ı Have A My Hıve Phoenix Marie

Eros has entered my room, still dressed impossible, but I've seen near my bed. My mind has cleared the doubts and has lit a fire in my belly. All my life makes sense now. His voice is soft and seductive. His smile the promise of infinite joy. God, I think I love! Although these are still promises ... I was carried away by its clarity, the music that are his words, the possibility of a kiss. Does not everyone want to love and be loved like that? And wake up one morning to side of being that devours me in dreams ...

ENTRY May 4
You rise out of sleep like a growing thing rises
out of the garden soil.
Two leaves part to be your mouth, two tender seedleaves---
and your eyes are wonderfully starlike,
your eyes are luminous and soft as the velvet of pansies.
Darling, good morning.
Our arms are empty of each other for a moment only.
How beautifully you turn --- your mouth tilts to let my kisses in.
Lie still - - - we shall be longer.
We need so little room, we two --- thus on a single pillow ---
as we move nearer,
nearer heaven --- until I burst inside you like a screaming rocket.
Then we are quietly apart - - - returning to this earth.
De Walter Benton extracto de his diary in verse "This is my Beloved"

About Benton, it is known who was born in Austria, but was of Russian descent and lived most of his life in the United States. Worked on a farm, a mill, such as window washer and seller, and other works ... but finally came to the University of Ohio in 1931. After graduating he spent five years as a social researcher in New York. In World War II participated in the Signal Corps until he was promoted to captain. Returning to New York, turned to writing. "This is My Beloved" is a diary in verse, become one of the most popular books of poetry, was published for the first time in 1948. Walter Benton died in 1976.

Gay Cruising In Orlando

Lux in Tenebris

Awake

Shake dreams from your hair

My pretty child, my sweet one

Choose the day and choose the sign of your day

The day's divinity First thing

you see.

on a vast radiant beach in a cool jeweled moon Couples

naked race down by ITS quiet side And

we laugh like soft, mad children

Smug in the wooly cotton brains of infancy

The music and voices are all aroundus.

Choose, they croon, the Ancient Ones

The time has come again.

Choose now, they croon,

Beneath the moon

Beside an ancient lake.

Enter again the sweet forest,

Enter the hot dream,

Come with us

Everything is broken up and dances.

-Jim Morrison.

Hope, which is strange ... sometimes seems to be entangled in our soul like a secret. Others are disguised as star and guide us in our moonless nights. Some say that hope is foolish thing, but is in its origin, as primary as existence itself. This is what was on the bottom of the trunk of Pandora, where all evil came into the world, and she remained Esperanza. Now, with the face of the poem, I wake up one hundred years of lethargy, a kiss of true love, Eros that gives the Soul, as in "Sleeping Beauty." So it's a true "Awakening" comes to light a small fairy disguised as a possibility.

Santi Thanks for the poem ...

Brother Inkjet Power Purge

The value shut

Sometimes life gives us lessons strange, that are difficult to assimilate. To me, the most difficult of all is to respond honorably to cynics and liars. Perhaps I too fall into one of these categories, sometimes ... But it is harder for me to respond to aggression. It is almost always unexpected, abrupt and murderer with a taste almost like hemlock for the soul. The first thing that came to mind was Sylvia Plath's poem, "The Courage of Shutting-up." Says it all and more:

The value shut

value mouth shut, despite the artillery! / The pink line and silent a worm, basking in the sun. / H ay black circles behind him the indignity circles, / and indignity of the sky, its crumpled brain. / The circles turn, ask to be heard -

full, as they are reporting falsehoods. / Falsehoods, routines, desertions and ambiguities, / the needle traveling its groove, / silver beast between two dark canyons, / a great surgeon, now does tattoos,

tattooing again and again and repeated the sad injustice, / snakes, children, breast / of sirens and dreamers with its two legs. / The surgeon is quiet, not talking. / has seen too much death, has his hands full of it.

So brain circles revolve, like the mouths of cannons, / and there is the old trimmer, language, tireless violet. Should we cut? / has nine tails, is dangerous. / His voice to flay the air, when put in motion!

No, the language, too, has been cornered, / hanging in the library next to the prints of Rangoon / and the heads of fox, otter heads, the heads of dead rabbits. / is a wonderful object - / the things that has crossed over its lifetime. More

what about the eyes, eyes, eyes? / Mirrors can kill, and speaking are terrible rooms / where torture never stops and one can only look at. / The face that lived in this mirror is the face of a corpse. / not worry about the eyes -

may be white and scary, are not decoys, / their death rays were folded like flags / of a country that no longer have news and / a stubborn independence / useless amidst the mountains.