FREEDOM, DIVINE TREASURE

I am an urban man,
a man
condemned to live among stones.
I grew up between the percale of dresses
and the drivel of an unreachable lady,
freedom.
I grew up with no inner life,
I carry a lamp in my chest,
little, simple light, and I write verses.

In my city,
when some of us die, someone sings,
tenuous light,
murmurs through the nights a sadness,
a gale of furies,
repetition where death has its own word.
when I was a child they told me we should love Evita
and Evita was dead
and I loved her as the shadows of the night are loved
and between her arms and the shadows we would be millions.
A memory:
My cousin Miguel Angel was killed by the back
The way someone with an unbearable gaze is killed.
When Miguel, my cousin, died, I had such a pain,
a final clarity and, nevertheless,
the next day I woke up singing.
I developed a blindness
from watching people die, from watching people being killed,
from watching so many indifferent people go by.
I had drops of blood in my eyes,
ardent stains of violence in my eyes.
A hatred, a love, overall, a remoteness .

Ochre roars, moans of the beast
broken by the illusion of being,
by the illusion of eating the flowers
and your eyes
and the tickles in your feet
and my ferocious bites to your sex,
as if your sex were man's lost fruit,
that lemon, that unforgettable apple.

Freedom started wearing jewellery,
precious stones among its white silks
and gold, between her flesh.
it became the inaccessible monster of remoteness
and then, I began growing among shadows
and among shadows I loved freedom.

Menassa reciting Freedom, divine treasure (3.30 min.)
( Don't get desperate while unloading the video)

LETTER TO MY MOTHERLAND

Everything is right and everything is wrong
and I won't say, as in old times:
a strong wind has destroyed our reason
and I won't say:
strong gales
have taken away the last love in their snowed bosom.

A land is decaying in winged rumour of my singing,
in the  rumour of an endless tempest,
a hurricane which more than announcing the future,
makes us mercilessly remember the past.

Among the words which skins I peel alive,
are the ones from your skin.
Fragrance of lemon among the figs,
light fragrance of love among the vines.
Slash of honey, your sex, opened,
green and natural.

I face you in the bottom of your empty gaze
-sarcastic labourer of grasses-
I tear your skin
and, over some bleeding injure of your face,
a quick and safe way between your veins
I let my words fall, mortal poison,
disproportionate screams on your skin.

I'm a man that for sure will die in his wanderings.
Lover of perfumes, woman always catches me unawares.
Any day, as it happened to me as a boy,
I'll write a poem, I'll put on the light.
Suns, shooting stars and majestic suns
so that your skin may crack in pieces,
green and natural prairie,
infinite prairie.
Quartered eye of Latin America,
grasses frozen in the middle of spring,
under the sun, exactly under the sun,
all dead.
Crystal sphere,
light blue and white little flag of my little dead motherland,
over my eyes, in pieces of sun, your body resuscitates.

Menassa reciting Letter to my motherland (1.48 min.) 

CERO CLASSROOM OF FRENCH

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

 

PSYCHOANALISIS OF THE PEACE DOVE

Oh, bewitched night of bloody camellias,
No one will know about you, no one will know about you but this
                                                                                                      melody.]

Poor dove that no longer can fly.
Wings numbed by time.
And your eyes blinded by the lack of love.
Dove, little peace dove,
your funeral will be splendid,
we will cover all your face with flowers
so that no one can see in your face
the face of war.

Menassa reciting Psychoanalysis of the peace dove (2.24 min.)

 

IN ONE BLOW, WHILE YOU KILL ME, YOU DIE

The chains which hold us together
tie us to the same words.
Blindness is continuous, permanent,
a way to put it, man doesn't exist.

Vapours
and singing larks
and pieces of rubicund roses
over the salty metallic ruin,
scheming in its skin a sharp nest of serpents.

Apples and, this time,
oranges and citron blossoms in bloom
and aquatic plants, my love, my first sin,
that airy idea against myself.
In my chest the sour fruit of autumn
and apples and roses
and coarse wines for the throats torn
by the screams:
I don't want to die in the desert,
nor in open sea
nor on the rocks where love, distorted, succumbs.
I don't want to die for love,
nor for my country,
nor for my brutal beloved,
poetry.

Menassa reciting In one blow, while you kill me, you die (1.35)
( 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

 

WE HAVE ALREADY DIED OF HUNGER AND FREEDOM

We have already been the nocturnal eagle,
touched in the middle of its flight.
We are now a heard of bisons.
Old plants and solitude fall
under the murmur of our madness
running towards the future.
Paper idols fall,
enamelled idols,
solid stone idols fall,
monuments, antique idols.
Idols of infinite semen
and vaginas opened onto the four winds,
bronze idols fall, historical landmarks,
-apparently indelible- fall,
they submerge in our quotidian words,
they abandon their marmoreal solitude,
they live with us. 

We were the best illusion,
the supreme illusion of contrasts.
We opposed night to day.
The moon to the sun.
We opposed woman to man.
To the word, sex.

Afterwards death came,
red, bordering the colours of holly.
altering the respiratory rhythms,
good altering evil,
rhythmically altering all the senses.
Death came to live, tranquilly, among us.
Powerful idol among idols, in our arms,
majestic queen of freedom, falls.

Menassa reciting We have already died of hunger and freedom 
(4.20 min.) ( Don't get desperate while unloading the video)

 

LETTERS FROM THE EDITOR

THE ARTISTRY OF THE POET

Wrapped in the mists of tedious living,
only poetry accompanies me.

While going through life, She
is frequently amazed by my solitude.
I tell her that it doesn't matter,
that in her presence the world halts for me,
gold shines for me,
the tallest women dance for me,
the most nocturnal birds watch over my sleep.

Wrapped in the powerful noises of the machine,
only its human voice accompanies me.

When we make love, She reproaches me
loving her as if she were unique.
I say that it doesn't matter,
in its presence the world halted in my hands,
opens for me, what is multiple opens for me,
stationed passions and oncoming loves,
deliriums and women, open for me,
enamoured goddesses and diadems, brutalised beauty,
the air opens for me, open spaces
where our grand sun is just another star.

Wrapped in the subtle entanglements of power,
she is life.

When She bumps into me in that crossroads,
where I am the lover of death,
she dances nude for me
and naked, stripped, also, of love,
she shoots me so that
a million of free words does not die.
I tell her that it doesn't matter,
in its dancing presence, death stops shining,
cemeteries shiver,
the deepest hearts of the earth open,
life grows everywhere
and the frenzy is colour, vertigo, doubt,
dance of happiness without scruples,
happiness in full freedom,
death of death. 

Menassa reciting The artistry of the poet (2.21 min) 
(Don't get desperate while unloading the video)

   THIS MATERIAL WAS RECORDED LIVE IN THE SPACE
 "AWAKENED POETS"
 THE PAST MAY, 2^TH, 2004
VISIT US!