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FUSIONED - DIRECTED - WRITTEN AND CORRESPONDED BY: MENASSA 2003
DON'T KNOW HOW TO SPEAK BUT WE DO IT IN SEVERAL LANGUAGES
GRIS, IS A PRODUCT
INDIO GRIS Nº 140
is at the point of bursting in me, a tolerable death hovers above
us. Death approaching little by little, the last journey more than the
real one and, nevertheless, I'm waiting for a true illumination. A real change
of course for my feeble ambitions.
exaggerated amount of significant liaisons produced in a time brief enough to be
processed by the members of the group, must coincide, with an exaggerated
production of money so that it doesn't produce repetition or madnes. In this way
the change wouldn't be a change of sexual life but, fundamentally, a change of
destiny. Escaping, by using a great amount of money and of significant liaisons,
from the necessity field, meaning any necessity, we would be ready to state that
our death would depend strictly on the mortal interweaving of our desires.
saw how the profiles of time
have to exercise one more violence over you, my little one, you'll have to be a
woman and my woman, both at the same time. Both of you, like two wide and
generous skins extended over my madness.
fireflies and laughs will come to verify our place on earth.
We'll see what happens to us today, lord of the heights: old fashioned
virgins, open, without hopes, without pains, without lust, open, consciously
open to nothingness.
this lucubration, she started a kind of narration:
I saw how people came into the cafeteria, ordered coffee and milk and
croissants with butter and I hated them.
relations, public relations, to get a whore for the journalist, who can very
well be me, eh?
Come on Menassa, man can do more…
I naively asked her, and the woman?
answered me passionately:
Ask your mother; I, on the other hand, think to ruin everything. I'm a
bit nuts, I want to go to Tunisia or Venice, I want to go around there, but she
follows me everywhere, always laughing, always happy, I can't stand her any
longer. My problem is a basic incapacity of
relating to others and if seven years of psychoanalysis with you, doctor,
haven't modified me…
perhaps, in a hurried way, told her:
You will need another psychoanalyst.
she, hardly sighing:
Go to hell, I'm the best treated, the blond one, the perfect one. You
know that I'm hysteric, that I suffer when my desires come true, but it doesn't
matter, doctor, tell me the truth.
I, as a normal man, told her:
deliberately reminded me, that the one who laughed all day as if she were stupid
was your mother. We'll continue the next time
I knelt down and started to lick her monumental ass and she felt that she
was blessed by God. And her mouth melted down in kisses, in licking, and from
her pussy a warm and perfumed flow emanated and her ass opened as a red flower
and her eyes half-closing, to be able to imagine another woman beside us.
real occidental culture does not exist, exactly, in none of the freedoms by
which they are thought.
will be normalisation in all of us, but in Cero style: nor exiles, nor
Argentines, nor Spaniards. Terraqueous beings.
being grateful, to whom? why?
If it's me to whom my back aches.
seems wrong to me, everything seems right to me. What is it that make you and
not others, my loves? Whom does the privilege belongs to ? Who lives on someone
else's expense? Let's see, who lives? Who is their own vibrations? Let's see,
who knows who loves himself? Sometimes I ask myself what ill-healthy lust takes
me along these roads, to tell you the truth, almost impassable.
become famous is something that must interest all men and, however, I go on
writing that, being the best writer in the world, is different to being famous.
famous man, I imagine, all day mounting a white horse, in a white cardboard
horse, a man, alone is all future. A man above everything, in one word, is
set sail, how wonderful it would be to set sail. To abandon also the ashes, let
everything fly away. To finish with the unfolding, to finish with mockeries.
can do more.
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