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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 148
me with the violence of Greek lovers
me with the hope of Phoenician priests
to die within myself, I'm the barbaric blue man of desperation. Flying as bees
can fly rationally. Crazy by love, angry by delirious dreams of money and lust,
happy of loving those I love, happy of making love as if life were to last a
thousand years. I like everything slow like the tango, like the unforgettable
nursery rhymes; the rest seems to me hallucinating.
open a new notebook is like opening an unknown and variable soul. Everything, in
the measure of its own relativity, is happening according to plans.
beginning to understand the unreasonableness of the Spanish economic-financial
system and it doesn't cause me any joy to verify that in that matter the Spanish
have also been wrong.
doctor, I don't want to exaggerate, but among such filth, of course, my beauty
is infinite. I'm evidently trapped by an endless pulley. If I don't move fast,
if I don't write a poem fast, I will be a computerised talent, that is to say,
an ordinary talent.
my generation is accomplishing fame in that process, someone will turn an idiot.
We'll continue the next
appear dancing in the middle of the dance floor, as if dancing were to fly
hastily towards him, wherever he might be, he would realise that, once more,
they were dancing.
they came closer to him, slightly carried away by music, they felt his beautiful
dick between them, swaying from one body to the other, from an orgasm to the
far from them, watching them dance, magnetised our most intimate parts with a
volatile and fabulous neon. We moved each time closer to his gaze touching
ourselves. Our asses looked like sculptures in the open ball room.
lover of the night
an innocence breaks my heart in two, I will be more than myself.
loves from me, the grandeur which constitutes itself in her, when she loves me.
I would have liked to write this letter:
problem I pose to my contemporaries is that nothing dies in me when I die. There
is a presence in my verses which survives me. There is such a smell of future in
my verses, that I don't even count.
I was younger they used to tell me that I had a privileged position in the
language; what I think now, when I write, is that the language occupies a
position of a privileged system in my writing. Afterwards, when another twenty
years go by, another twenty books, it maybe that no language might exist, who
knows if by that time, something will be left of me.
night I find light, another night I find obscurity. There is always some love
and some snow in my verses. I realise that in order to be able to express
certain opinions, I will have to modify certain feelings. Or said in a better
way, I hold certain opinions which don't agree with my own feelings.
don't understand why I beat about the bush with opinions, if with poems, none of
my poems coincided with my way of thinking or living.
I'm going to bed calmly and tomorrow I will begin the time of truth. Or to put
it gentler, tomorrow I will begin the time of zero realism. My proposal seems
funny to me. What a laugh!
this other letter:
it isn't a question of eating the food or loving the beautiful woman. Today, the
question is to remain seated, speaking to the universe.
don't tell me, beloved, that with these ideas I won't earn any money.
you see how the sewers open when we go past them.
you see how the sun stops spinning when I look at it.