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Nº 135. THURSDAY, DECEMBER 19 TH ,
FUSIONED - DIRECTED - WRITTEN AND
CORRESPONDED BY: MENASSA 2002
DON'T KNOW HOW TO SPEAK BUT WE DO IT IN SEVERAL LANGUAGES
SPANISH, FRENCH, ENGLISH, GERMAN, ARABIAN,
PORTUGUESE, ITALIAN, CATALAN
GRIS, IS A PRODUCT
OF A FUSION
THE BRIGTHENESS OF THE GREY
THE JARAMA INDIAN
THE FUSION WITH MORE FUTURE OF THE
GRIS Nº 135
WOMAN AND I
HAS REACHED LOVE
came one afternoon desperate and screaming:
Did you see, my love, what happened to the sea in Galicia?
A big black ball of shit and pain,
in the open sea, looks menacing at the land,
while it silently kills the fish in the sea,
it poisons the rocks and the coralline
so that no one ever, not even the fish
can make love in the depth of the sea.
And you, what do you think?, she asked me before she fainted
because tar stuck to her throat
and, at the same time, prevented her from breathing and singing.
violently disturbed, beloved, and I don't say broken
because it isn't suitable for a man my age.
It's true, my little one, the black tide
has stuck and stained
all my thoughts,
from the little enamoured clam
to the virile and lit shrimp,
ashamed of its blackened beauty,
it hides dirty
behind the dirty rocks
in a dirty sea.
very day, she said strongly,
I'll stop gambling and buying presents
and I'll send that money to Galicia
so that they can clean two or three
mussels or buy themselves a mail-box
and mail themselves a letter
from a Galician fisherman
asking for mercy:
Messrs Rulers, we don't want your money,
we want the adequate means to cure the sea.
because it's necessary, Mr. President, for us,
to have sea, sailors, taciturn fishermen.
With your money we could buy some bread
and even celebrate with some liquors Christmas Eve,
but without sea, citizens of the world, you must know,
without sea, without fishermen, Galicia will die and not from hunger,
it will die intoxicated by sadness because of the lack of sea.
darling, can't stop gambling
nor anything else, I can't
stop living, loving, of having illusions,
I can't leave nor my work nor my dignity,
I have to carry with me, in my daily life,
all my vices, which are only gambling,
and all my loves, my singing
and, if there would be, some freedom.
I'll wander about where the world wanders
and, when the whole world stops,
I'll write, in one verse, that silence
and I'll ask the rose to bloom
in the precise season, with the exact colour
and love human love and, also the shadows,
the silences which aren't reached by any humanity.
also as human,
I want to be able to love sex,
when sex has almost
nothing that is human,
but the beast itself,
with its orgasm,
always noisy and on time
and the cow waiting holding on
until the new being.
To love, I told her as closing,
with desperate will
from man his animal,
his chained beast.
like to listen to you talking like this,
she said entertained in front of the mirror,
such as a male from the specie,
no little words or caresses,
there, stiff, always going forward.
You must be more careful, I told her,
I'm talking about something else.
Yes, talking about something else, however,
the waiting cow, isn't it me, perhaps?
and, who is more chained than myself,
your wild beast, but docile, tied to your whims?
verse complicates itself, my beloved,
I told her with enraptured tenderness,
be patient that some day
I'll resuscitate you, I'll make a different woman out of you,
a well poised man, different.
started to laugh while she said:
Each new vein of gold,
and she looked at me and laughed,
is incarnated in a new work.
A new law, unknown before,
now regulates the gold, the produced work.
would like too, I told her,
to live stuck to a tree in the midst of a virgin jungle,
fixed by my mouth, sucking all day
the universal sap, the full life
and so I would rest and, in the evening,
I would spit stars and defecate
lit diamonds and my semen
would be the mysterious white ointment
which will fight ceaselessly,
against the killer who preys in the sea.
Black tide is its vulgar name,
in government they call it
"a small error by only a millimetre"
which will cost almost all the power
and, in some post offices,
without explaining any motives, they call it
"the hindered message"
and tar means,
everybody knows it,
that the government couldn't manage to defeat the sea.
your eyes, citizens! Now,
That the rulers are distracted
And remember the tar
and the lust of black money,
the blackness, splendid, of the black weapons
and the tar of racism, also,
against the black citizens.
the Lord, Great God,
had His tar
when, very kindly, exactly just
and exaggeratedly beautiful, had to kill.
and it isn't bad at all that he freed himself from dying by killing
but his believers are condemned to live
with the Great God that lives and His half that has died.
the tar of the Great God who lives and dies
endlessly, each day, within us.
didn't think of you to be such a believer in God,
she said to me hesitatingly,
I thought of you
simply as a pagan,
a man of the world, without God.
She turned her back on me and, gyrating her head, told me:
God knows what you're thinking of
when, in the verse, you write the word God.
didn't want to argue and remained brooding
but suddenly like coming out of my soul,
"perhaps deep in myself", I said to her blushing
and while talking she tuned the zither
up to the strumming of silence:
I don't think it's wrong that every now and then,
life condemns you to believe yourself God
because for me, my beloved, you are all the time,
even when the mist of a sombre smoke,
inexistent and dramatic, leaves me without you,
going away at full gallop in the poem.
told her thanks, for the sake of saying something,
and I jumped out of the window of the 23rd floor
and never again could I reach the ground.
tar, sticky and filthy
over the sand and the saltpetre,
over the rocks and love,
like a malignant cancer,
didn't allow me to reach.
I realised of the disaster
and there wasn't time for anything:
In a country surrounded by sea,
we had elected a government
which knew nothing about the sea.
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