MAGAZINE OF GARBAGE COLLECTION
Nº 49. YEAR 2001- MAY, THURSDAY 3
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 49
April 1st, 1978
OF THE LEADER IN EXILE
POETS ALSO DIE FROM PAIN
backache is strong, in all
almost unbearable when I breath a little deeper than superficially and
when I cough. It hurts less without making abrupt movements.
At times it seems like a muscular pain.
Accessory muscles of breathing.
In reality, what happens to me is that I feel lonely.
The cause of my back ache might be that I don't understand life.
It's clear that for the time being it's not worth to go on writing.
Some breathing exercises didn't soothe my pain but enforced the diagnosis:]
muscular pain on the side of the cross. Love is, once more, questioned.
In these moments I think of young dead poets.
Poets like me, almost my same age.
I think that a backache isn't much compared to death.
Poets, it's said, dead for their country. A way of putting it.
most savage tortures and the deadly kidnappings, I say to myself,
can mean, why not, an unbearable backache.
They believed in the same ideas I did.
They died for the same ideas which are causing me this backache.
The latest information about torture in general, says that they put a
a lady's stocking on one's head and afterwards they plunge it into
a container full of water. When the man or woman subjected to the
experiment raises the head and tries to breath for life, the famous wet
stocking suffocates the person to death.
In the same vital act of breathing (almost a divine act, I would say)
have been able to invent death.
Perhaps the pain in the respiratory muscles is a sort of silent adhesion,
of silent respect for all the people killed in that infamous torture.
When I breathe is when it hurts me most.
When I recall their smiling faces is when it hurts me most.
And what is it, I ask myself, that stopped in me,
when in them, breathing stopped?
What is it that dies in me when I submit myself to the killers?
And I ask how, being a writer, I don't submit myself and neither die.
My words aren't prepared for killing.
They just transform my life, they just make love.
For sure they will kill me as they did to the others.
Who's going to defend the poet,
if nobody ever defended poetry.
Yesterday I wrote a poem which I'd like to dedicate to all the dead poets
Well, I consider myself a poet, I prefer myself alive.
But keeping such a beautiful poem in the table drawer, where besides I say the truth.
and I then ask myself,
what is alive in man when poetry doesn't live in him?
backache is really unbearable.
Could it be the pain of cowards,
the ancient pain of solitary sinners?
want you to know,
that I don't at all agree with their obscure and wild methods,
and though at this moment,
crazy because of so much death around me,
I'd rather drop the atomic bomb on them,
but I substitute it, because of my possibilities,
for a poem dedicated to the poets murdered during dictatorships.
The writing of a poem, my lords tyrants,
must be considered as a light fault,
because my real desire
was to have an atomic beam that would kill
all of you, murderers of poets.
we want to know how much gold you were paid for the youngsters,
who were worth their weight in life.
listen to tangos and because of this they will end knowing who I am.
Besides I will erase the word freedom from my poem
and this time I won't calmly smoke my cigarettes.
It will be better that the poem is shown clearly, all in white,
and in the middle of its whiteness; an immortal phrase:
STOP THE KILLINGS.
remember that I used to love
your outlined way of dying.
You always fell calmly in my arms.
I never knew if your body had been pierced by love,
or by the murderous bullets.
that's what I want to have in my arms,
an immortal fire in my body,
so that, in this new good-bye,
the freezing won't reach up to the end.
can know who is on the verge of dying?
Or is the executioner, by chance, always on the verge of being born?
April 1st, 1978
most interesting thing of today's day is
that my back aches less when I'm typing my poems.
How strange, isn't it?
A sort of chronic electric chair.
I stay sitting here writing,
they won't be able to kill me, and in spite of that I have desires for flying,
to come out of the only safe place -silence-
To run the risk of the ones who ran the risks.
that a bullet is more in being a bullet,
that a man on the verge of dying
is in being a man.
Dancing a tango always does me good.
A sort of excess of the past resuscitates.
What shit shall I write about
when the whole world is in mourning.
When the whole world denounces a body rotting in its own being.
I continue not knowing,
what did you lose in this war
However, your voice is necessary,
let's see, let's sing together.
have weapons against our bodies,
let's sing with the verses, they don't know what to do.
I've seen myself submerged in these times,
in the well-known mud of sadness and pain.
of us, the mutilated, slept under the same sun.
rage and pain the heart bursts.
Finally my heart tells me to stop.
furious now by the murder of the poets,
asks that poetry, all the poetry of the whole universe,
to aim its lights towards the place where men die because of singing.
where men die,
in the moment of being human because of singing.
Aim, I say,
and that no word be left out of focus,
everyone against tyrannies,
everyone, in an instant, against death.
your word may come at the precise moment,
to disarm a killer, to arm a brother,
to denounce, to denounce onto the four winds,
the inhumanity, the silent massacre.
happens to us, may happen to any people,
we live in a crazy system,
our rulers have the gift of the perverse: they kill for the sake of killing.
One man less is for them one account less.
With the intentions they have of simplifying the system,
will end up killing all of us.
I'm not well, to live is almost impossible.
The ones who died, died,
we, who are still left, are left mutilated,
and then I ask myself, what kind of world is this?
solitude, what life?
Let's put the pieces together,
let's go back to the attack.
Human law protects us,
murderers are outlawed.
a permanent defence for our brothers.
May our body not sing anymore.
May our voice sing infinite now.
entre la vaca y el moribundo ( Monologue between the cow and the moribund):
Friday May 4th - Encore, Rodriguez Peña, at 9 p.m.
FAIR, ( La
Signing of copies at
203 Cero Group Stand, at 6 p.m.
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”.