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I am the wrong step
whom you did not love
hurry up
the fever that did not subside
the wound that began to ooze
but it doesn't hurt anymore
by sheer inertia
because deep down one day
you hope to show me scar
trout medal
memorable battle

SIOMARA SPAIN (Manabí, 1976)


I who learned the love of armchairs

and I skipped the alphabet between a hundred names

I who learned to count among the stones

and I tamed the language on the covers.

Why do I swap myself verse by verse?

Why, mother, didn't you give me the first litany

ordinary syllables?

And suckled stanzas that stab like daggers

why did you instruct me in repertoires

and you did not fill with rosaries, this body on fire.

Because you gave me the dementia between the lines

and you sprinkled the first laughs with stories

why mother don't you kiss me

and we barter with hugs

so much nothing.


Devoured ribs


Wishes packed their suitcases
the black humidity
swallows the bathroom walls
sometimes I'm afraid it will bite my feet

The scent of perfume
ironic rides in the environment
while the ribs are eaten
The pins are at rest
sometimes they cry like children

and I pretend not to listen
Queen of hearts
he doesn't look at me anymore
let the house of cards finally fall
and with her all my memories

Horse ghosts still run through my guts
I remember the smell of his death his white blood

I turn to stone in front of the mirror

AUGUSTO RODRÍGUEZ (Guayaquil, 1979)

Bodies don't die

to Luis Armenta Malpica

The bodies do not die.

Only its half snake part.

Light that is neither sphere nor paradise.

The bodies are half forest

and half water that they hide

on the nipples

whites of the day.

Eyelids deny

when an animal

comes out

of its blue mist.

The bodies do not die.

Just its unofficial part.

Your eye,

its geometry,

its petal of air.

The fear gets nervous

in nerve

and the throat is ruffled

when the blood arrives and expels

his other skin,

your insane guts.

The bodies do not die.

Just his half catholic meat.


To Ro.Hä

I crossed the face first

From the guilty ground that freed our bite

there I met your introvert sex

fleeing the recent knowledge of our ills

I hurt your old wound

with the curious desire of my hand

and in the attack you allowed the attack to last

in attentive indifference to my invested effort

I lodged the murderer in your gut

that will inscribe our offspring in blood

of true creators of flawed verses

that they will have to sacrifice for the sake of our faults.


The broth

up for the steps

until I find the nests

find eleven pigeons


despite his wings

take two of them

of the precise gap

where they hide

looking for warmth and shade

A shadow

as long-nosed

and a heat

head-on fever

take two of them

the others fly close

thinking about the moment

in which the body

long and featherless

come down from hiding

take two of them

and ties them to his belt

that night

at home

they will take the broth

from the heat of the interstice

although pigeons do not know how to count

will be two bodies less

so the lullaby

that night

will hit intense

serious and excessive

and again

at home

they won't be able to sleep

the next morning

on their backs


they will notice two brief lumps grow

like hot wings

like hot wings

and they will think


That his father

fed them

the gift of flying



When you spoke you used my mouth

you took my hands to say

And this that you have engraved on the skin

are the voices for the trip

The language rose before my eyes

and together we gave it an unholy name



Prisoner of the clouds

sketches inject me

dopamine to vein

Sick lightning bolt black papers

I have a heart attack

I see the dawning day

like fragmented mirrors

and take off.


Grammatically incorrect

I am subject without predicate

and with an absent verb

wrong grammar, accent without accent

scrambled syntax

diphthong without strong vowel

as weak as i

colon followed by nothing

eternal ellipsis

eat between two truths

period followed but not final

the prayer hidden in your brain

and afraid of seeing the light

exclamation mark followed by question mark

in quotes only phrases written in public toilets

on the sun there should be a tick

I am the not mute ax

the mouth without tongue that nevertheless speaks

(as a child the mouse ate my tongue

when the same mouse came back

and I throw it up on me)

the adjective that describes nothing

neutral article

adverb without time or space.



I smoke the cigarettes of the world

While my wife sleeps in the gardens that we have lost

Broken hearts had vanity

The street too

Where your eyes are out in the open

MISHELLE MACÍAS (Guayaquil, 1984)


Your aroma urges me, that indescribable musk of your skin;
your hands urge me on my face or my hair,
your breath urges me on my neck.
And just like that, stay static,
with closed eyes,
catching with a butterfly net
those seconds of closeness,
the only ones I have.
I open my eyes, your gestures.
I close my eyes, you breathe.
I open my eyes, that hellish smile.
I close my eyes, one more round.
And this urgency is dressed in patience,
slow walk,
swaying waves;
savor every extract of the universe
that I am by your side,
like the sunflower watching the incandescent star,
with that self-imposed distance.
Sailors, then when crossing that bloody sea,
fill their ears with wax
and tie me to this mast
and let me see the enemy.
And if their songs are beautiful as I have known beforehand,
Ignore me, don't let me off this ship.
I will survive those brown eyes
and the laugh of an eternal child,
I will survive that strange raspy voice
and to the long fingers.
I will have come out alive and my dignity in tow
though those curly silver threads
stay forever in my pupils.

RAQUEL GONZÁLEZ (Guayaquil, 1986)

(In the wind I discovered that the trees have your face)

Of The Seventh Girl


While someone grows, you dust yourself, you were never from the dust and you must not return to it. Get up, wake up! The worms eat, I wait for you in the metastatic dawn of hope. The watery tumor drowns in my mother's cry. The seventh vertebra wants to go dancing with the vagus nerve that they forgot to educate. Circadian dust sweeten the threshold for me, kill me. Destroy my soul, break my illusion. I wait for you at the exit of the garden, we have a blind date my heavenly cyclops. The antihstamines laugh up my nose. Come back soon.

TYRONE MARIDUEÑA (Guayaquil, 1986)



At this point there are two subjects who love each other. The first plays in the memory of the second and with the one I have not named.


We always whistle that song and walk down the street holding a smile in our right pocket.


Have you listened to your heart after a nightmare

or an orgasm ...?

Or better yet

Have you felt like someone you love dies for 3.6 seconds

And then forget how to touch?


He cannot die, only allow himself a certain rejoicing in the

chaos and enjoying blindness (parallel will).


SAD CLOWN is my friend

I am a friend of the SAD CLOWN.


The traitor





MARÍA BELÉN SALINAS (Guayaquil, 1987)

Near and further

In a little house

behind gigantic trees

I started a path

without beginning.

There other hands

they pressed my body,

they freed me from schemes,

they transformed me into the executioner

from my past.

I drank from her lips

the blame,

consciousness was mute,

not my breasts, what singers

they received the chosen one,

to the first lover.

Outside, the normality of life,

steps that are lost, lies,

"Stop thinking," he told me

and drawing it against my bones,

between caresses she obeyed him.

Red wine, blood wine,

stairway to truth,

hungry pores;

it was not my other half,

but my food is.

A beast that bit,

a man who prodded,

a sweet and sour fruit,

a cold being that burned.

The masks fled

Through the window,

I lost my remaining strength:

there I was,

running away from anyone,

alone with a dream,

with a mirror of flesh and blood,

that, without fear, devoured me.

"It's late," he whispered,

and that beast

I read every curve

every thought

and with a look I was silent.

I was a defeated beast

in his will and in his withdrawal.

Parts of me died:

the repressed innocence,

the unshakable attitude,

irreproachable virtue ...

With his sweat he baptized me

like the woman without handcuffs,

like nobody's wife.

Loneliness shone

inside of me,

like an abandoned rose;

the game of bodies,

a crossroads ...

Everything was erased in an instant ...

Cut off

for a moment my life,

it took me to Dante's hell;

dragged my body into the void

and gave me the elixir of Olympus.

Left me the scar of excess,

he wanted to hold me with a kiss,

without knowing that she was already lost.

I went back to the other man

the most human,

with the one who says he loves me;

the one who fulfills my whims,

the one who shakes my hand.

Of that feline monster,

of that caged beast

only the memory was saved

in some fairy tales ...

Although the monster always

is hovering ...

MARIELLA TORANZOS (Guayaquil, 1987)


In my spare time, I swallowed fire and spit it out

on the sidewalks of the city.

My career ended when I started to confuse

the act of spitting with that of swallowing.

Last night a thousand tulips died charred.

I have an alibi.

I was passing through your garden and I saw that all

your pomegranates bloomed.

You arrived just as I was playing 'yes he loves me, he doesn't love me'

and held the metal locks between my teeth.

I don't remember the difference anymore

between seduction and arson.

Ignition, cognition. I have vices

And you deny me.

However, when you say no, you say it twice.

It is a four letter word.


Sexual circle

Nothing between the unfortunate fingers of today.

The ring lost its way when it was trafficked

the sinister hand is the envy of the echo that died

in a sound memory.

Travel the hoop for wishes and whims

Are you happy between index and middle thumbs?

His reply is fictitious, there is no conviction

in his intuited ruin.

Pilgrim of sheets, showers, alcohol.

Courage without delirium

there is no escape to nirvana

no spell without ambition

there is no supplication without poverty.

The oracle excites your condition

you get lost in the human orgé

that devours perversion

you return to the ephemeral and

your mourning starts

MIGUEL ÁLAVA ALCÍVAR (Portoviejo, 1988)

Plural heart of Ecuador

Barcelona is a political party that plays football,

A vaccine that finds no disease,

The kiss of the most dangerous woman in the world,

That a sunny Sunday arrives and leaves.

The walls of the heart that parked fourteen swallows,

Coming in a tuxedo and glory to the bearer,

The glory is Barcelona although the queen is the League,

Without subjects or people, staying up late at a counter.

Barcelona is the tittle of the heart, torch for winter,

The emptiness of the wall, the sweetest of hells.

Bread without a baker, carmine maravedí on the lapel,

Diaz's left-foot brushing the grass,

The ashfall on the roof of nostalgia,

The only miracle that has no saint.

It is the bow that shoots fans instead of arrows,

Inflate the breasts and cherry the sun on Monday mornings,

Every morning the forehead and magic head chat in the stalls,

Like the dream that goes down, it becomes a championship, and it goes up.

Barcelona is not a football cliché, it can be.

Shorts soul, maybe.

Barcelona is a "break my balls, but don't break my heart"

Barcelona, after all, is the plural heart of Ecuador.



Your body / nomad /


in different places

My lips / my breasts /

my moles / my fingers /

my smell

You don't stay

You go

You take me with you

To the eternal return of my womb

JEAN LEÓN (Guayaquil, 1989)


Muslim angels

running electrically

through my head.

At the top of the glory I have him

I can't stop loving him.

They tell me: love Ala

and go with Abraham.

I have Muslim angels in my head

I see them in a homosexual way.

The bud of its members

rub against my nightmares:

desire for meat or

desire of death

No one has offered them Life!

In an impossible desert

the oasis asks me to love you.

If it's only a dream

why I have the stigmata.

Prayed the hours in every part of your body

on your skin I write my inheritance of psalms

because when we come together

I see God in his cloud.

ANDREA FREIRE (Guayaquil, 1989)

Tactile perversion

My sex is sacred.

Whenever someone contemplates it,

fervently name God.

My sex is profane.

Whenever someone enjoys it,

he blasphemes without compassion.

LEIRA ARAÚJO (Guayaquil, 1990)


They have planted goodness in your body

in a disgusting way

there is no more morbid

nothing fits anymore.


The red stone

to Nicanor Parra

What hides a stone from

an unheard of color?

What can be the future of an impossible stone,

for the benefit of the country?

What's in the center of a sidelined stone

if it is not a tear

defragmented by the years?

The world of politics, art

and science try to pigeonhole it according to its function:

For a poet laureate:

An ancient rusty engine

in standby state.

For the dictator of the nation:

The communist manifesto written by hand.

For academics:

Michelangelo's David,

prior to polishing.

For Concept Artists:

The last work of Hyperrealism.

For the seagulls:

A wave that never

reaches the edge of the sand.

For Virginia Woolf:

A death sentence in the pockets.

For lovers:

A guest evicted at midnight.

For the gringos:

A money making machine.

For the beheaded generation:

A pinkish concrete grave.

For the Indians of my land:

The written compendium

of its pre-Columbian history.

For HP Lovecraft:

A color fallen from the sky.

For the state comptroller general:

An unsustainable deficit

for the nation.

At the epicenter of a red stone,

stands a mountain

that still

it has not been discovered by man.


Father's Day Epistle

Dad, come with me to fly kites.

Everything continues as you left it,

or maybe worse.

I keep traveling in time

through photos and objects

until I get pain

which is the only thing that satisfies me.

How faces can change from one day to the next!

The languid looks

the frozen smiles,

truncated dreams.

Never again conjugate predicates with your subject,

at least not with you-body,

almost a person meters,

almost meters of stories,

almost meters of silences.

Daddy tell me when are you coming back

When will you ask me to go kite flying together?

LISSETTE GALLARDO (Guayaquil, 1990)

Without God

I was born without sobs

I grew up on the spine of a black rose

I am a body devouring flesh with veins

that water in opposite directions

I live from the seven demons

to banish the frontal utopia

The denied, the nameless

Conscience does not speak to me

there was no one to teach him

In perpetual depths

with head fires

Sins ramify on my nerves

They create hell on my back

The lies, the double-tongued demon.

JOSÉ VÁSQUEZ (Guayaquil, 1991)

The sweet nectar of a closed mind

The ghosts roam my house the truths come to light when the heels are stepped on between worldlings thirsty for power I run to paradise that was infected with a penetrating smog in my eyes and out of nowhere you are there wanting to reach me by the sweetest means than all people have a mask that only covers your ugliness covered with that of a few powders and one or another bad night I feel the cold of your fear with the taste of sweat in the moaning of your orgasms ending in the ecstasy of an almost perfect pleasure and return to a reality where everything is destruction.


The spark

The guilty

It was the music

That always-intentioned bohemian

Who is around here falling in love so much.

It's not the flame

But it is the spark.

SCARLETH I. OQUENDO (Guayaquil, 1992)

Two words

It reproduced in me like a hermaphrodite cell, it kissed each end of the entire phase of my sex, it moistened my rainbow, it raised my eyebrows, it left my mouth like an erupting volcano, it unleashed the demon that I carry like dead skin, it created gray hair. wildness; once and six times I was jealous of the malice of pain with the taste of blessed blood.

We were going downhill from top to top, into waters that have been forming from the mind and the darkness with a couple of lit candles.

His skin grated from the cold and his erection then rolled like oil falling from a waterfall. My nails broke at the brush of his back and his kisses compressed and absorbed my clavicle, leaving reddish marks that woke me up from a coma.

For my part it was love despite so many failed moons ... but never, never could I hear from his mouth that phrase of "two words", that is why I am shipwrecked on unknown legs, waiting for that orgasm of "two words". And the name or the man is not foreign to me, but unknown sexes wound me like spikes, almost like ivy that suffocates my uterus; and I get involved in sticky fruits to find the "two words" that my only universe denied me.


Constitution of the kiss, outside the city

Pirates lost on the shores of your mouth
they raise pillars of fire
already under your tongue.
[When I say language, its consequence is the spiral:
the bilateral negation of statics]
They are found by an orphic crew of females
that transcend other seas.

Outside, one by one crucial truths are piled up
like the protein din of the city.
Dynamic and perpetual city.
City of tasty laughter and outrage.
City of lime and dreams of liquid orange.

Reactivated the chaos equation
the avenue nine of october
it opens
with all the jaws of crime
and the forgotten chastity of the dove
in half square.

TANNYA FRANCO (Guayaquil, 1993)

Between the reconstruction an echo

"And everything so complete, so human

as simple as light, pus and woodworm "

-Ileana Espinel-

To my mother


The heartwarming silence of his absent shadow


Leaves murmurs sacrilegious songs in its wake

They hit



The excruciating urge to go barefoot

On the rubble of the world

The birth of the thousand women next to me

Choke the pulse

slow, slow, slow

a deep complaint

They dig their claws into my stunned eyes

The watery liquid explodes in their faces,

they enjoy

They celebrate

Their throats lacerated

They bless me:

You will not be born, from a womb

you will be from the filth of the torn sky

you will feed on mud drained from other mouths

You will bite your triumphs

You will see the world unleash its entrails

And you will persist in it.



I find myself in the auxiliary thread of the storm, on the verge of breaking with my own being. The sky is so strange, I cannot find its beginnings, I cannot see the stars, they are circles, and now, I have stayed in the simple mouth opener. I strayed too far off the gold trail with fluorescent hues. I have to return!

KARINA VARAS (Guayaquil, 1994)

High tide

Damn condemnation that marked my destiny with ink.

The preponderant sea and its great ships, together with its strong ropes that hold the sails of the wind.

I marked my route based on experiences;

I dropped anchor in the sand of that port.

I experienced storms around the ocean and felt the salt that came and went, staying among the thousand stories of the fine strings of my hair.

I reached my destination, raised my wings, lowered the sails, threw down the ropes, and discovered that I had anchored the ship on my back.



You remember father, you remember the night, the road and the starry sky of the south. You remember the words that opened in my throat like two desperate screams and did not let me breathe. And when you return home: the exorcism, the very black cats that your mother saw and the pre-heart attack with which you barely opened the doors of death and very curious. Do you remember the round discretion we promised at breakfast? and how many times you broke up under another name, disturbed by vice, to let the butterflies fly, blinded by their own certainty, while I waited suicidal for you to come, because my mother had scheduled a hypnosis session at six in the afternoon.

ASTRID SINGRE VITERI (Guayaquil, 1994)

They do not know ideals

no consequences

they do not understand Lorca,

Paz, Borges or Shakespeare

in those languages

I would like to shake myself

that they absorb my life

soothe my ills

I like the taste of beasts.

The dictator

has brought everyone to their knees

has set its target

in my hero


ripping out the past

while I look at it

among dead birds

My hero

is now a villain

MADELINE DURANGO (Guayaquil, 1995)


Lie to Me

enlighten me

is all i have left

my body, my blood, my voice

they consume me

by the flame of my luck

I will enter paradise

well this is hell

Pain kills

and more not being able to be



my death

be eternal.

DOMÉNICA JÁCOME (Guayaquil, 1997)

Today i will be free

I ignore my head

that has not yet been released from prison

to speak without insults

I'll swallow water from a puddle

I will feed on garbage

With sad souls from every corner

BRADY GUTIÉRREZ (Guayaquil, 1997)


Shut up

plasma woman

at the top of your ear

my sounds of nostalgia perish

crying and anguished woman

even when you shut up your voice is heard

woman with lilies and petals

of blue vanities and pale eyes

you who fall asleep in my dreams

you who lose the sense of tight pants

you who are only the child's utopia

shut up

even if you only looked at me on the street.

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