tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84500655798885331112024-03-12T20:47:51.536-07:00MéségliseLucas Loomishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467206824335532346noreply@blogger.comBlogger263125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8450065579888533111.post-16332522602756696352019-11-04T11:33:00.000-08:002019-11-04T11:33:02.381-08:00I Saw The Future Coming.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4UUoP1OkrFE/XcB5mcdb8iI/AAAAAAAABXs/LV1_FvPo9X8TE0pDleWdXMLmqT6joKYPwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Goodbye-40%25C3%259740-cm-2015-Oil-on-Canvas%252C%2BGuim%2BTi%25C3%25B3..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="890" data-original-width="900" height="316" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4UUoP1OkrFE/XcB5mcdb8iI/AAAAAAAABXs/LV1_FvPo9X8TE0pDleWdXMLmqT6joKYPwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Goodbye-40%25C3%259740-cm-2015-Oil-on-Canvas%252C%2BGuim%2BTi%25C3%25B3..jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Goodbye </i>de Guim Tió</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
el fin de los animales pequeños<br />
el ideal romántico de la<br />
muerte total<br />
entre los cedros y <br />
esta niebla que ya no es pasajera<br />
contemplo<br />
inimitable<br />
la reducción de mi todoLucas Loomishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467206824335532346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8450065579888533111.post-9343673122120256142019-09-12T11:36:00.000-07:002019-09-12T11:36:19.360-07:00La Spezia.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Bwr4vYPq7Vs/XXqM4B0xarI/AAAAAAAABXQ/X_lCV8hLZ141PudcRiJRwPXjIvwxf1EMgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Paul%2BDelaroche.%2BLa%2BJoven%2BM%25C3%25A1rtir%2B%25281855%2529..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="625" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Bwr4vYPq7Vs/XXqM4B0xarI/AAAAAAAABXQ/X_lCV8hLZ141PudcRiJRwPXjIvwxf1EMgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Paul%2BDelaroche.%2BLa%2BJoven%2BM%25C3%25A1rtir%2B%25281855%2529..jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>La Joven Mártir </i>(1855) de Paul Delaroche</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
erosión apenas perceptible -inexistente<br />
se diría-<br />
<br />
y sin embargo este temblor<br />
<br />
voraz corpóreo<br />
<br />
que te paralizaLucas Loomishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467206824335532346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8450065579888533111.post-87752758613135449362019-08-02T12:10:00.000-07:002019-08-02T12:10:19.777-07:00Hacia.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Lblj7NhuOdY/XUSJBZqBH6I/AAAAAAAABW4/6FDWEpxRcJ4HfN-U1TfJ0L0xcWHZKWTlQCLcBGAs/s1600/Andrey%2BRemnev.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Lblj7NhuOdY/XUSJBZqBH6I/AAAAAAAABW4/6FDWEpxRcJ4HfN-U1TfJ0L0xcWHZKWTlQCLcBGAs/s320/Andrey%2BRemnev.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Andrey Remnev</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
ir ha-<br />
cia<br />
donde no habite la memoriaLucas Loomishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467206824335532346noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8450065579888533111.post-77347792928885922132019-07-15T11:33:00.000-07:002019-07-15T11:33:46.660-07:00Del Principio De.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t_z40HStMjc/XSzFJDoHMKI/AAAAAAAABWg/NnEo7mcPhdg0oD5Xxg438T51p-d7E_EDwCLcBGAs/s1600/Amber%2BLynn%2BSeegmiller.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="795" data-original-width="564" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t_z40HStMjc/XSzFJDoHMKI/AAAAAAAABWg/NnEo7mcPhdg0oD5Xxg438T51p-d7E_EDwCLcBGAs/s320/Amber%2BLynn%2BSeegmiller.jpg" width="227" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amber Lynn Seegmiller</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
en el centro<br />
en el origen<br />
en el centro<br />
geográfico<br />
del desasosiegoLucas Loomishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467206824335532346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8450065579888533111.post-15332111065751766412019-06-14T04:40:00.000-07:002019-06-14T04:40:35.580-07:00John Polidori.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RjTfubx3eBc/XQOFfWxb3aI/AAAAAAAABV8/Or3KgvOTW-EbtvLlis4pPP3HHAeQB_wrgCLcBGAs/s1600/Livia%2BFalcaru.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="947" data-original-width="1280" height="236" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RjTfubx3eBc/XQOFfWxb3aI/AAAAAAAABV8/Or3KgvOTW-EbtvLlis4pPP3HHAeQB_wrgCLcBGAs/s320/Livia%2BFalcaru.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Livia Falcaru</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
ficción<br />
literatura<br />
<br />
la lealtad<br />
la descendencia<br />
<br />
dentro del sueño de<br />
los espacios se llenanLucas Loomishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467206824335532346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8450065579888533111.post-25353253740859092682019-05-28T12:10:00.002-07:002019-05-28T12:10:55.637-07:00Finally we are no one.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qJXynw6xoWA/XO2DlSkHhzI/AAAAAAAABV0/oQhNaEiHQ5In5KG8RTsqsyHhREbPtMO7ACEwYBhgL/s1600/Christine%2BWu%2BII.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="564" data-original-width="563" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qJXynw6xoWA/XO2DlSkHhzI/AAAAAAAABV0/oQhNaEiHQ5In5KG8RTsqsyHhREbPtMO7ACEwYBhgL/s320/Christine%2BWu%2BII.jpg" width="319" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christine Wu</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
dejar constancia<br />
del tacto<br />
imprimir a la constancia del frío<br />
ira y gravitaciónLucas Loomishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467206824335532346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8450065579888533111.post-56043254293911169842019-05-18T11:47:00.000-07:002019-05-18T11:47:59.909-07:00En Armórica.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OOr3BAdyFu4/XOBRlPkjl5I/AAAAAAAABVc/qWW_8Ip02-csVQ1sTUxXYGf5VdXSIBiLACLcBGAs/s1600/Sarah%2BGonz%25C3%25A1lez.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="747" data-original-width="564" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OOr3BAdyFu4/XOBRlPkjl5I/AAAAAAAABVc/qWW_8Ip02-csVQ1sTUxXYGf5VdXSIBiLACLcBGAs/s320/Sarah%2BGonz%25C3%25A1lez.jpg" width="241" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sarah González</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
neutralización del viento<br />
tiempo presente<br />
rugido de piedra<br />
en el semicírculo del valleLucas Loomishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467206824335532346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8450065579888533111.post-70340092003093603372019-04-23T11:03:00.000-07:002019-04-23T11:03:48.275-07:00Su Eldorado.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QJV_QiIQ2-A/XL9RSXbFu3I/AAAAAAAABVI/XVLubux5J7YOM3rbWXkrmd7ZEptCNWcjgCLcBGAs/s1600/Nicolas%2BValois.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="739" data-original-width="564" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QJV_QiIQ2-A/XL9RSXbFu3I/AAAAAAAABVI/XVLubux5J7YOM3rbWXkrmd7ZEptCNWcjgCLcBGAs/s320/Nicolas%2BValois.jpg" width="244" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nicolas Valois</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
sobre el aire<br />
sin huella<br />
con la amenazante cualidad<br />
de lo inciertoLucas Loomishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467206824335532346noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8450065579888533111.post-20639332977031541272019-04-04T11:39:00.000-07:002019-04-04T11:39:45.644-07:0004 de Abril, 45 años sin Alfonso Costafreda.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AABCE1zLNfU/XKZLECx2IOI/AAAAAAAABUs/0cqWX2baSTcDa8eJ0xmacUCfAWnF4fn0wCLcBGAs/s1600/Martine%2BJohanna%2BII.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="564" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AABCE1zLNfU/XKZLECx2IOI/AAAAAAAABUs/0cqWX2baSTcDa8eJ0xmacUCfAWnF4fn0wCLcBGAs/s320/Martine%2BJohanna%2BII.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Martine Johanna</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Empieza el Año<br />
1974, dicen, al fin, año decisivo<br />
que afluyera hacia el todo. Nada<br />
refleja esta esperanza. Almasrebaños<br />
pasan despavoridas<br />
aunque el cielo sereno es.<br />
<br />
Quien busca apoyo sigue desamparado y la mano<br />
dispensadora de la gracia<br />
pende grotescamente<br />
de la madera solitaria,<br />
símbolo de un cuerpo mutilado.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">La Madera Solitaria, poema de <i>Suicidios y otras muertes </i>(1974) </span>Lucas Loomishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467206824335532346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8450065579888533111.post-37200943826582062122019-03-24T05:16:00.000-07:002019-03-24T05:16:15.413-07:00Los 15 mejores poemarios (Según el título).<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-E2HtWViyqGA/XJaEDPc3CvI/AAAAAAAABUg/CudLRWH5afQLKvlvTMzGO33sgooWmLdwACLcBGAs/s1600/Serazhin%2BDenis..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-E2HtWViyqGA/XJaEDPc3CvI/AAAAAAAABUg/CudLRWH5afQLKvlvTMzGO33sgooWmLdwACLcBGAs/s320/Serazhin%2BDenis..jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Denis Sarazhin</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<i>Encontrar una palabra o un grupo de palabras</i><br />
<i> que puedan dar un sentido nuevo a la obra.</i><br />
<i> </i><b>Luis Buñuel </b>refiriéndose a la importancia de la elección del título en una obra.<br />
<br />
1. <b>Suicidios y otras muertes </b>(Alfonso Costafreda, 1974)<br />
2. <b>Fragmentos de un libro futuro (</b>José Ángel Valente, 2000)<br />
3. <b>Don de la ebriedad </b>(Claudio Rodríguez, 1953)<br />
4. <b>Insistencias en Luzbel </b>(Francisco Brines, 1977)<br />
5. <b>Arde el mar </b>(Pere Gimferrer, 1966)<br />
6. <b>El mundo se derrumba y tú escribes poemas </b>(Juan Cobos Wilkins, 2016) <br />
7. <b>No amanece el cantor </b>(José Ángel Valente, 1992)<br />
8. <b>de paso a la ya tan </b>(Ángela Segovia, 2013)<br />
9. <b>Espadas como labios </b>(Vicente Aleixandre, 1932)<br />
10. <b>Diario de un poeta recién casado</b> (Juan Ramón Jiménez, 1916)<br />
11. <b>Ángel fieramente humano </b>(Blas de Otero, 1950)<br />
12. <b>Huir del invierno </b>(Luis Antonio de Villena, 1981)<br />
13. <b>Matar a Platón </b>(Chantal Maillard, 2004)<br />
14. <b>Junio </b>(Pablo García Baena, 1957)<br />
15. <b>Horizonte o frontera </b>(Eduardo García, 2003)Lucas Loomishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467206824335532346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8450065579888533111.post-82387499974134794912019-03-12T12:51:00.000-07:002019-03-12T12:51:52.475-07:00Opina Cátulo.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PxVOJw4IvYY/XIgKAWt-6_I/AAAAAAAABUU/1F4UuTNNVuIWB3t4wGXBAUn0zzs9UB3CgCLcBGAs/s1600/Aleksandra%2BWaliszewska..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="450" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PxVOJw4IvYY/XIgKAWt-6_I/AAAAAAAABUU/1F4UuTNNVuIWB3t4wGXBAUn0zzs9UB3CgCLcBGAs/s320/Aleksandra%2BWaliszewska..jpg" width="228" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aleksandra Waliszewska</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
solo lo personal <br />
lo íntimo<br />
lo que solo merece ser dicho<br />
lo que queda tras la madera quemada<br />
<br />
la luciérnaga<br />
en el círculo irrompibleLucas Loomishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467206824335532346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8450065579888533111.post-65188204464579912632019-02-19T11:25:00.000-08:002019-02-19T11:25:21.549-08:00Leeson Park<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MeI09uaRido/XGxWQVYzhXI/AAAAAAAABT8/iE8jvGdLbiEw-Tpka4cT3XmVvciXYT1iQCLcBGAs/s1600/Georgia%2Bde%2BEuan%2BUglow..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="703" data-original-width="944" height="238" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MeI09uaRido/XGxWQVYzhXI/AAAAAAAABT8/iE8jvGdLbiEw-Tpka4cT3XmVvciXYT1iQCLcBGAs/s320/Georgia%2Bde%2BEuan%2BUglow..jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Georgia </i>(1973) de Euan Uglow</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
líneas de tiempo deslizado<br />
omisión del pensamiento<br />
herrumbrosa tibiezaLucas Loomishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467206824335532346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8450065579888533111.post-73339493908296515492019-02-02T12:11:00.000-08:002019-02-02T12:11:31.081-08:00Santa Mierda.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cIAPOoZkVpY/XFX2uXgZJSI/AAAAAAAABTs/h2ppFZTlX7Q83d8jRYpxk9YnNUEMhZttQCLcBGAs/s1600/Lucretia%2Bde%2BAdrian%2BGottlieb..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="570" data-original-width="360" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cIAPOoZkVpY/XFX2uXgZJSI/AAAAAAAABTs/h2ppFZTlX7Q83d8jRYpxk9YnNUEMhZttQCLcBGAs/s320/Lucretia%2Bde%2BAdrian%2BGottlieb..jpg" width="202" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Lucretia </i>de Adrian Gottlieb</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
la pertinente luz que como el agua<br />
busca su sitio<br />
<br />
y la obscuridad innata<br />
que le da sentidoLucas Loomishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467206824335532346noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8450065579888533111.post-11235839605707983562019-01-15T10:57:00.000-08:002019-01-15T10:57:40.455-08:00La Vida Política.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GMIwR7pT03s/XD4rOQ5tGMI/AAAAAAAABTg/QTRycbC_EtY9arLJhgkWyBHJEKMYBayKwCLcBGAs/s1600/rojo-2%2BGolucho.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="516" data-original-width="551" height="299" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GMIwR7pT03s/XD4rOQ5tGMI/AAAAAAAABTg/QTRycbC_EtY9arLJhgkWyBHJEKMYBayKwCLcBGAs/s320/rojo-2%2BGolucho.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Rojo 2 </i>de Golucho</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
metáfora a roca abierta,<br />
hambre con razón de hambre.Lucas Loomishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467206824335532346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8450065579888533111.post-66097215511077090822018-11-18T04:45:00.000-08:002018-11-18T04:45:45.202-08:00Teoría de los Días.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yZd_eUyf7qE/W_FcUGJ5aeI/AAAAAAAABTM/4lkqeKktImcKDHGl-vLGzn5JEaZp3mdDwCLcBGAs/s1600/Arnold%2BB%25C3%25B6cklin%2B%25281827-1901%2529..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="694" data-original-width="564" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yZd_eUyf7qE/W_FcUGJ5aeI/AAAAAAAABTM/4lkqeKktImcKDHGl-vLGzn5JEaZp3mdDwCLcBGAs/s320/Arnold%2BB%25C3%25B6cklin%2B%25281827-1901%2529..jpg" width="260" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arnold Böcklin (1827-1901)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
el orden roto de los días,<br />
una sola conjetura contra las ideas más oscuras.Lucas Loomishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467206824335532346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8450065579888533111.post-19164422253623860812018-06-18T11:23:00.003-07:002018-06-18T11:23:58.032-07:00El Eur.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TLqOO-Jsx4I/Wyf2mr7lRgI/AAAAAAAABSo/ViWfoljqK9Envv4TDjQQi0VBthZUObfsgCLcBGAs/s1600/Michael%2BCarson..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="564" data-original-width="564" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TLqOO-Jsx4I/Wyf2mr7lRgI/AAAAAAAABSo/ViWfoljqK9Envv4TDjQQi0VBthZUObfsgCLcBGAs/s320/Michael%2BCarson..jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Michael Carson</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
y en la inasible tarde<br />
de luz cabalgada,<br />
quién negaría lo incierto,<br />
qué verdad persistiría.<br />
con palabras machacadas el cuerpo<br />
termina deshaciéndose.<br />
solo yo soy mi única legitimidad.Lucas Loomishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467206824335532346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8450065579888533111.post-89071870582045374252018-01-01T11:32:00.001-08:002018-01-01T11:32:59.483-08:00Lenta (Dieciocho).<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TKAc392yYME/WkqGpq6YaRI/AAAAAAAABSE/OM-NT5uLQNUeKrYPkUaVAwiZdEEUCOONQCEwYBhgL/s1600/800px-Clausen%252C_George_%2528Sir%2529_%2528RA%2529_-_Youth_Mourning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="809" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TKAc392yYME/WkqGpq6YaRI/AAAAAAAABSE/OM-NT5uLQNUeKrYPkUaVAwiZdEEUCOONQCEwYBhgL/s320/800px-Clausen%252C_George_%2528Sir%2529_%2528RA%2529_-_Youth_Mourning.jpg" width="316" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Youth Mourning (1916) de George Clausen</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Contra ti<br />
Se detiene<br />
Retrocede<br />
El tiempo<br />
No se atreve contra ti<br />
Como si temiese todos tus inicios<br />
Todo tu tiempo sin iniciar<br />
Perpetuo<br />
Quieto<br />
Anclado<br />
Como el mar cayendo sin pausa<br />
Límite y continente de la luz<br />
<br />
Abstracción de la opulencia<br />
Borde de Luzbel<br />
Tu tiempo no nacidoLucas Loomishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467206824335532346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8450065579888533111.post-44726083755622924422017-11-18T12:04:00.000-08:002017-11-18T12:04:00.946-08:00Lenta (Diecisiete).<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zGsejEr_OgQ/WhCP7cJs-HI/AAAAAAAABRI/5ZXxNX1uc5QAuDmizSL5l86n7xC7DQSAgCLcBGAs/s1600/Samantha%2BFrench..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="663" data-original-width="660" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zGsejEr_OgQ/WhCP7cJs-HI/AAAAAAAABRI/5ZXxNX1uc5QAuDmizSL5l86n7xC7DQSAgCLcBGAs/s320/Samantha%2BFrench..jpg" width="318" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Samantha French</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Sepulcro<br />
<br />
Leo a Whitman y quiero llorar<br />
Leo a Whitman y aquí se acaba mi yoLucas Loomishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467206824335532346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8450065579888533111.post-66169694229313125762017-10-28T04:23:00.000-07:002017-10-28T04:23:24.830-07:00Lenta (Dieciséis).<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Is1QihJL7Wg/WfRmFj312hI/AAAAAAAABQw/2yfJ80zQfIM6kbYrLZ87Z1vy9yHZLH0tgCLcBGAs/s1600/Esao%2BAndrews%2BII.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="761" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Is1QihJL7Wg/WfRmFj312hI/AAAAAAAABQw/2yfJ80zQfIM6kbYrLZ87Z1vy9yHZLH0tgCLcBGAs/s320/Esao%2BAndrews%2BII.jpg" width="210" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Esao Andrews</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Existencia del error,<br />
significación del vínculo.<br />
<br />
Los lugares que tú ignorabas;<br />
contra ti se diluyen,<br />
en ti desaparecen.Lucas Loomishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467206824335532346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8450065579888533111.post-87674019294196462092017-09-24T11:21:00.000-07:002017-09-24T11:21:40.309-07:00Lenta (Quince).<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AWA9fG2bbxc/Wcf2A_bO2aI/AAAAAAAABQc/vUG41Gth_2U-OJDNAnKzR9n44DrHnwRzQCLcBGAs/s1600/Aron%2BWeisenfeld%2BI.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="832" data-original-width="564" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AWA9fG2bbxc/Wcf2A_bO2aI/AAAAAAAABQc/vUG41Gth_2U-OJDNAnKzR9n44DrHnwRzQCLcBGAs/s320/Aron%2BWeisenfeld%2BI.jpg" width="216" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aron Wiesenfeld</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Sigue cayendo la palabra<br />
como el cuerpo quieto en la noche<br />
en descanso.Lucas Loomishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467206824335532346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8450065579888533111.post-81905561727760048132017-08-31T10:30:00.000-07:002017-08-31T10:30:20.319-07:00Lenta (Catorce).<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-P_Uucs1j2G4/WahC6HccGCI/AAAAAAAABP8/VsHddF8__u4xZOxUv5i1dqvU0n4LIzJYQCLcBGAs/s1600/Lu%2BCong%2BII.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-P_Uucs1j2G4/WahC6HccGCI/AAAAAAAABP8/VsHddF8__u4xZOxUv5i1dqvU0n4LIzJYQCLcBGAs/s320/Lu%2BCong%2BII.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lu Cong</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Los<br />
poetas<br />
desconocidos<br />
lentos<br />
bellos<br />
como<br />
los<br />
niños<br />
muertos<br />
fueron<br />
enterrados<br />
entre<br />
Agartha<br />
y<br />
Avignon<br />
cuando<br />
el<br />
aire<br />
que<br />
es<br />
cuchillo<br />
rasgaba<br />
azules<br />
de<br />
ambición<br />
e<br />
incertidumbreLucas Loomishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467206824335532346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8450065579888533111.post-74501485785014730422017-07-13T12:14:00.000-07:002017-07-13T12:14:50.276-07:00Lenta (Trece).<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FGtBTbZVuJw/WWfCWFaUfXI/AAAAAAAABPo/jNsT6xzsOMUG17BUdYR-YuIEC6un34GGQCLcBGAs/s1600/Andy%2BDenzler..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="661" data-original-width="564" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FGtBTbZVuJw/WWfCWFaUfXI/AAAAAAAABPo/jNsT6xzsOMUG17BUdYR-YuIEC6un34GGQCLcBGAs/s320/Andy%2BDenzler..jpg" width="273" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Andy Denzler</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
El cuerpo toma conciencia de sí mismo<br />
y de pronto<br />
deja de existir<br />
<br />
Ni hueco ni vacío ni tiempo ni memoria<br />
<br />
El no perenne<br />
Solo<br />
Chocando<br />
Integrado en el resto del espacioLucas Loomishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467206824335532346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8450065579888533111.post-77018051810634540612017-06-30T04:42:00.001-07:002017-06-30T04:42:51.930-07:00Lenta (Doce).<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EtV0QQTJABI/WVY2IL1LeuI/AAAAAAAABPQ/zykLq-x8eYgTfSKIr26qR-7FwO3CrNC6gCLcBGAs/s1600/Yoshinori%2BKobayashi..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="801" data-original-width="564" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EtV0QQTJABI/WVY2IL1LeuI/AAAAAAAABPQ/zykLq-x8eYgTfSKIr26qR-7FwO3CrNC6gCLcBGAs/s320/Yoshinori%2BKobayashi..jpg" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yoshinori Kobayashi</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
El espacio es la forma<br />
la fidelidad creciente en la que abarcas todas<br />
las diagonales.Lucas Loomishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467206824335532346noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8450065579888533111.post-68943199989774710422017-05-30T04:44:00.000-07:002017-05-30T04:44:54.396-07:00Lenta (Once).<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vcwZqyhHu8s/WS1XA1CAJwI/AAAAAAAABO4/IBoGER0O-Xoe6GL19cBfCiiuWlYTt-ycwCEw/s1600/hv.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="666" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vcwZqyhHu8s/WS1XA1CAJwI/AAAAAAAABO4/IBoGER0O-Xoe6GL19cBfCiiuWlYTt-ycwCEw/s320/hv.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heinrich Vogeler</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Libros incendiados,<br />
lo no y el nunca,<br />
en la eternidad deshecha de veranos y galaxias;<br />
Emily Dickinson, la claridad te deshace.Lucas Loomishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467206824335532346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8450065579888533111.post-71555527312227600262017-05-25T11:05:00.000-07:002017-05-25T11:05:54.244-07:00Lenta (Diez).<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GyWab2H00Xk/WScZHLCB4CI/AAAAAAAABOk/Lb9MdPwFvtYy8ApESRK43lLkiemIaVQnQCLcB/s1600/Kai%2BSamuels-Davis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="705" data-original-width="564" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GyWab2H00Xk/WScZHLCB4CI/AAAAAAAABOk/Lb9MdPwFvtYy8ApESRK43lLkiemIaVQnQCLcB/s320/Kai%2BSamuels-Davis.jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kai Samuels-Davis</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
El origen de tu voz antes de que la conocieras.<br />
La lentitud del viaje, el espacio se completa, antes del estallido de la luz.<br />
Queda como una imagen,<br />
como una intención que se resistiera.<br />
Aunque también existiesen restos de lo real:<br />
<br />
pies andando sobre el acero,<br />
la noche que te llama desde dentro,<br />
junio ardiendo entre la vegetación glacial.Lucas Loomishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467206824335532346noreply@blogger.com1