Weekly magazine through Internet Indio Gris
Nº 159. THURSDAY, June  5 ^TH , 2003

FUSIONED - DIRECTED - WRITTEN AND CORRESPONDED BY: MENASSA 2003

WE DON'T KNOW HOW TO SPEAK BUT WE DO IT IN SEVERAL LANGUAGES 
SPANISH, FRENCH, ENGLISH, GERMAN, ARABIAN, 
PORTUGUESE, ITALIAN, CATALAN

INDIO GRIS, IS A PRODUCT
OF  A FUSION
THE BRIGTHENESS OF THE GREY
AND
THE JARAMA INDIAN
THE FUSION WITH MORE FUTURE  OF THE 
21st CENTURY

Indio Gris

INDIO GRIS Nº 159

YEAR IV

EDITORIAL

To give up almost everything for her isn't at all bad. An electromagnetic field that won't let her escape.

 To stop publishing to support what has been previously published, I hope not be wrong in such an important thing.

 I have taken the good road, the philosophy about numbers has replaced the numbers.

 I have to learn how to live practically on nothing, a verse is worth more than 100 kilograms of meat and I have already said this in another piece of my writing.

Poem recited in the voice of Miguel Oscar Menassa

TO GAMBLE, TO GAMBLE UNTIL DEATH

To gamble, to gamble until death
like my grandfather Naur's will read,
which cannot lie
                              because Naur has died.

He has died of sadness in the desert
and not from thirst running away in fear
as some foreigners tell.

Naur, it is true, had in his features
traces of some mysterious past
-homosexual or sadistic, the women said-
however, Naur spoke seven languages
and had
intelligence marked in the furrows of his face.

When he made love
He was not precisely a man from the desert,
it showed, in the disorder of his hair a citizen air
could be seen.

 DARLING,

 When I was a small boy I used to write on the walls "the universe is mine" and nobody truly realised what I wrote about on the walls.

 I have a spectral dream, as if life would come out running from my eyes. I must stop this creation, it is madness.

 When I am completely alienated in myself, I always run the risk of letting myself be forever. When I stop being, to become mine, I'm immensely happy.

She's an imbecile because she thinks that when something happens to me, it is good for her.

When she realises in a few years time that nothing has even happened to her, she will want to die and she won't realise anything either.

I think she must be the eighteenth; she thinks she's the second. Any of the two is irremediably crazy or we live in different worlds, although it may not seem so.

Beautiful, the bodies move with the rhythm of modern music.

At moments, the music penetrates undulating within my body and propagates to the tips of my fingers.

The music, the bodies, the lights created an oneiric climate. 

As we moved, small contacts make the whole human mass have its link of electrifying connection.

I notice that he plays to get annoyed with those childish seduction techniques, where she expects him to pay attention to her the whole time.

1

I shouldn't bother with the persons, but of the institutional functioning. I should moderate my discourse, as Rubén Darío very well says, so that my discourse may go into circulation.

Clear affliction that of the dead man.

2

A sense to life must also be given.
There was a generalised singing to pain and I was a participant.
Clear candidates to the sun died in the shadows.
Not because they hid underneath the earth,
but because the sun was destroyed.

   People are desperate for speaking and I, who speaks all day, I am also desperate.

I'm at the edge of fame.

I hope not to become an idiot.

If I don't stop the way I live, I say to myself, the way I live will end up swallowing me.

What to do, spirit of the night?

It has to do with not taking advantage of any situation. And that is the poet's life, the rest, all of the rest, bourgeois vices, ambitions of an urban proletariat.

 subir