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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 145
contemporaries: I think I have won over you.
more step, darlings, and there won't be pain any more.
way out, the way out is my voice, my writing.
bit of oranges, a bit of sun and love in the open air without any timetable and
hope to react on time.
The pain of men is psychic and, to my understanding, the immobility of many men and women has to do with narcissism. Not wanting ever to die is an obstacle not only for the development of the specie, but in a fundamental way for the development of the individual.
come down from the city's heights and
abandon Buenos Aires for the last time.
city seen from above
into the heart of the city.
make from this almost peasant-like madness,
loves, I can't deny it, refresh me.
have survived great summers, immense heats, with new loves.
exactly love you in the time where our existence as lovers is light. I love you,
when the thin thread of happiness that joins us can break with a minimum effort,
with the minimum lack of pleasure. There, I love you. Where the eagles love the
flight which they will be able to accomplish only one time. There, where what is
perfect nests in the complete blindness of our bodies, there I love you.
Where everything could be destroyed and isn't destroyed, there I love you.
He, this time, told me with rage:
She won't ever change, she does stupid things and, after, on top of that,
her head aches or she cries, two things which I can't stand and do you know why,
because I imagine her doing more stupid things, but now, with blame, sobs and a
headache. She won't be able, I say to myself, to overcome her desire of dying
squeezed by her own passions.
We'll continue the next
I feel all my body erotic. The little dolls live within me, they're my
in a while I'm invaded by a sensation that, going from the very centre of my
entrails, accompanies the memories of some bodies vibrating, sensitive until the
point of madness.
time stopped. Each gesture spread out so that the others could reach the limit
of shuddering. The images follow one another in the multiple combinations that
six eyes, six hands, three tongues, a dick and two pussies, six feet and all the
surface of the bodies' skin and their orifices could possibly achieve.
we aren't alone, if we aren't unique, then, each success of poetry will be the
success of all men and each defeat of poetry will be a defeat of all humanity.
I put all the meat on the grill and I only accomplish burning myself, it is
evident that I have accomplished nothing. And nothing isn't death, it is the
anguish, the body opened to thousands of infinite possibilities, other roads,
other men, other women.
grills where to put all the new meat.
spite of my distinction and style, a certain fanaticism tints all of my actions,
all my verses: I love freedom and I love it for everybody, that is noticeable
even when I kiss my beloved's lips in solitude. A group is a burst, an instant.
The rest, the illusions of the participants, that, whether an institution,
whether a writing, want to go on being young. And because of being an instant, a
burst, like love, like poetry, it might happen at any moment and with someone we
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