magazine through Internet
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 162
more convinced each time that if I don't use my power over the people who
surround me, in due time there will be no people.
other one always needs, to face truth, to be carried up to the edge. There,
where the individual cannot do any other thing, he speaks.
the time being I have to lead this situation which I don't entirely understand.
I'll try to submit myself to psychoanalysis. The rest, I imagine, will be easy
because it won't be me who advances, but psychoanalysis.
IS IN ME
the padlocks of my heart
talked less and it seemed
my chest, in the middle of my chest
you'll say that I write just for writing, and you'll have your reasons for that.
With not much money so that the everyday deaths could be briefer or
insignificant, the best death at my reach is to die writing. The small
necessities are lost with writing and the man when writing is more hungry of
freedom than of bread and when he is hungry for bread, it is always something
general, many men and millions of children die because of lack of bread. I, the
person who writes, if he isn't killed before by the States or the social
communication media, ends up loving big things, immense prairies as the palms of
the skies, several million of lice wanting to rescue the itch they produce, a
true army of lice wanting to rescue the filth it suffers from the world. And, in
the meantime, a star breaks in halves in front of the lovers' eyes.
everything is big for the one who writes, kites hoisting invisible flags,
subterranean spaces, open cells like open arms.
speeds where each music finds its word.
when she speaks to me, always speaks about the life they wouldn't allow her to
lead and, of course, with that conviction, she goes through life without knowing
what to do with money, not knowing what to do with her sex, not knowing what to
do with her hands, her feet…
a May 25th, after freeing 225 political prisoners, a group of 25
friends met in the house of one of the group's members, and we drank. At that
time we used to smoke some pot and we undressed and danced, and we fucked
everyone with everyone and all of a sudden you found yourself in the arms of
three women at the same time or, as happened to me, five men, all at the same
time trying to find a treasure in my entrails.
enjoyed, I enjoyed myself as a madwoman.
must confess that aesthetics doesn't interest me as much as the good functioning,
health, the light pleasure.
experiences which I have had the chance to live can be narrated in one simple
of time, luxury of dawn.
sway, the sway of life.
day I said it to myself and it wasn't easy: to get rid of the man, to throw into
space the painful fireflies and stay without myself.