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Criticism of the party, Javier Rey Gonzalez

Link: The party , Javier Rey Gonzalez

I am devastated, tired, depressed, lost, forgotten hidden. I need to hear great songs or lost in some island paradise with a young man turning torso, hands as rough as tender, cradling me and take me to the best orgasm of my life, because life is a joke, and as I have no strength to laugh I just do not even have the consolation of love, but only to fuck.

Because I've been fucking when I read the winning story of the infamous V University Short Story Competition: Young talent Booket, cultural, uiversitaria Gazette, which was convened in late 2007.

The prize was six thousand juicy turkey, incredible, and we talked about Booket, which is of the editorial Planeta. And I have been dead when I read those were the components of the jury that, for sure, or have not read such an attack on the aesthetic, or were drunk at my favorite bar in Chueca, or had a heinous envy of those who had talented directors decided to reward mediocrity.

Because "The Feast" is a terrible story, full of clichés, flat characters, lack of intelligence when creating the narrative, verging improbable dialogue, the more artificial archetypes that Latoya Jackson, and over, to top it off, is a moral history of those that make you a Homeric arcade when you get to finish reading it after many efforts to end it.

Because I've seen porn movies deep, and its author does not even know what it is to have a sense of rhythm.

"The Feast" is a tribute to the stories of Agatha Christie, a literary tour even more topical, you know kids, those that are studied in high school is not going to brand him as an eccentric for reading authors who are not in the book club catalog of the 100 works of world literature, and a final message like, "Seven" trying to reveal, with all the pompous pretensions of the world what they are human sins, paths through nonsense character he gives to laugh their inability to describe the feminine without being frivolous topics of a woman, I would laugh to laugh its vacuum cleaner, not described, but he describes.

Closing that first story, I had to take salt, I called the emergency room, I felt like a Gray Amanda completely unprotected in a world in which only rewards bad, mediocrity is extolled, and is provided free by the morbidity .

fragile I was a nymph who was lost in a world of absolutely perverted and Oz perfidious where all the grotesque, uncouth, ugly, vulgar, rewarded, is sold as sugus giver at the door of the school, and where beauty is banished to remote places to be discovered in the most casual of cases when the author is dead and someone will betray her.

If it were not so sad I would laugh if I were not the same as Empress and I stained my eighty best shirts that do not match the red slut, I would have committed suicide.

But I'm a queen of scorn to shiver with dignity, and perhaps even wonder I laugh when I have missed and sex with whom I remember Paul Newman takes me just opposite where I lost in your eyes in his torso, and the infinite strength of his crotch digging into all my wounds.

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Freaks

Once I created a monster: he had large tentacles and a huge mouth. When he spoke the heavens thundered, the earth opened and eyes that wake up and shake the world around him feel great.

fascinating thing about monsters is that they sell over everything that is not. We could say that the monsters are the end face of beauty, what is the other side (or higher or lower, but the pair) what is sublime.

If we think of The Wars, the quintessence of the whole saga is Darth Vader. If we think of Silence of the Lambs, Clarice is in the background to Hannibal Lecter steal the spotlight and all the consequences. In the classic film Frizt Lang created more of the bastards: Dr. Mabuse, and then M, Peter Lorre most impressive of all time.

fatal women in the film ends up being incredibly captivating. My monster was fascinated by the women, became excited, maddened, and felt at the same time the old fear of arousal between her legs and crossing the threshold of the forbidden.

Dracula, Frankenstein, Jack the Ripper, including other serial murderers as The Boston Strangler, or calibrated Condesa bloody obsessed with eternal youth was sacrificing virgins to bathe in their blood, are fascinating. Gilles de Rais

became obsessed with Joan of Arc, and searched all his crimes, he killed many times as he could be capable. And he could never have it, always stay the corpses of murder. Is not it poetic love as you want to kill you, and turn in a desperate act of love, you're not the victim, but the mirror of who you are?

If you read this from their narrow moral condemn me. Will be as the same inquisition that condemned Galileo. Be the same as saying there were weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, which we would say to someone "I love you" knowing that it was over long ago.

Monsters are frighteningly beautiful, fascinating, seductive: Who has not been fascinated by the ghostly voice of Bela Lugosi or the grand folly of the Joker in The Dark Knight? Who would not want to feel the ecstasy of sex dull and sickly skin wrinkling, groans, aroused pubic hair and wet, from Polanski's Bitter Moon?

Somewhere somebody dies in the same microsecond, someone is running. It is fascinating to the greatness of money going around and around without stopping, making the luck portion at one end and into another.

Fortune and misfortune. Pleasure and pain. Agony and ecstasy. Life and death.

Yes, the world is a dark place.

Once I created a monster, and to hear this, I understood everything: the monster is you, will never understand the beauty. What is worse, will never appreciate the exquisite delicacy of its ugliness.

Me out to the balcony: once created a monster.

The world is burning.

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Criticism The soul available (Professor guess)

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Link: available
Soul
There are blogs that are covering from one place to another inhospitable places, such as those roots deep passions in which Alan Ladd ended random. Why is not the random chance that we just digging at a site where they inevitably down roots? It's just that these, in the blogosphere, are secret, and on many occasions, apparently non-existent.

"The soul available" is a cheesy title for a blog that has everything but: kitsch. Full of passion and runs a thousand and one other poems if envy Scheherezade Sultan was interested in other issues other than purely erotic. The author, a more than attractive (and desirable) woman with a taste more exquisite, guides us through the generosity of the poets, living and dead, known and unknown, as local singers a chance sleazy which is split beer and uneven lines, tears and love, existential lightness against the folly of writing. Ana Pérez Cañamares

is however not a great writer: his poems are well written, knows the intricacies of technique and aesthetics, but lack all the tattered crazy, lost, that makes art a sublime mystery. That does not mean

the interest in his blog, because I wish there were more so.

The writers are locked up for, and sure as Carver (or as your editor, go you to know), would take advantage of the woodwork to write about the cells, their bars, and all kinds of infatuation to Burroughs, you know , the guy who wanted to kill the language and who was born the same day as me but in another year.

With blogs and poets never die. It is possible that most ordinary readers of the blogosphere you are interested in little or no quality poems, and I mean all this crap chilling rate and gals should be illiterate to stop torturing us with their soniquetes his rhymes badly copied, and cheap sentimentality of romance. I refer to another kind of poetry: the tousled to Al Pacino in The Godfather II when he returns to Sicily, birthplace of their ancestors, that it has the feel of an ancient Italy as only a poet (a real one, not a bastard son) can describe the intensity and flavor of whom never went away and that, however, never was. Leo

this blog from time immemorial, often in silence. It is as if he loved her.

say that there should be more like this, but: what if everyone were beautiful if we all had talent, if all alike, we were gods?

may not exist critics, and perhaps the beauty would be dead.

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Criticism kisses of sin

Entry: kisses sin Ay

Queens, walked me writing my phone number on the back door of the latrine de Atocha, when over my head fell on his face, a more notionally entries erotic and hetero, this overrated and always infects blogosphere.

If Cortázar raised his head, if Klimt Magritte take off the sheets of stone from the grave, if I myself, with all my glamor, makeup out all these stinking toilets stink smell both male, and had to write a critique of a kiss, written, and described, from an alleged unredemption, I would say to the writer of such blasphemy against what is beauty, if that describes kiss is a sin, then I'm straight, I have three kids, a dog , and a beach house without clandestine lover.

Oh, and I water my garden shit on a Sunday morning, when someone brings me the newspaper and read the obituaries. Because

aforementioned lust entry is absent, the narrative rhythm that makes you long for that kiss fades to the next song, which is like drinking a glass of herbal alcoholic liquor after the promise of a monumental binge. And it

the kiss of sin, the real, I give it my Adonis, who drinks from my mouth that tastes just licking sex with his foreskin still shining, tall and sturdy, like a royal crown.

That's a kiss eagerly drinking himself from my tongue: a strange taste and time itself. My saliva and he was broken, pure fiber and despair.

Fall in love with me, I say, knowing that it will scare: love does not interest me, only his mouth spreading, so young, on mine.

You know, desire and sin, the anxiety of the unknown lover claiming to have the wrath of a thousand torments if the kiss cease to exist if their nakedness would not have served my mouth, if my pants had not been lowered and the sweet pain I would not have crossed a thousand guns, guts.

Clearly, queens, the beauty I put the kiss of my mouth, and kids, look no further: I am the kiss that never confessed heterosexual desire.

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Sitting on the Dock of the Bay

(Click image to see it read in conditions which do I have to explain everything)

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Criticism From the grave

Entry: http://jaglake.blogspot.com/2008/07/desde-la-tumba.html

He had been watching the movie then in the last chapter of Sex in New York with my pack of Kleenex and my best perfume.

Sitting on the couch with my two young men wanted, manhood escaped through the zipper of his pants.

Oh what good they were, there would have violated it were not for Carrie and flirted with marriage and her bf for all seasons, especially by the modelazo that Samantha was thrown.

I shouted: "Look nice, if too young for you, hand it to me I'm going to become the most wanted man since George Clooney decided to come out" when I came across one of the inputs sensitivity more horrific than some may have read.

will not know how the rest of the blog, but look out column in decline, is the same as vomiting on a picture of Amy Winehouse farlopa after you've gotten the bad, ie inevitable.

spelling correction not only absent, but also do not know "to" when hache preposition goes on, but when he goes after a participle, the subject verb call and write with axes, and the baby in question, whose readings should be summarized to the tops of yogurt and disastrous movie trailers, literary experiences with a lack of comparable likelihood that no one believes that Tom Cruise is not as feathery as this his most devoted fan ever since I got aroused in the shower scene from Top Gun.

Put another way: her story is like a toothache that can not cure or toothpaste or the best dentist.

have its reckless course mediocre group of fans, all feathers spenders cheaper than laser hair removal with tweezers.

"From the Grave" is a horror, not fear, but fear: falling in morality, as vulgar, superficial in all of this blogosphere, as believed and in fact so boring. The author must believe that the points are something you put only on the "i" and that a dialogue is to write an idiot after another without any sense even if your intention is to joke about death.

Dear, if you want to joke about death, dress her in Agatha Ruiz de la Prada and say that if you want a bone, a dog will look and smell turquoise cloud, because total, if the blogosphere is smart then you can create make the dogs talk. The Walt tito, which was more critical sarasa this your slut, you got it to create Goofy.

So after reading such vulgarity is nothing worthy of my glamor, left home to one of my eighty best friends listening to one of those songs that inspire you corny love poems ... and desire.

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ridiculous conversation between Captain Absurd and Professor guess

SUPPOSE PROFESSOR: What are you doing? CAPTAIN
ABSURD: Mira King, what I do is look groin: is as big as you think?
PF: Indeed. What do you do?
CA: To be the Empress that plagues all Sarasa, which porculiza the blogosphere with his criticism of slut, and I hope not to be Mae West, but most female fox penis has ever created! .. . Oh, I like your crotch.
PF: Well, you have not seen the tattoo that I have under the navel. Did you read corrupt head of both blog?
CA: If anyone believes that I think swallowing the overalls goes ass ... whatever they say size does matter ...
PF: Except in my case.
CA: Except in your case king. And I would not be an empress with his head as empty as a Vogue magazine article, however it is with Hawaiian fashion in the middle of November.
PF: What are you going to criticize, really?
CA: Oh, so hard you baby: is not going to rape me or something?
PF: I do not like fags.
CA: Oh how rude you are: you have it as hard as Charles Bronson? Well, anyway, that distracted me with that torso to the Paul Newman you spend baby. Well, I will criticize what I get out of the tip: posts, comments, and shit like that: more controversy for the empress! For fools will tell me that if they do not know, if I have not read the blog, if you would like to frolic in my bed to fulfill their dreams bi. Do you understand?
PF: No, I told you I do not like fags. And I have to put some sanity to this shit you're doing.
CA: I get when I talk like that.
PF: The tip of my boot is also set when you're a foot away from me.
CA: Rape and while I paint my nails and listen to Abba songs!
PF: Shit.
CA: Shit?
PF: The tattoo on my belly wants to give the hosts.
CA: Let's write about it! You know, baby, your tattoo biting my mouth, playful bloggers looking at what you do not find in their rooms (but without leaving their homes, it is not going to find is so good that not panic unless matched ), wanting to convert to me like that novel by Boris Vian, readers looking for lewd and bait cowards, who have no sense of humor looking head cut off (the foreskin), and everything to promote all those wanting their miserable fifteen minutes of fame.
PF: I already said Andy.
CA: Andy and Lucas? Are those little shit fuckers of music are able to say something intelligent?
PF: Andy Warhol, that fucker would you ass like a cave lithographic why you would come to seek God, silly balls.
CA: I get excited when you correct me flat, almost as much as listen to that song Burning.
PF: Faggot fatal, always with problems.
CA: Calla bastard ... the music up (and me up), and when the music plays, the show must start ...

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