With this lazy eyebrow with which my eye curves and takes shelter from the nails of time, I do and undo, dare and redeem the one who bleeds from the mouth and ears and hungry and torn and sick and lonely and having chosen solitude and boredom : does not say.

I hate the leisure of the useless.
I hate the one who tears in public.
I hate someone who writes poetry knowing that he is good at it and does not twist a word and does not risk a metaphor and goes to bed with the feeling of having done things well.

With this friendless man eyebrow
I hit and tear the virgin skin of the night,
and I solve crossword puzzles on this table
while the imbecile heat of March
It makes me smell like a jackal.

I hate who settles.
But above all I hate good conversationalists, those who have the right word for each blind man in history.

This sharp eyebrow in the dirt
and scented in inexhaustible libraries
he longs to cut off the nipples of the old tricksters of noble policemen.

She wanted a poetry that would leave an ounce and a half of miscellaneous meat in her mouth.