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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 146
to say that we can no longer move from the place where we live,
isn't precisely to say that we are chained, but moreover, it presumes to
have found the way to inhabit this jungle of God which doesn't even belong to
the Spaniards. Each time I complain about the discrimination exercised upon my
person, one or two Spaniards appear saying that the same thing happens to them.
This doesn't make what happens less terrible, because if the citizens of a
country are treated in the same way that foreigners are, who would like to be a
citizen of this country? Travels for the president who is depressed. Mourning
and melancholy, this is the class I have to deliver. I would start saying: Today
we want to let the President of the Government and his closest friends (who
always intervene in these situations) know that melancholy can be cured.
loss of any beloved person or else, the loss of an ideal is depressing. And as
you well know, all the presidents of states lose, in the accomplishment of our
function, many ideals.
also has its doors opened for such a huge sadness as yours. Pull yourself
together, you wouldn't be the first president to be under
psychoanalytic treatment. Whenever a group is a government, I would also
president in analysis.
AM, I REALISE
am, I realise,
we were the eternal icebergs
count the blows
the freedom of the statues.
ambitions in that freedom
shouts furiously among the rocks:
fervent desire of being
writing now and in a few hours time I will be sleeping on my laurels for having
your presence, mad, delirious, open butterfly of autumn, I am thirsty of
lamented terrors, of the velvet of moons opened to other constellations.
stop the flow of my word, I stop the flow of my love, so that she doesn't die by
choking with the violent smoke of my voice in flames, by the fire of your lips,
enamoured, crazy and hungry girl of past glories. Eternal flow of the apple
is functioning more or less badly. She's stubborn, obstinate, stupid and now, on
top of it, she has prohibited me to dream and, of course, I can't stand it any
longer and say to her:
I think that your way of being is a little exaggerated.
she opens her eyes, opens her eyes, but doesn't answer a word to me. She's
can hear her, I'm the man able to say the most violent phrases of the century.
I'm the colossus who bore that words would combine in any direction.
Inexplicable and, at the same time supernatural, symbolic.
opens her eyes, opens her eyes, but…
We'll continue the next time.
I knelt down and started to lick her monumental ass and she felt as if
blessed by God. And her mouth bloomed in kisses, in licks, and from her vagina a
warm and perfumed flux started to flow, and her ass opened as a carmine flower
and her eyes half-closed, to be able to imagine another woman lying by our side.
then she relaxed and told me tenderly, as if I were going to give her a flower:
please, now slowly, slowly…
things are done slowly throughout the years.
destroy, because with nothing to be destroyed there is no novelty.
no one from me will be able to go on without me.
time I'm not writing so that they come to tell me how well I've done it. This
time I'm writing to say that the world is infinite, that I don't know, that no
one knows. That perhaps my love, opuscule of the sea.
circus has a lightened presence. She's on the verge of dying because of a banal
infection, the doctors say that they can't explain how, that nothingness, causes
her such exaggerated symptoms. The rest of the staff assumes their
broken ass onto the wind, beloved. My vagina torn by the virus of peace.
staff, as I was saying, gets ill of nostalgia, of tediousness, of cruelty.
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