INDIO GRIS

INDIVIDUAL MAGAZINE OF GARBAGE COLLECTION 
Nº 48. YEAR 2001- APRIL, THURSDAY 26
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 48

1

December 1978

PSYCHOANALYSIS OF THE LEADER IN EXILE

6^th FRAGMENT

Amber-like roses and also,
commonly coloured roses and thorns
of sanguinolent and pulpy roses.
And also wild thorns from a scented white rose,
-as it happened once-
antique and delicate thorns of love.
Crown of enamoured thorns
over the head of the little know-it-all child.
The poet,
faithful and obstinate corrupter of sense.
Soldier of what is inevitable.

Expectant shadow above everything.
The poet, small child,
doesn't stand on his legs.
He doesn't know what he wants.

He is drawn by the social zeal which puts pressure on him,
of denouncing everything.
 And in each denounce,
 in each encounter with truth,
he is everyone, meaning, he is no-one.

His being,
scandalous and solitary at the same time,
roams without knowing. Thread of water,
tenuous and lively among the mountains,
drilling the stones.
The poet, an old age and its vertigo.

A youth and its decadence.
Always a fixed point,
a sublime detention,
for the world
to spin madly around it for an instant.
The poet yearns for freedom.
There are days in which he wants to die.

The brutal chaining
only allows him
small and, why not say it,
regulated movements.
Between poetry, indisputable goddess, or else,
unique snake able to suffocate a thousand pages into a verse.
Burning metaphor of everything that has been lived.
And the limit imposed  by society;
submerging between machines and their waste.
Plastic men.

Perverse rulers.
Children kicked to death before being born.
Small vessels of happiness,
sunk before setting sail.

And submerging
in all the filth that goes through the sewers
and also,
in the white hospitals,
in the best furbished bedrooms,
and in the slow passage of the hours.
In the serene afternoon where a crime
smashes into pieces against the sun.
In the bathrooms,
in the public bathrooms where odour
is what finally kills, or else,
in the church bathrooms where purification
takes many victims.
And the filth flows over all human things.
And the poet flows over all the filth.
Small  know-it-all child, flows
among the sublime shit of the great gods,
or else, the tenuous small turds of some  migrating bird.
And what is social, as we said,
and the content demolishing the shapes.

And the shapes, holding up in their precision,
in their perfect clock mechanism,
the deformed cries of man.

To put into a cage
his own desperate heart.
To fix, like the rotten organs
are fixed after dead.
To silence forever
the disquieting imprecision  of love.

2    

December 1978

PSYCHOANALYSIS OF THE LEADER IN EXILE
7^th FRAGMENT

Love, happiness and blasphemies,
small impotent gods,
fighting in vain against the demons,
always invincible
when it comes to love.
Fire and light.
Apocalyptic demons of the blood,
where the word loses its power.
Demons maddened by hunger
devour
small gods worried about maintaining formalities.
And everything is a burst,
when magic accompanies us to the confines of fear.
Under the sun, against the sun,
or else a sun rising in my chest,
or multicoloured aquatic suns
and young and arrogant suns
precisely because of that youth,
and a sun, small and fulgurant between my lips.
Fire. Light.
Fire among fires.
Irrepressible spring of heat.
A hundred thousand degrees
melting the small gods of morality.
In my body, cold metals fall.
Nocturnal frosts stop for an instant
their deadly sharp edge.
Silence splits
and the mirrors cannot reflect so much light.
Desert and thirst
and the last bars of  jail,
-your own gaze-
yield in front of what cannot be named any longer:
love has gone by.
I'm also a man.
I let the rest to be produced by
an infinite conversation among everyone.
White and corpulent horses
running happily on green prairies,
against the wind, almost without realising it.
Never a human being has really done me any wrong.
I'm grateful. I'm happy.
I'm a perfect idiot among the thick fog.
My ideas
don't even have need of me.

THE END

3

 - BOOK PRESENTATIONS:

• Cartas a mi mujer ( Letters to my wife )
Friday April 27^th, Cero Group School. 459 Maipu St., at 9 p.m.

• Diálogo entre el loco y el poeta  (Dialogue between the crazy man and the poet):
Wednesday May 2^nd, Centro Cultural Rojas, 2030 Corrientes Av., at 8 p.m.

 • Monólogo entre la vaca y el moribundo ( Monologue between the cow and the moribund):
Friday May 4^th - Encore, Rodriguez Peña, at 9 p.m.

- BOOK FAIR, ( La Rural)

• April 29^th Signing of copies at 203 Cero Group Stand, at 8 p.m.

• May 6^th  Signing of copies at 203 Cero Group Stand, at 6 p.m.

4

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."  

5

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