AND I FINALLY LET

And I finally let
my poetry
to make of you,
of my wife,
of me,
of your wife,
of the hunger in your entrails
to be another,
of the gust of misery
in his eyes,
of my life
and of your life
what it wants.

When your smile stops,
when the colours which generate your laugh
remind you stubbornly
of the past,
poetry
is still happy.
Iridescent among the shadows.

When your hand stops
in proving that death does not exist,
but in your own death,
wild,
they turn into stones,
poetry
is still unpunished.
One more step,
one more word.
She
never lets quietness in.

And when your mouth is filled
with an unspecific and
at the same time rabies-like drivel
for not being able to speak.

When the drivel
gets into the heart
and silences everything,
poetry
is still sonorous.
over your own sick body,
over your own death.

A noise of wooden rattle.
An inexhaustible carnival.

And when,
crazy because of living in a cell,
your body shivers,
and when crazy from loving
always the same thing,
your body loves flying,
bursts between your wings,
-there, where your wings bend,
to produce a flight,
close to the ground and perilous-
freedom,
we know it,
absolute grenade against what is possible,
she
is still the highest bird,
concluding flight,
where the sky
is no limit to anything
and nevertheless, she,
poetry
confronts liberty,
she stops
liberty's race towards death.
She is the piece of bread
and its morsel.
A thread of light and,
exactly,
a thread of blood.

Torn pitcher, she,
poetry,
dressed up in ivory,
enamoured and invisible body
murmurs of poplars
when autumn pulls out
small leaves
to throw onto the wind
and wind and poetry
melt together,
against solitude,
against freedom,
against death.

Menassa reciting And I finally let (3.43)
( Don't get desperate while unloading the video)

Love,
joys and blasphemies,
small impotent gods,
striving in vain against demons,
always invincible
when it has to do with love. 
Fire and light.
apocalyptic demons of blood,
where the word
loses its power.

Demons maddened by hunger
devour
little gods concerned about behaving in a correct manner.

And everything turns into an explosion,
when the magic accompanies us
towards the confines of fear.

Under the sun,
against the sun,
or else,
a sun rising from my chest
or colourful aquatic suns
and young
and arrogant suns,
precisely because of that youth.
and one sun,
little and fulgurant between my lips.
Fire.
Light.
Fire among the fires.
Uncontainable spring of heat.
A hundred thousand degrees
melting the little gods of morale.
in my body,
cold metals fall.
Nocturnal frosts stop
for an instant
their mortal edge.
Silence breaks into pieces
and the mirrors
cannot reflect so much light.
Desert and thirst
and the last bars of  prison,
-your own gaze-
give in
in front of what still cannot be named:
love has gone by.

Menassa reciting Love (2.40 min.)

 

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Practise French in Madrid INTENSIVE COURSES Tel. 91 542 42 85. From 8 p.m. to 10 p.m. ALL YEAR ROUND   www.aulacero.com aulacero@retemail.com

 

When a man talks to me,
always,
I say some words,
I never

remain in silence,
after listening to
a human voice.

A human
voice,
always does me good,
a simple voice,
looking at me in the eyes.
And I don't need
love words for me.
The sound makes me shiver,
the infinite waves
against the wind,
crazy words,
agitated and crazy words
senseless,
and only,
to remember
that man talks,
says
and withdraws what he says
and questions
his life.
He wants to find a sense to the voice,
and dies,
why not say it,
in that search.
What makes you be my loves
and not others?
Who does the privilege belong to?
Who lives at someone else's cost?
Let's see,
who is alive?
who
is
his own vibrations?
Let's see,
who knows who he is?
who loves himself?
who?

Menassa reciting When a man talks to me (2.12 min.)
 

 

Without light,
without horizons,
without chimeras,
a man, a woman,
start
their fatal dialogue.
She, wanting to be
at any point
at least
a spot
lost in space.
Wanting to be
at any time,
with him, with others
unleashing a world of passions
or else
halting the universe.
Fragile and fragrant
indifferent to everything,
it's her turn to exist.
She looks fixedly,
because she does not see.
She is born to life blind,
if she does not touch, she does not believe,
her life is all vibration.
He, in general,
learnt too late to live.
With no offence for anyone,
he was a sick soul
until he became thirty,
a man, you can imagine,
all prudence and silence,
trying during thirty years
to be a woman.

Menassa reciting Without light (3.41 min.)
( Don't get desperate while unloading the video)

What do you think?

Pornography   or     Eroticism

So far people have voted:

Pornography: 221.000                                    Eroticism:377.000

 

Responsibility, I think, does not come out of nowhere.
Comprehension, anyway,
escapes from my hands
because comprehension
cannot be held  in the hands
of any member.
Comprehension is always grupal.
Always among several persons
who must not be necessarily
together.
Nor even agree
with the ideas which are developed
in the process.
Process which, for being grupal,
stamps its mark to everything it touches.
That is to say,
it modifies into some other thing
all individual thought,
in solitude.
In social action
any action which is mean and solitary.
The group is not an entelechy,
nor some odd
invention of wise men.
The group is a machine
manufacturer of senses.
A machine against machines.
and, nevertheless, we are still
in the reign of what is humane.
I want to state that the cruelty of groups
is the cruelty of machines.
The programme is fulfilled to the letter.
Whatever the sophistries are.
What is recognised so far as human,
has no importance within the groups.
The common feelings, more than being considered,
are taken advantage of by the grupal machine,
as free energy.
A passion of any kind,
always gives way in a group,
to a social project.
The group does not ambition what is human.
It ambitions history.   

Menassa reciting Resposibility (3.52 min.) 
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LETTERS FROM THE EDITOR

An obscure shroud of fog,
an obscure shroud of clarity,
floods my body
in the rejoice of death.

Anyway I am left with desires to converse.
I tranquilly wait that the word turns into blood.
I tranquilly wait that nostalgia does not kill me.
And I ask myself:
How does a man get rid of his own cells?
How does a man dry from one day to the other his own blood
How do I do to get rid of my beloved words?
How do I sink myself in the emptiness of the solitary night?
Autumn always alters my nerves,
autumn always makes me remember love.
My dreams,
old,
forgotten melodies.
And, however,
I have rejuvenated these months.
There is no drug which alters
my already altered senses.
Drug does not exist.
A new force afflicts man
and man does not realise it.
The rest of my life,
normal.

Writing, I write always because I want to.
Joyfully, I think about what they would say about me
the ones who called my tremendous past humbleness,
narcissism.
I am the apocalypses of sense.
The rest around me,
for the time being,
great parties
celebrating the miracle.
I am beheaded.
I need to converse
a beheaded man.
A man who neither
believes in himself.

Menassa reciting An obscure cloak of fog (2.34 min.
(Don't get desperate while unloading the video)

 

   THIS MATERIAL WAS RECORDED LIVE IN THE SPACE
 "AWAKENED POETS"
 THE PAST APRIL, 18^TH, 2004
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