INDIO GRIS

INDIVIDUAL MAGAZINE OF GARBAGE COLLECTION 
Nº 45. YEAR 2001- APRIL, THURSDAY 5
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

Indio Gris

INDIO GRIS Nº 45

1

SO THAT SOMETHING CAN BE BORN, SOMETHING MUST STOP  LIVING
OR  
THE NEW LAW OF FOREIGNESS

Now it's time to grow, which means:
to train oneself with fecund will power
to be able in a few years time
to know how to live, how to love in another world.

Now it's time to grow,
to deviate our principles,
to jail our passions,
to make them more bearable and if one day,

I feel a strange drive
which in making me free, condemns me:
I'll say no, a thousand times, no.

Now it's time to grow,
to comprehend the value of money.
Money can, when it wants to,
in one single stroke
annihilate all virtue,

to fill nothingness,
to embellish the desert with flowers
and make out of man and of rock
two perfect lovers.

Now it's time to grow,
to let yourself be drawn by the contract.
To know our feelings profoundly,
to abandon them.
Never to put love as a excuse
in a job,
because they'll take love away from me
and they won't give me any money.

Now it's time to grow, meaning that now it's time to rest.
It was impossible for me to find anything in any place,
no loves, no advantages, no bread, no solitude,
that's why I condemn myself to write a poem.

A poem from a man
who already had everything
and wishes to dream.

   A poem from a man
who dreams all day
but cannot love.
Or the story of a man
who working hard for 20 years
could finally go on holidays.
Or that man who only loved
his mother and suffered
a tragic accident at sea.

Brave men,
men made of firm steel,
combatants,
in the city streets,
against each other.
I am a man
and I write violently.
Sometimes I end up knowing
things which I never lived.
Other times, I realise, I live lives
which I never imagined.

I'm elegant and I go around dressed in words,
Men and women desire me at the same time
And that gives me courage to remain in poetry.
I'm urged to feel that I write for the world.

I say violet, I paint violet here
and the horizon is tinted with violence.
I say violence, I place violence here
and a man tears away his genitals
and offers them to God
or else, a woman says to a man,
kill me, please!
and he kills her with certain nervousness
and the woman, content,
feels pleasure while dying.
The  man
is put in jail for 30 years
and when he is freed
a light dazzles him
and dies run over and blinded
by a child riding his bike.

A man, a woman clash in life
and  rush into each other like beasts
and they smile warmly and embrace
before falling.
That mutual embracing, saves them.

Afterwards their lives are filled with papers,
papers for being born, for having been born
in a country, in a town.
Papers confirming
that father and mother made love.
Papers which tell me
that I am a man, here.

Here, in this paper, it's clearly said,
that this man that I am
was born from human beings,
and the paper assures,
with the power of the written word,
that in the very moment of the photo,
this man that I am, was alive.

Come to me, that I have nothing to give you.
Nothing of nothing possesses the foreigner, nothing
and nevertheless he has a verse in his eyes.

Life rolls, it rolls and it also stops.

Here are my life, my children, my money,
my future work, all my loves.
At least give me a paper saying:
Juan, the foreigner, has nothing,
he gave everything away for a piece of paper.

I have nothing, not even dignity is left to me,
at least a paper saying that I have lived.
This was Juan, he was born from a father and a mother,
he was precisely a man,
but he lived like a dog, without love and without master.

 When he died his papers failed him, too,
and nobody realised of his death.
"He wasn't there", "he didn't come", "he might have been hired"
but nobody could think that he had died.

Papers, give me papers,
I'm the woman of the valley where radiation
voraciously ate the birds,
I have marks from the explosion in my body.
At dawn, the savage war carts
pierced our body.

They didn't even leave us our soul.
We were burnt alive and, nevertheless
the caress of my lover when leaving
still shines in my body.
I have my lips cracked by the salt of life
and, however when he returns,
sweet is the kiss of the beloved
eventhough he may part again.

When going through my town, christs and deities
couldn't find consolation when seeing what was happening.
Cain, the murderer, was alive
and Abel, of dreams, was inaccessible.

In my town virgins were rapped
not to get a disease
and children were tied from the waist down
so that the poor devils couldn't walk.
And when there was no bread or meat or gasoline
a poor or a whore was killed.

And there were nights in my town: the earth,
that were called the nights of the bombs
when we lay one on top of the other
so that the ones underneath wouldn't die.

And afterwards there were horrors that are forgotten,
horrors where all the guilt
was God's.

2

3

THE COW WAS ALWAYS
A LITTLE CRAZY

MONOLOGUE BETWEEN THE COW
AND THE MORIBUND
A book by MIGUEL OSCAR MENASSA

 "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."  

4

A PASSIONATE LOVE
AN UNLIMITED DESIRE
AN UNQUESTIONABLE TENDERNESS

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

Indio Gris