MAGAZINE OF GARBAGE COLLECTION
Nº 44. YEAR 2001- MARCH, THURSDAY 29
FUSIONED - DIRECTED - WRITTEN AND CORRESPONDED BY: MENASSA 2001
DON'T KNOW HOW TO SPEAK BUT WE DO IT IN SEVERAL LANGUAGES
SPANISH, FRENCH, ENGLISH, GERMAN, ARABIAN, PORTUGUESE, ITALIAN, CATALAN
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 44
OF THE LEADER IN EXILE
a synthesis is also a pact with someone.
A conciliation of the letter with politics.
"I is zero" has no explanation.
It can't be reduced to something that has an end.
Nor to the universe.
Padlock of the opening, "I is zero", is the staging
of what is just beginning.
We are in the era of the tremor.
He who speaks gets a forfeit.
He who writes is a solitary.
We are in a stage
where reality mixes with action,
the rest, for the time being, we should know,
psychotherapy for the inexpert souls,
for the ones who without wanting it,
and as if bearing a misfortune,
sustain the dominant ideology.
The Great Ideology,
the one which comes printed in the proteins of the milk.
And action will then mean, radiant transformation,
verifiable in the field of social relations,
where, as we have already said, the ethic of the powerful is developed.
Considering Psychoanalysis, Marxism,
we say that they are only instruments of knowledge.
Among us it isn't necessary to salvage anyone.
Rifles, religions, poverty,
are the patrimony of a murderous dialectic.
Where what is legalized is slavery
and the death penalty.
And a love, codified in the field
of fidelity and security,
of the effects on man of a dialectic,
which doesn't accept, not even in its transformations,
the existence of more than two terms.
Where one has the gift
and the other one, the desire.
A theory built by indigenous people
foreseeing the discovery of the specular possibility.
A religion built on the fear of death,
results in a pro-slavery society,
where pleasure has always to do with death,
because desire is owned by he who doesn't know,
he who owns nothing,
he who has no doubts,
in the end
desire is owned by a perfect idiot,
condemned to death.
Where knowledge has to do with power,
since he who is able, because of power, doesn't desire and knows.
As we may see a theory of pain, in every direction.
We oppose everything.
Nothingness is also questioned.
we still accept some of their medical uses.
Drugs, in general,
promise a resolution through faster ways than the habitual ones.
And though it's true that what is habitual
should not necessarily be a model of life,
it's also true that there doesn't exist a drug known
to have solved the problem of time.
We say that any drug, including alcohol,
when it tries to be more than a skirmish of knowledge,
becomes sterilized, it rots, exactly the same,
as the beloved dead woman between one's arms.
Necrophilia is prohibited in all cases.
And about the current sexuality we think
that it's organized on the pillars of supply and demand.
Heterosexuality and homosexuality are clearly
forms of a dialectic where the feminine and the masculine
(finally two union organisations),
rule the destiny of humanity.
Love, as we may see, doesn't exist.
Claims exist for the time being.
Nothing happens yet to man and woman.
OF THE LEADER IN EXILE
I become 38
and in becoming 38,
the only thing I see clearly is
how people kill each other everywhere.
To stand for an idea,
since some centuries ago,
is deciding who is going to be killed,
or else, if one is a common citizen,
is to decide who is going to kill you.
A perverse world, I insist,
where everything has to do with death.
For the time being I want to take no decision.
To Kill or Die. Two ways of living in which I'm not interested.
38 years and I question my life once more.
How do I want to live? What is living?
And this way I go through life feeling that
I don't want to be a drunkard,
and I don't want to be a drug addict,
and I don't want to be a scientist,
and I don't want to be a poet,
and man and woman
seem to me too little for mankind.
And monogamic families make me sick
and also faggots.
To defend in general, I defend no one.
Religion is sinking among substantial figures.
Mathematics overflow their possibilities of transformation of what is
as time goes by it will become a dogma.
The sun is extinguishing.
Atomic energy escapes all controls.
Hiroshima is forgotten.
And the famous paper tigers
are about to eat part of the rice.
Humanity is taking a disconcerting course
and that is running me over.
What would I like? I'd like to get on well
and even though I write,
that the fluctuation of intersubjectivity
is too familiar for the great world.
That is what it seems to me.
I prefer to be confident on my strength of work
and however my writing is sanguineous,
vital, difficult to sell.
I don't care for literature,
and I don't know very well what life is.
Sometimes I think
life has not yet begun.
To be a breeze or else a gust of wind are for the time being
the so natural ambitions of any passion.
Man is debating in his self, he wants to be but can't.
He can and when he can, it doesn't interest him any longer.
The eyes, the mouth, the anus, an open soul,
or else a close heart,
are yet the limits of such impossibility.
Holes that are too small
for man to fall through them into the being.
Blood and shames, marine milks,
turbulent breasts for the thirstiest mouths,
opulent semen ascending through the mother-of-pearl walls of your
are yet only onomatopoeias of what is human.
An attempt, futile like many others,
of capturing with the name what has been named.
My time doesn't correspond to any
My time, more than passing by, bursts.
More than passing slowly,
showing the little man that life goes by,
time is an invention of the cruelty of man
against his own dreams.
A precise limit: the night.
A secure beginning: the morning.
As if time were a figure that can
A possible form, and not,
gales and dark snow, hunger and rage,
where its existence is always what I was.
Reality is only what I say, and time
a way of continuing to believe that reality was always there,
waiting for me, -precisely me- since yesterday.
MENASSA IN BUENOS AIRES
from April 16th to May 13th
COW WAS ALWAYS
A LITTLE CRAZY
BETWEEN THE COW
AND THE MORIBUND
A book by MIGUEL OSCAR MENASSA
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."
AN UNLIMITED DESIRE
AN UNQUESTIONABLE TENDERNESS
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”.