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Blooming could not continue climbing and also failed to change the bad experiences in land Potosi. Added another defeat to their adverse credit history, this time falling against The Strongest.

The picture of the Imperial City did better things that visitors and stayed with the win. The coach himself admitted Academy Teté Quiroz, who was not making excuses for the fall.

party images show a vulnerable defense and a goalkeeper who was not in a good afternoon. Blooming

not only lost the game, also was without goalkeeper Galarza for the demanding duel ahead, to Bolivar, driven by downing an opponent in an attempt to cut a dangerous move.

The defeat leaves no margin for error at the Academy. Is required to add as much as triumphs against Bolivar and East, if you intend to have any chance of "something" to the end.
All because he could not with the old story.

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sleepless BALLAD FOR STRAY CATS. Beeps

cat I am not, nor do I have an odd name, I also stumbled through the city like a fucking drug addict who needs the night and the bugs to exist, but I think honestly, sometimes I felt like half full of whiskey, acids, puffs of smoke everyday and do intersect with each exhalation reached as to an ecstasy of fear, emptiness and nothing.

Then, recognizing the simplicity of what I am, I find a breath of what happens with Pink Tomato, yellow, with Lerner, Max, Gary Gilmour and Marciana. They all come to be a kind of projection of myself. Cristina Peri Rosi said that in most humans there are two kinds of fantasies, some motivated by a deep desire to be something other than what we are to others, revealing another life within us, too, the fear that things can go wrong and that what we hate may appear at some point in life to upset us and submerge us in a chaotic world in which we do not want to be part.

That is precisely what happens when I read the novel by Rafael Chaparro Madiedo. Perhaps it is something taken right now, but I can not find another way to approach with a sincere understanding of what is proposed median Chaparro, because it is not clear an argument. You may be alienated, completely stunned and full of sleep in the middle of what appears to be a really reading Trip Trip Trip. Like when you're in the midst of a spree and they say that it has reached new and more powder spray that rises the spirit to the point that you need new aspirations to be in tune with the music and the night dripping drool and lust opens dawn of a new day. Then I understand that much of the pages are accumulated in an enormous townsman sense, deep elixir overweight suburban ennui, words that reveal internal disgust and retraced our stock of smoke, trip and marijuana.

really what happens is that in the midst of a burst read something strange psychotic metamorphosis of self, aspects of being oneself which progresses page by page through a sea of \u200b\u200bfear , ash, smoke and spittle dripping unlimited throughout each chapter, in which Pink and I are broken pieces of night that sneaks slowly on the pupils dilated around the teats of the neighbor who pretends to be a Yellow that approaches to mitigate boredom ash, smoke, rain, acid and glass.

Di, I think, two readings of each section of the novel to unravel the story that stunned Chaparro proposed, and I know that reading really fail if you are not under the influence of a psychoactive that puts you in tune with each phrase word verse image page chapter in which relentless unwinding the skein of life hallucinations travel deaths in middle of a town that disappears into the sad eyes of a couple maybe three cats roaming the night broken Tues full of fire deaths from dog drool thetic enraptured by the embrace of a mouth hungry lust trip trip trip sounds while I can not get no satisfaction near Gary Gilmour's electric chair in your reader night in a squalid high chair casters by the influx of oil entering venereum with every breath you give your eyes to the lyrics word poetry night chapters broken images rain I can not get no satisfaction shit.

So no one else can understand the reader of this review do not want, nor will I make an attempt to explain the plot of the novel, because the shit I like when shits on an inter-city bus stumbling with curves and then you thought possible Untes tipping and all passengers in your own shit, as it did in the bathrooms Mars Bar Cosa Divina with lipstick at the mirror as he said " pass me a cigarette, this is just for you, this little tune just for you, no matter if you have not bathed, come here, I have, do not close the window, but please do not cry, you I swear I'll be with you when the rains of November, come here, come to my drivel, you're sensational, let me put my teeth in your teeth, let me take down all your words, I want hands, I rub my body in each of your words, your name, in your armpits ... (p. 105.) Because Mars is really possible to know all the yards of those who went to the Bar Cosa Divina and everyone was saying soils according to the rhythm of sex condition, perfectly shaped like a melody written in red lipstick on the mirror full of stories, a thousand and one stories of death, vomiting and acid stabs baby boy quiet and a bit of I Want a trip trip trip.

In this lapse of talk and travel takes the novel, chapters according to each night's misadventures character, to sweeten the reader that translates as the self-conscious life of each, their way of drinking, poke, smoke, fuck and jaded with each blink of a busy city by migrants of the avenue Blanchot put from LSD to psychotic pills they get in the asylum as a gift for trying to burn your own family on the road that goes straight to the sea, or because one day he happens to get naked and steal the horse race track that had secured Derby bets fall through the sand singing something like It Was Twenty Years Ago Today Sgt Pepper taugh the top band lay They've Been going in and out of style I do not really want to stop the show uhhhhhh. (p. 130)

Write something about Chapman's novel is truly frightening is to see millions of black birds are dumped on your humanity to cagarte and prove you're a boat Garbage in which one or maybe two starving dogs looking for each of your bones to write sick puffs filled with bubbles of yellow slime and halitosis in the morning saying he wants it all away for shit and all who wants to can make your humanity that really give the fucking win either in the rain to feel really wet trip trip trip or at the end the night when all are turned shit and there are only Pink Tomato her and wanting to make tomato juice Amarilla where you can commit suicide or die in the rainy morning trip trip trip.

Ultimately this novel is serious, and it would be better than those who take their reading is fully prepared to recognize themselves in the midst of such existential horror, between the supreme power over which days Lerner , Higway 34 and Alain, sobredopados of their need for highway diesel fuel truck and motorcycle bug, or perhaps with the fierce life of Carol and the Loco mired in the rattle of a frustrated love which leads to both at the apparent death of a wheel exploded in the middle of the viscera may have some scope to voyeur morbidity with what happens to Max and Sven stuck on his face in his private club in the tree, and sits with them the desire to lick the thetic Helga pinkish freckled and fiery Beast The Snow with a little whiskey and some cigarette until it makes them trashy life as they themselves do with their private club to go each to his own shit.

Maybe you feel the reader on every page may experience a real climax made self-satisfied with the possibility of being being part of a of uncontrolled orgies and bloodthirsty love, defeat, anxiety, black coffee, well, come here my love, I have, do not close the window glass, not close the page, continue, embriágate make my body and my An autopsy pages filled highway motorcycles LSD acid marijuana Cuba Sandinista Deep Purple And Yellow running naked through the sand on the rooftops mortuary bars like Bar Bar La Gallina Punk Kafka for the eggs to catch us kicking and ensure that is carried After the ceremony the future until we not taken to the hospital and we sew the wounds of living death to awaken in the middle of the room completely deluded literature sutured with fears and hates it so much Opium Clouds.

Omar Alejandro González.

Book Details: CHAPARRO Madiedo, Rafael; Opio en las Nubes. Babylon Ltd. Bogotá DC. Seventh Edition. 2007.

Programmer Isp 1.2.0.48

IN THE LABYRINTH

beeps Luis Vidales (1926) is a text with literary value. Since the beginning of the twentieth century when it was your first impression " have generated various reactions and influences in the Colombian and Latin American narrative.

The historic moment came up to the first postwar years. The country was involved in socio-economic changes while in the rest of the avant-garde world beat into their own front lines. Colombia was no exception. So did the writer know Bogotá Luis Tejada, who then proclaimed title of "poet" to the young Vidal. Also, Vicente Huidobro, Jorge Luis Borges and Alberto Hidalgo texts included in his anthology called Index New American Poetry (1926), which was the only Colombian poet Luis Vidales. In 1976 he published a second book. And they would again in 1986. Now, in 2011, the question arises: what is the importance of beeps in American poetry?

Perhaps the unprecedented emergence of a world derived from the urban environment. The title itself suggests a sensitive area where music is essential. The timbre is a property of music and, as pointed Manuel Valls Gorina in the book to understand the music : "Every sound carries itself a kind of complementary sounds bargain, we do not distinguish separately, but together they give their stamp or color. "

The bell can differentiate between various sounds, for example between the clarinet, guitar, trumpet, piano, etc.. This peculiarity of the music is comparable to everyday objects or instruments. I mean the sound of the wind, the stridency febrile, transit wheels, rain, in short, many suggestions auditory stimuli. Like when we read: "The piano / growling stuck in a corner / shows teeth / to those who pass by ". (P. 92.)

some extent the music takes shape in vivid color. So in verse of the poem entitled "Burial" : "The bells will want to fall over / English as hats." Or in The Noise: "Noise / You vagáis crazy / looking for a way / but like I / you could not find / Noise" . (P. 69)

is also the sound of silence or mystery deafness. Perhaps the recognition of the hidden life of things, the hidden movement that yearns for expression of being, overcoming the natural and physical resistance. Remember the verse of Charles Baudelaire, suggesting that the poet is the man who "understands effortlessly and without a doubt / the mysterious language of flowers and silent things."

Perhaps poetry is the result of a series of questions that arise daily. Hence the constant concerns of the poetic voice, for example: "why the same show every day since you gave the world rope?. / Mr. / Let now / turn the world upside down / so that the mornings are in the evenings. "(p. 108.)

The above excerpt belongs to Luis Vidales poem entitled" Prayer of the yawning dedicated to Leo Le Gris-yawner. " As in León de Greiff, in beeps clearly an "urban poetry" so called worlds unpublished poured on Colombian literature of the early twentieth century a new wind, a voice that goes beyond of crying fools of tradition and nineteenth-century manners.

The work mentioned was able to break the conceptual and technical framework of our narrative. Besides being studied within the poetic genre is also considered a precursor to the mini-fiction in Colombia. For example the series of stories titled importunate. Especially the issues (The universe of the antipodes, the world of other-self, the shadow) so far had not been approached with such brevity.

For example, in the story The Antipodes, a character to support this theory the horror of his listeners : "You can stand on their feet, discourse, yawn, think, succeed or be defeated in direct-or reverse-what happens to its antipode ." (P. 50.)

remember that the antipodes are absolute opposites. Anti: contrast, antagonist. Pruning: standing. Antipode, which is contrary to my feet. On the other side of the ball, say Vidales. In this regard, F. Nietzsche would say that Kant was the antipode of Goethe.

On the other hand, the book is evident cheerful and optimistic vision, perhaps without resentment. But with an almost childish joy, as one does a self-caricature. With great irony, when we read, "Let's put names to things, because, but, how do we deny" . (P. 197.) Or perhaps in these words: "A Zeus, the charge to punish men by disaster, he shattered his temple again Arziani a violent earthquake. Please note the incident. " (p. 189.) O is the paradox: " Sometimes you have a panic fear at the sound of silence . "(P. 197). And humor black: "The funeral was in charge of reminding us in time, we're a good vile" . (P. 193.)

Perhaps the importance of beeps is the predominance of nominal and idiographic on the adjective. The triumph of the dynamics on the static. And with that, the aesthetic value of the word, language, Logos. However, goes beyond the avoidance, as their intentions are pursuing a revolutionary attitude and expressive and communicative. In addition, his legacy is reborn in the vitality of the aphorism of brevity, so close and the maximum sentence. In that sense, deep resounds with words reminiscent of Emile Cioran: " Laughing is the only excuse of life, the great excuse of life, laughter is a manifestation nihilistic." Perhaps that is the relevance and timeliness of the book of Luis Vidales.

VIDALES, Luis. Bells ring. Colombian Culture selection. Plaza y Janes Editores. 1986. Bogotá, Colombia. 189 pages.

By: VICTOR HUGO OSORIO LAWNS