Sunday, August 29, 2010

What Does 1% W/w Mean

Rafael Araya - Flip a Palestinian stone (Video)

Introduction How shall I take you in myself, for guitar ... How do you feel my clumsy love blowing my desire and my entire ... How to turn your flesh to air, your fragrant touch your heart without hunger, your silence on the bridge, you fifth line, male, dark thy staff, your family singing, your three souls, talkative and girls ... how can love without pain, without trouble, without witnesses, without hands to offend you ... How to pierce my well-beloved men and women, guitar, my love others, I sure love you like a few ... How to deliver all those names and that blood, without flooding your heart shadows, tremors and death, ash, loneliness and anger, silence, tears idiots ... Burglary
death
Today went looking for anything in my books ... This afternoon went, among papers, figuring out how I was, how it has been my life, how much time I lost, how to write when he greengrocers who came from the fifth, when he had two girlfriends, a nice broomrape, two pairs of shoes, when there was no television, this world to the feet, violent, stupid, overwhelming, this novel written by a villainous madman ... Today's death went through my books looking for my past, seeking the summers of 40, the boys under the hose, naps clandestine bananas in the neighborhood, killed, carved in the soul ... Today went about checking my credit death of the tram, my friends, their names, Montevideo Coffee nights, the parcels Wave smelling stew, checking my father, Beretta, his Baldomir, checking my mother, hemiplegia , Uruguay Batlle, Aristides dear, my dear-flag anarchists under shroud low wines and endless lines ... Today's death went reviewing phone noises, other than under the index fingers, photos, thermometer, the dead and the living, the pale ghosts who inhabit me, his hands and feet multiple, eyes and teeth, on suspicion of subversion ... And found nothing ... Could not find Batlle, or my father or my mother, or Marx, or Aristides, nor Lenin, nor the Prince Kropotkin, or the Uruguay or anyone ... or the dead Fernández latest ... Me neither found me ... I had taken a bus to the Hill and was sitting on the side of life ... I passed the Night and the life he painted some posters ... I asked in a corner by the hour, and held the man who told me life was when, along with your lunch ... Today I will leave the doors and open windows of my house ... and the night will come from every window of my house, all windows throughout the neighborhood, all the windows from all quarters and all prisons, all the windows of the hospital ... enter night, nodding, jump to the inside, shade to shade in light of the lantern ... and lie on the floor like a dog ... and will wait until early morning ... Today ... leave doors and windows of my house, open, forever ...




Black Guitar 1 - Alfredo Zitarrosa
Uploaded by multicanalALBA . - music videos, interviews with artists, concerts and more. The house ... My heart is better place than home ... home, closer to my neighborhood ... my neighborhood, surrounded by my people ... In my neighborhood lives the President, surrounded by a wall nearly collapsed ...

black Guitar 2 - Alfredo Zitarrosa


Uploaded by multicanalALBA . - Music Video, interviews with artists, concerts and more. Uruguay for export Trembling, to match the brown front, by the marronero, falls on his ribs, heavy as a world, the res ... Falls with a crash, face down on the concrete ... bleating to uproot his bones, and just a huge rack poor, and only a poor blood leather, half a ton of shattered bones, all that life kneeling in trembling and amazed ... Keep standing up there, like a heavy rag, caught by the leg by a jump hook you up, the one eye open up the shank of a knife stuck in the middle of sentimental nonsense in the middle of half a ton of pain monstrous, incomprehensible, absurd, bleating, whining and stupid, like a beetle who thinks, while slowly ponders why it hurts so much and why it hurts what part of who he is himself, the answer is open to the atrocious butchering everywhere, who had never hurt and that there were so many parties, so extensive ... and grazing had never hurt ... making milk, semen, muscle, hair, leather and live horns, which were life itself flowing into himself, vibrating gently as a warm sun to himself ... and had never hurt ... And hangs ... The front legs straighten, stiffen and move forward and upward, pleading and fatally rigid, round-topped short claws that just now the yard of clay, manure hundred other bleating, dinosaurs century machines, born to die of a marronazo ... Now it is blue meat hanging on the fridge: "Uruguay for export" ... That response, he died of a marronazo, fell and trembled all the fridge ... That other response received by the marronazo in the forehead, two fingers thick, while distrusting entered the tube because there was grass, reached res understand that there was another front, bleating, which had carried her off the hook ... and fell back, too, and shook the concrete under those bones ... That next response, which dodged the marronazo and also fell, with an eye guampa trapping and heading, broken, also fell and the earth trembled, trembled brown marronero trembled, beef, died trembling with grief and fear ... a marronazo in the forehead "for export" of Uruguay ...
Flower show (by waltz)
At the top of the water ... a white flower, bright, fifteen dollars, it is spark, bulges, diluted, drips and other smaller flowers, crying, shaking, the water jet catapult and ball up in the air as ... It is always born as water source that sings in the boîte ... Among aplausitos, in time the orchestra, soft white flower, water, nostalgia in the air ... rise in applause as faucets, cracked, gored ... groans and cries at night, dancing under the stars strip smoke, reborn, cry for the blue-white jet source like plant breeding, and is not "... and yet, and will continue to open, dying, swelling and floating, while last night, your child beauty engineering, his soft heart under the fixed foquillo milky ... the gringo, the prices water jet, air import, these females, the young, those gentlemen ... My wings ... Quite a while since I work and getting used to come disuse of my soul, the reason for the enemy, my sixty cigarettes a day, to the bad habits of my songs, which somehow always been ours, you know it, Guitar Black ... Resume in a comical today when yesterday straightened stop on nostalgia ... I do suffer the wings to fly I got, but cry and rise up and follow me moan, river and beat for two, like they are loving and however hate my wings ... hate, straighten, become friends of mine to take me everywhere: there is the song, nothing here ... beyond the here and now People and Love .. But the people are also more here ... and was previously there too, behind the Village People ... We have traveled all my whims and daring
Village (sic)
the floor, loving with wings like mine ... destination hating, hating and loving me without wings, with millions of feet, hands and heads and tongues ... a thousand mouths and say, "Now, the word is out ..."



Butterfly Butterfly comes to me in the street, in the air humid, moist air dancing in the air stifling, ominous, dancing in the hot air ... and I saw it was not me who wanted it to death ... and that death was not looking I also saw, because it was not the city butterfly iron, or born for it ... butterfly but was nothing else in the city, already dead prey beforehand, fatally ... looking at that crazy dancing and fragile wing, a grain, a grain of pollen in the cement ... Because the butterfly is born and not learn anything until you die anywhere, mortally wounded by his week just for the time necessary for their sip of life and drink ... That's not so sad ... sad to see the chain of eggs in the soot deposited by a river of oil, in the shadow of the high concrete walls ... His string of eggs of silk ... I lack


I need ... I feel that life is shaken nervous if I fail to appear, if I ... I feel there is a site for me in line, you see that gap, which is missing a breath, that defrauded a wait ... I feel the sadness or anger unexpressed partner, the love that awaits me hurt ... missing my face in the graph of the People, my voice in the slogan, in song, in the passion of riding, my legs in walking, my shoes treading the dust ... my eyes in contemplation of tomorrow ... my hands on the flag, the hammer, on guitar, my tongue in the language of all, the gesture of my face in the deep concern of my brothers.
Exhortation and purposes How shall I take you to myself, guitar, black guitar ... Dice Henry, my brother, who is a sunken dog gently licks and licks us, licking a wound still at the end, sitting in his step ... And again, my brother says another Henry, in Prague, said that love for sure, make entirely female, give you what you have my emergency life will love you more and more to Jaime, love it, really ... more for his soul, his own dog chew on the stick, cable, punch, burlap bag, the camp and insult ... the cheek forgotten that neither he nor anyone else get hit ... but hunger and Rita and Jose Luis, Raul and Gerardo and Rosa and Sara and Mauricio ... and all our dead ... And I know, guitar, this other dog that grew up, barking, a peasant, sometimes gentle or vigilante, who eats his own bones in the gloom and groans ... popular that almost all dogs, will wander through your wide sidewalks, your milongas bleeding ... to death too ... maybe one day ... of loneliness and anger ... tenderness ... or any violent love, love ... no doubt.

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