INDIO GRIS No. 35 Individual Magazine of garbage collection

INDIVIDUAL MAGAZINE OF GARBAGE COLLECTION
Nº 35. YEAR 2001- JANUARY, THURSDAY 25
FUSIONED - DIRECTED - WRITTEN AND CORRESPONDED BY: MENASSA 2001

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
AND
THE JARAMA INDIAN
THE FUSION WITH MORE FUTURE OF THE
XXI CENTURY

I almost can't believe to have reached the 35^th issue of Indio Gris, and at the same time, it causes me emotion, something similar to emotion, a small tear in the ocean, a breath of satisfaction in the middle of a cyclone.

I'd like to be normal in everything until I become 63, afterwards I'd marry freedom.
If I'd stop making love I'd be free, also, from my neurosis.

I'm trapped, I have arrived to life. I have touched life and now I'm alive forever. That's what I complain about, shouted the wretch, not to be able to abandon life without dying.

I don't want to be greater, I want to be alive.
To go on writing with the same passion though I may not be the best.
To live in love with life though I may not live 200 years.

Today I felt that I was being unfair with some women and with other women I was too fair.

I didn't do things right none of the two times, but it's also true that they had only promised me to love the goodness I gave them and not that I would do things right.

I reach moods, said the wretch, in which it's only possible to feel remorse, guilt.

Everybody is waiting for me to die, in order to start living. If I can live thanks to my poetry 40 or 50 years more, there will be a lot of people that won't be born.

Sometimes human beings worry me a lot. They still love, they still have debts that they cannot pay.

I'm only interested in the money I produce with my work. Let others put the rest of the money.

I'll be rich and cruel and not only cruel, like the jerk Rimbaud. And besides I have to be able to say things to myself in order to do them: Inspiration is not bad, either. From time to time some inspiration will help me grow old.

The diseases of love, war, drugs and poverty, were the incomprehensible side of the century that went by.

Of more than five thousand million people , this has been written, a little more than half don't eat, nor are educated.

In this century drugs were invented, which leave without strength when I have them and not when I don't have them.

There's no drug that can benefit me. There's no love that gives me consolation. Nor even the wretch was able to say this.

Today I want to address Mr. Arenas of the P.P. who demanded a measure from Mr. Zapatero, at least one, against the crazy cows that the Spanish Government wouldn't have taken. As Mr. Zapatero hasn't replied, we reply in his place. The measure is simple and very beneficial for Spain. Spain must kill all its cows and buy beef from Argentina, this way it takes care of the Spanish population from the European cow disease and helps a Latin American country, something it hasn't done for such a long time, but fundamentally, the wealth for Spain will be obtained when all the breeders transform themselves into agriculturists that will sow marihuana with which prevention of cancer will be achieved in general and of the brain tumours in particular, of depression, with which 70 % of the current illnesses will be avoided. Besides with marihuana there won't be more frigidity in the ministers of health and not even impotence in the ministers of interior.

Once I told a woman,
that my ballpoint pen didn't want to write.
Afterwards being alone I wrote a poem,
but on the typing machine.

And that isn't the only time I'm wrong,
sometimes, I'm tied to the watchwords of poverty
and I want to make love.

I was that soldier whose fate
was to make war all the time
and he only had the illusion of peace.

And I saw peace doves falling
attracted by the din of battles
and I, myself, shot fake doves
which made you believe that food was freedom,
or else, that freedom and peace were possible without food.

And there were black and tenebrous days, countless catastrophes,
When peace doves kill each other.

In the end the dove was a cruel bird
and that's why it was chosen as a symbol of peace.
It's capable of killing, for almost nothing,
a wounded brother that declares itself defeated.

I live tied up to the pigeons' watchwords
and I go through the world searching for a human being,
someone that loving freedom, doesn't want to fly,
someone that declaring himself defeated, doesn't think of dying.

A man, a woman, loving for love,
a woman, a man, building shadows,
piercing the sun with a tear
and breaking the chains of love, when parting.

The Valencian government advises the Spaniards not to have sexual intercourse with foreigners to preserve the Spanish race.

The same government advises foreigners not to have sexual intercourse among them so that they won't reproduce themselves and aggravate the immigration problem.

And Mr so and so from the interior ministry denies to belong to the Mafia of immigration, because he doesn't obtain any benefits from the immigrants, he just makes them disappear.

Infinite holes start to open around me. The things tolerated for love start to present invoices and I don't know if there'll be as much money as there was love.

-Another step forward, shouted the wretch, and there won't be any carrion left around me and I won't be afraid of vultures.

Some immigrants want everything. Others prefer a little, some need almost nothing and others only want to have fun and I know how to differentiate them and I'm never wrong, in crossing our gazes I know what it's all about. But I suffer from an incurable illness, I'm the interior minister of Spain, I treat all immigrants equally:

THINK WHAT A DELIRIUM! all of them equally, according to the Law that my illness has invented.

I delicately salute a murderer with papers and I punish an innocent harshly according to the Law.

I kiss with ardour the lips of a rock and I sit down to write decrees when some of them finds the way to burn some ocean with love.

I give them some love if they don't need it and I ask for love from she who never had it. I give the newly born their bottles and put their parents in jail for having loved and I prohibit the social security service to look after the child without parents, nor papers. Afterwards sleepy by hatred towards foreigners, I go to Mass to thank God because Spain is doing well and no immigrant realises it.

"I am tense, I have appetites, hungers of millenniums and now they'll want to content me with some piece of cheese, excrescence of some pastoral cow, or the same cow beaten to death and quartered on the table, recalling ancient rites, where men ate each other, and that was love.
               I stab my small knife mercilessly into the cow's heart and the cow moos, it tears itself with passion in front of the murderer. I, with surgical precision, separate grease and nerves and I give my beloved one a morsel from the cow's burnt ovaries.
               -We're free, she says to me, while she entertains herself with the noise of her teeth trying to chew the burnt parts of the universe. Later, lighter, making a mirage of everything, a lie, she says to me with ease:
               A magisterial cow that moos and murders all the time lives in me. Sometimes she seems in pain, but nothing matters to her, she knows that she was born to be beaten to death, and then she shits everywhere and the mad flowers eat what is essential of shit and grow rapidly towards the future."

A book written by Miguel Oscar Menassa
To get along with your partner in the Holiday Season
and during some of the working days

“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