"sartre" poems
you sowed this **** into my brain...
why do you even "think"
that i want... you?
i, want your children...
the meme-mutation is what i'm
after...
and there are plenty of useful idiots
to allow me to process
the intermediating processes
for: the sigma, "accomplishment";
which is unlike
what infected mushroom's -
trance party track sounds like,
outside of my own head.
why do these people even
think i'm after their genes
of memes?
i want, their infantile
replicas...
i want to craft a
worthwhile curiosity,
on a canvas, that that they call
their gene replicas, children,
and... like why called me...
easy meat..
einfachfleisch...
what?
i'm not here for these news' anchors...
i'm here for their children...
nibble nibble nibble chew chow
cow tow and main...
prawn crackers...
ah... news anchors are
easy targets...
slightly pointless
20x bulls eye honing devices...
it's their children...
i want their children...
i want their cognition
to become replica of wheelchair
bound infirmaries;
why?
oh... you know...
football and wrestling,
given the Qatar investment plan...
the whole sport "thing"
became a tad bit boring...
had to resort to secondary sources
of entertainment;
children of news anchors?
the secondary, "last",
albeit, the best resort;
schindler...
required a list,
to become reincarnated...
and revive a **** a heartlessness
of an reincarnation
anomaly:
i.e.: what, a limited number
of people, to begin with?!
so the rest is primitive "a.i."?
now i'm starting to think...
thank the blue indians
for their culinary innovations...
but when it comes
to their theology?
**** 'em;
did i advocate that?
if i did... within what pronoun
guarantee of advocacy?
playing the grammar card...
which pronoun?
the plural singular,
or the singular plural,
or the gender neutral?
thank you jean-paul sartre,
for the... "i"...
i simply love, this revised concept
of a unit...
the revision clinging
to the royalist affirmation of pronouns...
i.e. 1 would say... so...
and 1... would, so, will, do so.
**** the pronoun debate
in Canadian politics...
if i have to resort to this?
then i will...
like your plain citizen...
may "i" speak within
the confines, of the royal, one,
given the example:
one might suppose...
to be the former, and the current,
highest, etiquette?
gender neutrality of pronouns...
last time i checked...
one was never allowed
pronoun stature...
why not address this
conundrum, to begin with?!
oh, right... too late...
too many loud mouths
without a guillotine...
so, basically, a cow fart's
worth of argumentation.
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 11:51 PM UTC
This is a poem about nothing
which is impossible since Nothing is actually Something
An indefinite pronoun.
Now, I'm discussing nothing
a concept that makes 'nothing' a thing
Confused? I am.
My mind is buzzing with the thought of nothing!
So is my mind empty or not?!
Discussing nothing is leaving me blushing!
Now existentialists,
Sartre was influenced by Heidegger
Heidegger says he was misunderstood
In the effort to bring about a poem about nothing,
I've created something, so this poem is now about Something'
what, I know not.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 10:10 AM UTC
I hate woodstock
I hate the whole
mainstream counterculture
why embrace something as alternative
when society itself is evolving to be just that?
I almost desire to be
the textbook,
cookie-cut
worker drone
family man
but I figure,
I'll push in a different direction
than anyone I know
most writers are
bullshitters
anyway
especially the best
ones--
I could imagine Sartre
before fans,
promising a world he couldn't provide
I think all writers
at their core,
are idealists
dreamers
when that ceases,
they can no longer write
or turn
to nonfiction
Oct 24, 2010
Oct 24, 2010 at 1:25 PM UTC
reveling in the unity of contradiction
the omnipresence of disjunction
the opaqueness of transparency
the anarchy of governance
the unknowableness of the zeitgeist
the banality of chiqueness
the slavery of fashion
kinda like being a hipster in Brooklyn
with no conscience of consciousness
or is it no consciousness of conscience?
one is a statement the other a dumb question
seeking an intelligent answer
truly the tragedy of comedy
or is it the comedy of tragedy?
enough of these silly questions....
why don't it just fall apart?
how does it stay together?
accessorize smartly
tight ensem
put together
right
Music Selection:
Jimi Hendrix
ifasixwas9
Oakland
6/21/13
jbm
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 10:27 PM UTC
She was that Chekhovian girl
who fell for Dostoevsky
and Camus and Sartre
and
you.
Nov 29, 2018
Nov 29, 2018 at 12:15 AM UTC
You read the books that are made for men
And call yourself a feminist
As you recite paragraphs
Making gestures with your right hand
Sprays of self-righteous spit
Accompanied with your confident loud words.
Your knowing worm eyebrows
As the cherry on top.
I wonder if you would be ashamed
To know that Hemingway was an anti-Semite.
Or that Sartre thought there were two kinds of women.
Poor Simone was just like you
She went along for the ride.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
listening to French pop
"I'll have liked it when it was cool before it get's cool"
sriracha sauce on pesto pizza
"The waiter was right the flavors are very complimentary to the palate."
watching a ****** "me" movie
"wow their color usage in the lighting really shows the Giallo Italian horror influence"
Listening to the Friendly Indians
"My favorite band? They are only popular in Orange County so you've probably not heard of them.... oh you have?"
watching Un Chien Andalou
"tres interessant"
reading Sartre and Nietzsche
"my favorite philosophers man."
my pretention leaking out slowly to reveal I'm just a ********* underneath this finely unkempt exterior.
Is that changing? Well no but i thought you should know anyway.
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 4:06 AM UTC
First
She walked out
And I had to learn
That I was a coward
An orphaned lover
An old house cat
Abandoned
In a grocery store parking lot
I had to face it again
The emptiness
I smoked all of those nights
Away
I was numb
I was nothing
I lost 30 lbs in 2 months
Then it all caught up with me
One night my heart started beating
Rapidly
I couldn't breath
Started to shake
I sat in a corner and watched
The room grow ten times it's size
I heard a static crack in the ears
I was lost and unhuman
I was a rabid dog trapped in a corner
I felt sick for weeks after
So
I gave up the ***
Switched to drinking
Whole bottles of whiskey
128 lbs, shirtless, screaming
The fellas laughed at the beginning
Until I started throwing ****
Trying to fight everybody, anybody
I had 3 new catch phrases
"I'll ****** **** you man"
"I'll smash all your ********* teeth in"
"I've seen it all man."
After a while it became
Too much for the fellas
And soon they were all gone
So
I found better company
Dostoevsky, Fante,Bukowski,Hemingway,
Hamsun,Lorca,Sartre, etc.
I found a ****** apartment
in San Pedro
Drank beer and read every night
Until the loneliness felt comfortable
And then I
Accidentally
Became alcoholic
Then i took my wild act
To the streets
A few weeks ago I was at a concert
And this guy kept elbowing me
In the ribs
I said "If you keep sticking that elbow
To me, I'll ****** **** you man."
I said it cool and soft
And the guy looked real scared
And I was too
So
I had to quit drinking...
I keep thinking about
Zarathustra
Rising from his cave
After years of solitude...
A guy at work said
"November's almost gone
Man, this year just blew right by"
And I thought
'Good.'
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 11:50 AM UTC
man leisured by the least obliging functioning
of what he terms “proper” manual endeavours of the biceps
will clearly resolve the matter being his last adventure that’s consumerism,
creating as many menial jobs as possible without the freedom
to enjoy hardish and the elements;
but of course man’s life will become easier,
but his adventure seeking will
simply become a zoology, a safari,
a safety netting - consumerism is hardly
an adventure, it’s a bicycle schematic:
one wheel produces, another wheel consumes;
most of the jobs under the hammer
were not menial, they became menial
only when heidegger’s hammer was involved
and the rebellion came when hammering nails
in turned into discussing philosophy;
it’s hard to commence an emergence of philosophy
window shopping, woman’s new kitchen area:
you know how many marriages i have seen fail
because of over-cooked pasta? too many.
you know how many glass houses i’ve seen constructed
by women peering into shop windows at mannequins?
too many. i sometimes think about sartre’s c.c.t.v. voyeurism
pervasive in english society alongside paedophilia,
and i guess the jigsaw parts fit... they do;
once dubbed the nation of shopkeepers,
now dubbed the nation of integrally ~foreign mortgage lenders
(nation of property developers / landlords... indeed,
once a nation of shopkeepers, now a nation of landlords):
or a nation re-evaluating communism
by importing slavs to talk of the ups and lows of communism
by trying to curb capitalistic egoism and turn it into a collective
without communism’s egoism father stalin:
or queen bee or queen ant china.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 8:08 PM UTC
Out of red concrete stands an abstraction
held out in space and in isolation.
Posit a location, Pierre
I'll be there to where you be.
But from the ground of the cafe
the distance becomes separated by unity:
point A to point B
pinpointing the heart of reality
for what was once 'to be' now stands 'not to be'.
A pre-judicative attitude always leads
from 'being' to 'non-being'.
Where is the comfort in
trying to rest
between Nothingness?
While negating in
A sleep while asleep?
Am I not self-aware through self-consciousness of
'The Existence of a Nonexistence Existing in Existence'?
How can there be Nothingness if before Nothingness
there is a Consciousness?
There is a Consciousness! From Being!
From a non-being being Being!
Thus, don't premature judge and expect the "expected"
Expect the unexpected
and save nonexistence from non-existence;
from "being" to "non-being"
Feb 7, 2011
Feb 7, 2011 at 10:09 PM UTC
I've seen you there
amongst the lavender fields
when you thought no one was watching.
Memories that dance
a longing daydream,
weaving strings of lilac through my veins.
I knew you would plague me,
but my eyes supped upon you.
Supped and supped again
until lavished by an allure
a thousand French patisseries
could never usurp.
Your taste inspired madness -
a craze you too endured.
We turned over pages
and bewildered them with Eden's of ivy
that flourished within our skulls.
If Van Gogh were a writer
he'd write like us.
A fable of seraphic beauty
and lucid insanity,
knotted together
with existential philosophy.
"Being and Nothingness"
(Sartre understood)
but we were 50 years too late
to the Café de Flore.
Those were memories of yesteryear,
sealed with the rosy hue of antiquity
I was always fond of.
I can almost lick that scent of lavender
that clings to the photographs,
but I fear my tongue may bleed.
So I admire them on a mantelpiece
in a dust-soaked room
where all that I love
(and have loved)
may live.
I know that room not by daylight,
for I dare not be seen to enter.
Only the high rise moon knows
that those footprints
belong to me.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 6:27 PM UTC
Standing on the intersection of
a Monet, a van Gogh, and a Picasso
Nice piece of real estate!
Water lilies ~ Charrette de boeuf ~ Tete d'homme
Let's start with the lilies:
I'm impressionable and I gaze lovingly into the pool
I see my reflection slowly unfurl in the shimmer of the pink petals
As in a dream ... I float on
The watchmaker sends an instruction: rotate clockwise
Now an ox cart:
I seem to be walking in Poe's imagination
Crows flitting about as the ox champions
His burden on a drafty day
Another instruction from the watchmaker: continue clockwise
And now Tete d'homme ~ cubism:
My world deconstructs
Line by line, shapes and forms
Fracture into the subterranean unconsciousness of my mind
Leading to another instruction: close your eyes
Shift
Your
Perspective
Watchmaker says: open your eyes
Uncentre
Misalign
Unhitch
Watchmaker says: ens causa sui: 'a being that causes itself'
Now I've got Dali giving me niggling doubts about the nature of time
Sartre with a side of Darwin and I'm being and nothingness
Ground yourself Mullin!
Open your eyes ... this is reality
There's Rodin in a battle of good versus evil
Munch and no screams! This is good
Gaugin sharing his garden view
I'm in my happy place again ...
That's better
And here's Cezanne, Degas, Renoir, and Pissarro
Bringing me back into a recognizable reality
My eyes and my mind are in alignment here
But I can feel that watchmaker winding me back up
My iris constricts and my pineal widen
Third eye ain't blind
Hope someone is around to catch me
No worries, I'm sailing with Renoir and
I've found A Muse (Constantin Brancusi)
Ain't life a musing?
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 10:34 AM UTC
FEW POETIC REFLECTIONS ON OLD AGE
Dear Poet Friends, after a long break, I have composed a few lines as a very senior citizen and a lover of poetry. If you like the same, kindly Re-post this poem for wider circulation. Thanks and best wishes, - Raj Nandy of New Delhi.
It has been often been said that old age is that period of life,
When all bad habits are given up on doctor’s advice,
And yet you don’t feel all that good while you survive!
Yet I do try to take some solace from Robert Browning’s poem
‘Rabbi Ben Ezra’ which says;-
‘’Grow old along with me!
For the best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made.’’
Despite my grey hairs and wrinkled face,
With creaking joints and scattered aches and pains,
‘’Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress’’,
In thanks giving to the Lord and sings his praise;
As I recall WB Yeats’ ‘Sailing Byzantium’, - that
lovely poem from my college days.
As our biological clock continues to tick incessantly,
Getting older becomes compulsory.
But becoming Wiser in wrinkled years remains optional,
A choice our free will has the opportunity to make!
I recall what Agatha Christie had once said,
That an archaeologist is the best husband a woman can get,
For the older she gets, the more interested in her he
becomes;
With due respect to our women whose age is impolite
not ask.
Here I recall what the Pulitzer Prize winner Robert Frost
had once said,
That a diplomat is a man who always remembers a woman’s
birthday and not her age.
I recall the observation of Sartre the famous French philosopher
who had said,
That more sand that escapes from the hourglass of our life,
The clearer we should see through it as a blessing of time!
It is true that we live in deeds, not in years; in thoughts, not breaths;
In feelings, not in figures on a dial, - as James Bailey had said.
I finally conclude by quoting the first stanza from ‘Beautiful Old Age’ by DH Lawrence;
‘’It ought to be lovely to be old
To be full of the peace that comes of experience
And wrinkled ripe fulfilment.’’
-Raj Nandy of New Delhi.
Dec 19, 2019
Dec 19, 2019 at 11:04 AM UTC
She took the train for the first time
To go spend a few weeks with her daddy
In the summer before she started second grade.
Her suitcase had pink light up wheels on it
And was full of her best summer dresses and pictures
She drew with his name scrawled on the back.
She cried at the station because she didn't want to go,
And slept the whole way there.
She took the train again, in high school
Accompanied by a group of friends
Going to the city for the weekend to see a baseball game.
She didn't bring any luggage,
But came back with arms full of plastic shopping bags.
She cried because her mother didn't understand
That 16 is too old for a curfew,
And smoked cigarettes the whole way there.
She took the train, once more,
Her freshman year of college.
She went to visit her best friend at school.
Her duffle bag was full of flimsy bikinis and Sartre.
She didn't cry this time, until on her way back
When she realized that something had been lost somewhere along the way,
And that she was too old now to ever know what it was.
She took the train, again, for the last time.
The summer before her second year of college;
She said she wasn't going anywhere in particular.
She bought a ticket for Sacramento, and left it in the car.
This time, her suitcase was full of heavy rocks,
And made her tilt a little to the left as she dragged it down the ramp.
She began to cry at the station, for the death of someone she used to know.
And, seconds before the train left,
She flung herself onto the rusted tracks,
Leaving behind nothing
Except a couple of ticket stubs and a poem titled "Somewhere".
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 12:04 PM UTC
I'll be your Sartre
Be my De Beauvoir
Together well make a pact
Never to leave each others hearts
Though barriers will drive us apart
I won't disappear like an ephemeral mark
Instead I'll have Apollo conjure you a magic harp
To play you sweet melodies when we have to depart
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 9:53 AM UTC
the question remains a question
A paradox, an enigma.
Despair embodied with human curves
That arouses my deepest and most concealed fears
Like the heightened sensualities of a pilgrim
Or the hunger of a pagan god.
Once again, where is Mecca? or Jerusalem?
Perhaps Eden is in a box?
Or within the ****** of a battered woman
How about Atlantis?
Is it like me? Between 4 walls?
After all, we are left to confess and write
Our darkest secrets, our most inhumane crimes in a wall
In blood or in phlegm, or perhaps *****
Is just a matter of preferences.
Sartre is on the phone,
Looking for someone who’s never home
Whether he knows or not we’ll never know
But my finger touches his dance partner.
Dance away like numbers
Minus the precision or the count
Learning tango simply costs too much
and like Sartre, I'm poor, or maybe less
So he went on dancing like that,
With no measure nor count
Free like a ******* like me
Nervous yet spontaneous.
Another silence,
But unlike before it’s even more silent
Making it even more unspeakable, undesirable
And now it demands the impossible;
To be called by its name, by its urgency!
But the words, those little empty words
Withers away like leaves or skin kissed by fire
So we are left away with no device
To break the silence or to speak out its name
The trigger, the unmoving dance partner
Went down to its cold alloyed knees;
Proposing marriage with my finger
She knows the answer,
A way to speak the unspeakable name
Loud and clear, with a bang
That everyone will surely hear.
Or do we already know that?
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 5:18 PM UTC
I can always hear them in there laughing,talking,living.
There must be
3 of them living in that
Small studio apartment.
Their room always smells of
Incense, pizza,marijuana.
I've seen them in the halls
19 year old latinas.
And where should my love belong now?
It is much too dangerous
For a man of 24 to have read
Sartre,Celine,Hamsun.
Ya know,
I often fantasize
About 35 year old women.
Although I have met a lot of
35 year old women
That don't know
****
Where should my love belong?
Probably exactly where it is now.
But I hope
Not.
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 9:52 PM UTC
Sartre could have taken Ghandi
In a burger eating contest,
or a bar fight;
they are dead.
No matter who you are,
you will die.
Torch your temples,
set fire to the preachers,
and **** on ash.
Embrace it.
Welcome this conflagrative absolve.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 4:40 AM UTC
No matter how much I shiver
I can't seem to cool
The heat in the pit of my stomach
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 1:50 PM UTC
Benedict turned the page
of the Dostoyevsky novel.
His brother puked in the bidet,
too much cheap wine,
Benedict thought,
but he’ll be fine.
He immersed himself deeper
into the Russian world
of ****** and fear
and dark corners.
Crime and Punishment
was one good tale all right.
Even the book cover held
the attention, he thought,
turning it briefly over.
His brother’s moans
interrupted the puking.
Benedict asked an
are you all right?
There was a groan
of response.
Benedict recalled the time
he had been in that condition
in Yugoslavia the year before,
same cause: too much
cheap wine.
And that beautiful guide
came to his room
to see how he was
and sat on his bed
and all he could think of
was when would
the puking end.
No thought at all
of her presence there,
her body so close,
her perfume making him
more nauseous.
She was Croatian,
he thought, pausing at the page
of the Dostoyevskian novel.
And that waitress
he and his brother had liked
in the restaurant
at the Yugoslavian hotel.
***** Yes, that was the name.
Got no where though.
Just the luck of the draw.
His brother returned
from the bathroom
and flopped on the bed.
The puking over maybe,
Benedict thought
and his brother hoped,
pale of complexion,
perspiration on brow.
Outside the window
the Parisian streets
echoed with life:
Cars, coaches, buses,
people, natives, tourists,
males and females.
Tomorrow they’d be out
on the streets again.
Sit in restaurants where
the famous once sat
over coffee or beer:
Hemmingway, Sartre,
Picasso, Henry Miller
and the others.
Art thrived here.
Ideas born
from philosophic minds.
Benedict book marked
the page and closed
the book and put it aside.
Some one laughed outside
in the street, another sang,
voices of ghostly singers
of the past, breathed
from the walls.
His brother returned
to the bathroom,
more puking.
Benedict thought:
poor brother.
Of course, he mused,
gazing at the Parisian
night sky, they’d never
tell their mother.
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 2:17 AM UTC
these two hands, small, stubby,
nonetheless,
invite you to come aboard,
all, the unselected
all, the unprotected
the pretenders, outsiders,
hallway cool, self-collected,
girls who wear dresses,
boys who write in diaries,
Camus, Sartre hangers-on,
never-removed sunglasses wearers,
24/7
trip time,
comb your eyes,
system cleansing,
you, self-affected,
you, self-selected
you,
step away from the gallows,
get down from the scaffold
come to, for you, to get collected,
the unaffected,
the undirected,
road trip to the unexpected,
place where the disconnection is
disconnected,
where the unexpected, that's you,
expected
I know you well
I know you all
you are my desirables,
my touched untouchables,
wilderness voices,
no longer crying,
bound for greatness
from hands to pockets,
my chosen ones,
now my protected
No more unhappy birthday parties
that no one comes too
no need to pretend, sell love,
to the takers of advantage,
now on you breathe in an atmosphere
I've collected,
100% exhaled relief breaths,
purelled oxygen, fresh start air
no more disaffected,
now fuel injected,
now that you are
in and among the
touched, carried,
the affected,
the every poem read...
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 2:03 AM UTC
Why are we conscious?
Why life?
The universe
infinite flux
Epic Smashing parts together
Brains splattered by speeding bullets
Simple physics
Described in abstract numbers
Sublime
It’s so plain
So regular
How Life is extinguished without emotion
In an instant
Unseen and unremembered
Why did we even bother?
To become conscious at all
To perceive futilely the world
And despair in the flux
Anguish in the face
Of pure entropy
Absurdity is the only legitimate feeling
And yet there are so many more
Why? I want to know!
Why this fait?
Why could I not be a chair?
Simply sitting, never thinking the thoughts
My bane and my bone
My plagued thoughts
In pursuit of clarity
Like a sore that would go away
If you would
Just
Stop
Picking it
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 2:14 PM UTC
Strange now, to think of you
amidst this aftermath of scattered atoms and queer cells,
this apocalypse, the collision of bone and skin,
all gnashing and trembling and brimming with heat
left over from the creation of our aching, leaking universe.
Strange to remember those clarion eyes and fishgut teeth
and tongue curled up around cherry blossoms and beatnik poetry;
it seems, somehow, significant
that I still carry on my lips the shape and timbre of your smile,
each particle of warmth and aftertaste,
another furtive hope, another offering to absolution.
There was some hesitation
even in the last glows of these days
we spent in the laps of Sartre and Moses,
and while you dreamt of children with teeth like mine and eyes like yours,
I contemplated the vacuum between molecular bodies
and the heat death of the cosmos.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 11:21 PM UTC
I’d done a lot of drugs that summer, drank a lot, and lost my virginity a hundred times over.
David. He was the man who ****** me for the first time. He was in his thirties, a Buddhist, and a patient teacher.
In the dark, he was so **** iron filings and gum.
But perhaps it wasn’t him that enticed me into *** I think it might have been a combination of everything. The way his girl-faced Buddha shone by the light of a candle. The view from his window – city flowers and washing lines, Chopin on the stereo, the cleanness of his sheets, the girl in the next room talking loudly about Jean Paul Sartre.
I want you, I said.
Fifteen, I was. He didn’t know that, of course.
There was a terrible pressure when he ****** me, so he told me to
Relax
Relax
Relax
Imagine you’re emptying out
Imagine you’re emptying out and accepting something holy
communion if you like
you're catholic aren't you?
You look lovely
You feel lovely
You look lovely
There was a part of my mind that thought of girls being torn through, blood and pain, embarrassment in the morning. I couldn’t stay hard.
There was a part of me that gave in, with my knees up by my shoulders.
There was a part of me that wanted to flip him onto his back and **** him, part of me that was desperate to be a man, part of me that hated this submission.
In the morning there was no embarrassment, just cereal and ten different types of smile. Milk in bed. A lecture on loving kindness.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 5:16 PM UTC
Con ciudades y autores frecuentadosVenecia / Guanajuato / Maupassant /
Leningrado / Sousándrade / Berlín /
Cortázar / Bioy Casares / Medellín /
Lisboa / Sartre / Oslo / Valle Inclán /
Kafka / Managua / Faulkner / Paul Celan /
Ítalo Svevo / Quito / Bergamín /
Buenos Aires / La Habana / Graham Greene /
Copenhague / Quiroga / Thomas Mann /
Onetti / Siena / Shakespeare / Anatole
France / Saramago / Atenas / Heinrich Böll /
Cádiz / Martí / Gonzalo de Berceo /
París / Vallejo / Alberti / Santa Cruz
de Tenerife / Roma / Marcel Proust /
Pessoa / Baudelaire / Montevideo
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