Indio Gris



 December 2nd, year 2000

 I'm 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.

 I can help very little with these ideas I have in relation to this matter, that's why I went back to write.


Writing, I realise that I would like to be a man of knowledge, someone able to vibrate with his time.




My sexual fantasies exceed all possibilities of being written.




A man in love of himself ends up losing control of himself.


That's 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.

I 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.


There are days in which love destroys all foundation and the love that loves you is all my life and my future.


And 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.


I 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.


And 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.




Come 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.




She 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 her mother.


One afternoon she will bump into my poems in some lost street of her soul and she will tremble, I assure you, for me.




Madrid, February 1st, 1978


Darling: Today I'm using  the electric typewriter for the first time to write you this letter. It is really wonderful that we have bought an electric typewriter to write poetry. We're all looking at the phenomenon, it looks like an experimental centre of poetry.


Suddenly, 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.


Electricity, I mean, is on our side.


Several 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.


My 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.


To change, to know how to substitute what is broken, what is lost, is always good for our health.


I 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.


Writing is for me, what it should have always been: A signal, an indicative arrow. An instrument half scientific, half humane to capture reality.




Madrid, March 7th, 1978


Darling: I need to talk to you for a while, it's about my writing.


After 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).


The 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.


I must publish everything I write if not it will be bad, very bad for me to have so many words at home.


All right, now I'll try to explain to you, in the best possible way, what is happening to me:


My decision to stay in Spain is irrevocable.


At least twenty years, may be thirty, until I'm able to live on my writing.


At present I must be the best among the living. I wish then my writings to be known.


I would like to talk with you in Madrid about all this and I imagine that dreaming is not bad.




Madrid, March 17th, 1978




It is really amazing not being able to pull out a single letter from you.


Tell me, love crazy, do you  think it's right to have left the baby alone for such a long time.


I 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.





It is sometimes tenebrous for me that people trust in me when I feel myself a truly irresponsible person.


I speak and afterwards I don't know what I have said.


I write and afterwards I realise that I have written crass stupidities.


I offer my being for ceremonies and afterwards I realise I have participated in a pagan ceremony:


A time where God, for an instant, is replaced by love.


An instant of time where the beast breaks God into splinters.


And 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.




I 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 opportunity.




 Madrid, March 29th, 1978:


 Poetic art



 on the thin mirror of your soul

 the bite of my name.


 Gust of obscurity

 I stain,

 definitely, your purity.


I define myself

I establish an inalterable edge,

I am the poet.









A book written by Miguel Oscar Menassa

To get along better with your partner in the Holiday Season

and during some of the working days 


Example of letter


Sunday, October 5th


We could never agree on the price of things.
For me, things were always cheap. For me, being at your side, made any price low.          


We 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 invention.

A woman that is there even though she isn't. A woman who allows me to be there when in reality, I'm here.


A real invention and I don't know who invented love between us, but it isn't important to us and we don't believe it much.


We make it, we make love and when we don't , we make other truths, we manufacture other dreams than those of the specie, those days when we get up in love with bridges, with railway tracks, with highways, with everything that separates lovers so that they may later reunite  in other roads, other cities, other lovers.


You 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.


Now, today, to say it in some way, I have become 57 years which are part mine and part of the world.


There 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”.   

Juan-Jacobo Bajarlía

Indio Gris