RAFAEL MÉNDEZ MENESES (Guayaquil, 1976)
I am the wrong step
whom you did not love
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
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
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.
XAVIER HIDALGO CEDEÑO (Guayaquil, 1977)
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.
when an animal
of its blue mist.
The bodies do not die.
Just its unofficial part.
its petal of air.
The fear gets nervous
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.
OMAR BALLADARES RODRÍGUEZ (Guayaquil, 1979)
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.
MARÍA AUXILIADORA BALLADARES (Guayaquil, 1980)
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
and a heat
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
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
will hit intense
serious and excessive
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
the gift of flying
CÉSAR EDUARDO GALARZA (Guayaquil, 1981)
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
DIANA ALVARADO NOLIVOS (Guayaquil, 1982)
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.
ANDRÉS LÓPEZ RODRÍGUEZ (Guayaquil, 1982)
I am subject without predicate
and with an absent verb
wrong grammar, accent without accent
diphthong without strong vowel
as weak as i
colon followed by nothing
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
adverb without time or space.
VÍCTOR MOREIRA SÁNCHEZ (Guayaquil, 1982)
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,
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.
OM MANI PADME HUM
MARÍA BELÉN SALINAS (Guayaquil, 1987)
Near and further
In a little house
behind gigantic trees
I started a path
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
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,
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
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.
inside of me,
like an abandoned rose;
the game of bodies,
a crossroads ...
Everything was erased in an instant ...
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.
TATIANA MENDOZA (Manta, 1988)
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.
MARÍA FERNANDA CAMPOS (Guayaquil, 1989)
Your body / nomad /
in different places
My lips / my breasts /
my moles / my fingers /
You don't stay
You take me with you
To the eternal return of my womb
JEAN LEÓN (Guayaquil, 1989)
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)
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.
GIOVANNI SALVATORE BAYAS (Guayaquil, 1990)
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.
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.
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
it has not been discovered by man.
LUCERO LLANOS ORELLANA (Guayaquil, 1990)
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,
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)
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.
ROSA CABRERA GARCÍA (Cuenca, 1992)
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)
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.
AMANDA PAZMIÑO TORRES (Guayaquil, 1993)
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
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 "
To my mother
The heartwarming silence of his absent shadow
Leaves murmurs sacrilegious songs in its wake
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,
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.
ANDREA FUENTES ALVARADO (Guayaquil, 1993)
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)
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.
WILMER GARCÍA CABRERA (Machala, 1994)
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
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.
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
is now a villain
MADELINE DURANGO (Guayaquil, 1995)
Lie to 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
and more not being able to be
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)
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
even if you only looked at me on the street.