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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.
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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