MAGAZINE OF GARBAGE COLLECTION
Nº 28. YEAR 2000- DECEMBER, THURSDAY 7
FUSIONED - DIRECTED - WRITTEN AND CORRESPONDED BY: MENASSA 2000
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
THE JARAMA INDIAN
THE FUSION WITH MORE FUTURE OF THE
INDIO GRIS Nº 28
2nd, year 2000
back once more in Madrid and I don't know how things are done. The computer boys
want to buy a server and I, immediately, remember that bulls "serve"
cows, stallions "serve" mares and in my neighborhood "to serve
you" meant to give you an unforgettable punch.
can help very little with these ideas I have in relation to this matter, that's
why I went back to write.
I realise that I would like to be a man of knowledge, someone able to vibrate
with his time.
sexual fantasies exceed all possibilities of being written.
man in love of himself ends up losing control of himself.
why I love you, not to allow them to say of me: He was a man who lost control of
himself because he never loved anyone.
love you, but in a permanent lack of equilibrium. There are sinister days in
which rather than loving you I demonstrate myself that I love you.
are days in which love destroys all foundation and the love that loves you is
all my life and my future.
just beginning those tedious afternoons when it's time for love to leave its
marks in some other bedroom, not ours, those afternoons I love of you your naked
buttocks showing my failure to the world.
love your buttocks to the extreme of a master beating his slave only for
pleasure. And I pull out of space the silk whips which are only produced by the
enamoured verb and unleashed them over your beloved buttocks.
it is love that return at midnight and while you sleep I caress and kiss you and
I take down breaths of fire from the air and I inhabit your nights and your
mornings with dreams where Eros takes total possession of love and places a
smile in the womb of night,
splendid, where death reigns and nothing is vertical but our fall, our brain
falling in the centre of the beast's heart so that the poet can capture
precisely that there is a love, ours at midnight where the full heart of the
beast feeds itself with falling brains, with disused verbs.
and see, said the wretched, the mortified buttocks of my beloved, those marks
left on her skin which will disappear without leaving trace and punish me for
that but, also look at the immortal marks that her love has left in my brain
forever and punish at least, love.
tries to please me in a thousand ways, but as she forgot her body at her
mother's house, when she moves and talks in front of me, she moves and talks for
afternoon she will bump into my poems in some lost street of her soul and she
will tremble, I assure you, for me.
February 1st, 1978
it seems to me that electricity can do everything. I want to be an electric
poet, a sort of supersonic poet, a lover of stormy nights, lightening and
sparks, a terrified man plugged in the crossroads of the century, atomic energy
against libidinous energy.
I mean, is on our side.
days passed since I had to make a fair copy of a long letter that could become
another book, it is called Letters for the 1977 End of the Year Celebration. A
series of poetic prose and poems where I speak bad of everything that we used to
be fascinated by.
feelings, no doubt, have changed their way of being. It isn't bad then, that I'm
being unfaithful to my Lettera 22 with this modern and young and splendid
machine, a clear demonstration of our modern technique.
change, to know how to substitute what is broken, what is lost, is always good
for our health.
have been invited to a homage granted to the Literature Nobel Prize winner, I'll
send you the chosen poem. They are translating into the Italian, YO PECADOR (I,
A SINNER), and into the French, SALTO
MORTAL (SOMERSAULT), and the work on perversions. In French, I'm the new French
poetry that was needed so much.
is for me, what it should have always been: A signal, an indicative arrow. An
instrument half scientific, half humane to capture reality.
March 7th, 1978
finishing SALTO MORTAL (Somersault), I wrote CANTO A NOSOTROS MISMOS TAMBIEN
SOMOS AMERICA (A chant to ourselves, we are America, too). After concluding this
last one, since the month of October, 1977 on, I started to write some prose and
some poems that without me realising it make up another book, which on the whole
represents the most complete study ever done before about human groups which
might be called UNA MANERA DE VIVIR (A way of living).
four poems written in the last few weeks also call my attention, they aren't
just a small change in my ways but above all the beginning of
a new book. We can say that I have with me three finished books and a new
book on its way, none of them published.
must publish everything I write if not it will be bad, very bad for me to have
so many words at home.
right, now I'll try to explain to you, in the best possible way, what is
happening to me:
decision to stay in Spain is irrevocable.
least twenty years, may be thirty, until I'm able to live on my writing.
present I must be the best among the living. I wish then my writings to be
would like to talk with you in Madrid about all this and I imagine that dreaming
is not bad.
March 17th, 1978
is really amazing not being able to pull out a single letter from you.
me, love crazy, do you think it's
right to have left the baby alone for such a long time.
want to tell you that everything goes on well again and bad again. If you
haven't received SALTO MORTAL (Somersault)-(captioned 1975-1977 Buenos
Aires-Madrid) you can ask Teófilo Larriera for it, he has it. I must write the
prologue for Teófilo's theatre book (TEATRO FESTIVO)- (FESTIVE THEATRE) and in
reality I don't know what the shit to write. I read the plays more than five
times, in some passages I was even able to act one of the characters in front of
the mirror. The theatre plays that Grupo
Cero Editorial will publish, and that moves me, were to my reading the most
exquisite metaphor of what the Twentieth Century would be, a quarter of a
century before its end, but I didn't
dare to say it, except only timidly.
is sometimes tenebrous for me that people trust in me when I feel myself a truly
speak and afterwards I don't know what I have said.
write and afterwards I realise that I have written crass stupidities.
offer my being for ceremonies and afterwards I realise I have participated in a
time where God, for an instant, is replaced by love.
instant of time where the beast breaks God into splinters.
this is God's law for the human being: For man to exist, for an instant, I'll
stop being God , except for this caress, in the time of each love the whole time
that is left is God.
know that you have been worrying about my health and I can understand it. The
majority of the exiles are having a bad time with that question of health,
besides I want to tell you straight out of my typewriter that I have never been
better. Everything that allows me to continue living is with me. Spring sun. A
hoarse murmur of permanent creation. A muffled unquestionable love for
everything that is born, I also speak about my new life born in Spain and of my
body, flexible steel against the wind, , dressed up with my verses. If I don't
get very far it's because the verses were bad, I'll give my body another
Madrid, March 29th, 1978:
the thin mirror of your soul
bite of my name.
establish an inalterable edge,
am the poet.
book written by Miguel Oscar Menassa
get along better with your partner in the Holiday Season
during some of the working days
could never agree on the price of things.
For me, things were always cheap. For me, being at your side, made any price low.
were free in such a way, that now
you are a woman that is close to me even though we are far apart. You are a real
woman that is there even though she isn't. A woman who allows me to be there
real invention and I don't know who invented love between us, but it isn't
make it, we make love and when we don't , we make other truths,
and I, darling, have participated in that universal history of love. In coming
centuries when love is spoken of, our love will be spoken of, that is what I
want to say when I say I love you.
today, to say it in some way, I have become 57 years which are part mine and
part of the world.
are times that I owe everything to myself, there are times when I owe everything
to the world, either situations only exist for me because of your presence.
Without you, flying around the living-room of my house as if it were an
international airport, I wouldn't have been able to give birth to the idea that
the destiny of Poetry was flying and even with that permanent flight announcing
the future, I would never have been able to give birth to the idea of Las 2001
Noches (The 2001 Nights)
“This novel is a monument to desire, not to its satisfaction and desire doesn’t fit in moulds norms”
Leopoldo de Luis
“ Menassa transforms eroticism into a real encyclopaedia of sexual relations”.