give great affection, because all we need is just that: love. I imagine in those "strawberry fields forever" and in the streets of Liverpool, flying as "free bird" to the sound of a ukulele, embracing intensely musical notes, drawing and writing poems, and growing up and emerged from a nest of ruthless circumstances be a child of the Great War and apparently it bother you because your middle name was Winston Churchill in honor of the belligerent.
And so, within that world of musical explorations as the Rock was not consolidated, you met Paul, George and then on the verge of madness joined the great Ringo, Beatlemania erupted as the foam a bottle of champagne drunk overloaded with sweet illusions of youth, the Beatles gave us beautiful jewelry with every song. But all those "twists and shouts" began to be challenged by your genius and propose lock you in a studio and make music, "Beatle" without the malicious paraphernalia from touring and the fans watching. That changed the Rock And Roll, prior to Rubber Soul, and announced that maelstrom of talent in which interact seamlessly with your great friends, but with Sgt Pepper's forward Popular Rock music was universal and transcended in time "across the universe", "here there and everywhere." After "Pepper" in the Rock, everything was different.
Today I have mixed feelings, it hurts losing you, any more than you know, singing more songs, died the possibility of hearing the Beatles together again, despite your categorical response to a reporter's question about when you meet: "When you return to school," answered. What a stupid results. I am always amused that while anger irreverent response.
not you who broke up the dreams of those who still admire you, I always travel kaleidoscopic hallucinate you playing with "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds."

What ended the dream was not your song "God" or the saturation of ten hard years (without previous count since 1957) of harassment by fans, journalists, sycophants and all the burdens being a Beatle, which ended that dream was five fucking bullets buried in your body that night in Manhattan, the violence that humans disturbing media abjectly down your mind and heart by thanatological complexion of our existence and our ambivalent dissonance between light and darkness, which sank the dream was fucked up and twisted our humanity; " you tell me I'm a dreamer, but I am not alone "and many long for this" revolution "of love you preach without being a snobbish as today. You were a child, young rebel, artist, father, a genius and today beating death are a great icon immortal humanity: not finished with your soul.
Although not felt more than curious when I heard a young age that I had killed every December 8 to ask "Mother Mary" by Paul on "Let It Be" to sing with you and your mother Julia that beautiful song " Woman "with George on guitar, is my hallucination. Your millions of friends in the world and miss you beatlemaniacs of new generations, will make their own way, they were, are and will remain for always loved my dear Johnny.

You were really brave, hiding in your hard struggle extravagance for a better world, we never sang a heavily armed thugs to kill foot and foreign children so they call you "The King" not'd defrauded us, ever.
want to tell you that thanks to the digital age your discs have been remastered and put on sale on 9/9/9, also we have to settle for a video game called "The Beatles Rock Band" to play with the Beatles, I suppose who'd fought with Paul on this, but it is crazy and funny all this, I really would have liked because you do not have to run over or shoot anyone.
Although I could never go to a concert of yours, or touch, or ask for an autograph, while walked without a bodyguard, I hope "A Day in the Life" or else it can do and where you want to please you send a message to Paul suggested to include Peru in their last tour end of the race, it still yearns to hoard some of the Beatles and we sing "Hey Jude" was inspired by your older son Julian, do not think that what I say bother you right? In the end they were always great friends and I know you have forgiven your pissed bad times, "it's easy if you try. "

Johnny I must leave because" life is what is happening to you as you prepare to make other plans "but first say thanks for all your beautiful lyrics, from the testimony of your life , to be forever young and struggling, as a Beatle and a world citizen in every sense of the word. I do learned a lot "just as if we start again" in my "mind games" live with the hope that I as in humans for your eternal melodies.
A hug and do not forget us never forget you, we expect the move.

"The bird has flown"

"I've always considered my work as a piece and I think it will not be finished until dead and buried and I hope that's a long, long time "

(RKO Radio Interview on the day of his death)

"How can I Give Love When Love is Something I Is not Never Had?"

How? John Lennon, 1940 - 1980

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The cry of the Hyades

heaven weeps today as the Hyades
the musical meter captive soothing flowing through my veins bleeding
gleaming
to know that I run this blasphemous

crime drops on petals collapse
flowers and lacerating the face with his infamous
consuming pain in his outburst and inhaling odors
lying just a spring meadow colorless sterile

Now I will travel on dunes burnt
lean ferment in fact regret
died and gave birth to a desert foliage of regret that drunk
my beautiful and sad now dawns

A bird crosses the sky
silent wings are wet with tears sea of \u200b\u200bblue
raises its way to the area without fear
and includes such unexpected Hyades with sobs of this

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GROOVE THE DARK TIME FLY

In this sepulchral silence glimpse of your spit fire that demolished
blasphemous that love of graceful metal
made of pure alloy efebos
lovers in the shadow
know me hell
abysmal gall to cough up that pleasure with me
perfidy angry skin calcined serene
innocent even without seeing our sun, only that headstone above

live, love, dying, dying
flew crazy irrational involved in heart
and now my dream is to find escape
from the top of the city where you walk Fairy Ghost

I have strings in a world of
and undaunted conviction in this habit
unexplored dimension in which vague moon moon
where I cry my eyes crystals that split

much love, so much joy in perverse thoughts stray
tortuous
cadences and perpetual ignominy of fetters
without singing tender

do not know what tomorrow will
whether day or night
eternal hope I do not open the hope drought
sun no clouds my dark eternal night owl

Without it, without it ....

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My bucolic
steps have been exhausted near the threshold of your lost smile
boilers bursting at the heartless pride that cremating sacred talismans
slopes of two lives .

This black stormy months

verses transparent strips
me locked in prisons of words over that one killer
November lives

quiet in a tomb adorned with the leak

thankless of roses with thorns.

In discussing love as something solitary
assails me that look
anchored in mine and my memories of winged star
eat what I was gagged dying

by your oath perpetual face away

I call this bonfire reverse
Prometheus to Olympus and their loot
prodigue me the secret of the Hesperides
in fine flakes of birch,
air chambers and clearance

clouds without eternal return or perhaps a ghostly
to ride Pegasus up
infinite cosmos where it can not write these rhymes so damn

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ASTRAL chill

not betrayed you yet conquered
poetry I seek to
my diving in the ocean unfathomable abyss
asfixiándote socket to aid the loveless.


rests on the foundation started the purity of leaf petals
written pleading and intense red face uncertain
imagining it
the threshold of this beautiful afternoon.


pyre And I know the space that separates us is tear
agonize
water where the ink blood in his suffering
stormy been looking for his escape painful and lame face.


write abdicated
denying that love is only a whimper pávido
treacherous because I hold you now from the bottom to the sky
released by the wrath of your funeral.


write as solitary soul star died
icy celestial space
not an eternal purgatory
Glitter in my veins severed languid caress my lips ...


kiss ... Do not ever ...

MI CINEMA PARADISO