INDIO GRIS
INDIVIDUAL
MAGAZINE OF GARBAGE COLLECTION
Nº 50. YEAR 2001- MAY, THURSDAY 10
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 Nº 50
1
She wanted that
and I gave her that.
No semen, no smiles,
just whipping.
One day she asked me to kill her
and I gave it a thought.
You could tell the magistrate
that it was the first orgasm of my life
and that that violent emotion killed me,
don't say it to me, bring me a flower.
Give me the opulence of your hands
hitting me,
opening furrows of love in my skin,
your distance watching me enjoy, that's what I want,
the blasphemies in my ear to be able to come.
Whore…Whore…whore…I won't hit you today
and, there, the grand concert started.
The moans of the beast swallowed the soul,
morality was cornered near the window,
and the flesh in its ethics, beyond my pleasure,
imposed the wonder of pain, its clamour.
One day she asked me to kill her
and I gave it a thought.
You can tell your friends
that I didn't love you that much,
that I left with a man
who allows silence.
All the friends will understand,
I left with a man
who frenetically loved
all my flaws.
Nobody will ask for the one who only enjoys
when love leaves trails upon her skin,
marks which testify that we were there,
making love to each other.
We were unique in that solitude,
you, in love with my screams,
I, with pain.
Your body didn't exist,
only your firm arm
hitting death's buttocks.
Tell your friends that one day I got tired
of your delicate ways, of your shyness,
that I wanted a macho by my side,
who would force me to love,
who would always hit me.
And you were full of words,
your arm when hitting me, always trembled.
When your arm stopped being your arm
and was the wind of fire of the desert,
the frozen reason of the arctic glaciers,
that day I enjoyed,
that day I enjoyed from the mark to the soul,
that day pain enjoyed in me
as it had never done before.
Ice over fire and it didn't melt.
It was a crystal going through the fire
and in clashing with the skin, it diluted.
When I recall,
ice and fire were the same dream.
a file to be opened,
our love to be investigated.
Who is the murderer?
Your hands that will press my neck
to orgasm
or the autumn afternoon where blinded,
we go through the streets of delirium,
where a great newly born evilness
made me enjoy.
Who is the murderer?
This poor man without a destiny
who only desires my desire
of dying in his arms
or the little woman
that invades his
brain
when he calls me whore.
Who is the guilty one, who?
When his arm rose
omnipotent against the world,
my desire was the strength of his arm.
say no to life to be able to love you,
I sink among the bitter stones
of your universal reflections.
I brusquely evade
compromising caresses
and I fall, infinite,
in my own blackness.
Today it isn't pleasure that calls us.
Today, it's death that wants to enjoy.
Hit me!
I'm
that whore
whom you always wanted to abuse.
The slave for love
whom you always ambitioned.
The alien woman without a family
that nobody will claim.
Kill
me!
Fill
yourself up forever with my screams
of pleasure with death.
Put distance in our love
asking for mercy
and kill me.
Do
as if you were playing with my neck
and break it.
I
despise your cowardliness,
your manly insanity
and I die without you killing me,
without you killing me, I die.
I
sow doubt, suspicion in your life.
You haven't killed me, no and, however,
you are the murderer, the one who raped his victim
while agonizing.
Write
me a poem,
don't forget.
Draw on my face
an eternal smile.
Put smoothness on my breasts
and the sauce of life on my buttocks.
Don't stop saying in the poem
that I also loved you.
To
my beloved women,
to our beloved fiancées
you'll tell all the truth.
One
day she asked me to kill her
and I killed her.
And
to each one of them, my beloved,
you'll talk in secret about our love
and of the grandiose moment of my death.
They
will become insane
and will look for the pleasure of pain
and you will be the serial murderer
that history will never forget.
Have
a destiny,
hit me stronger,
kill me.
2
Pablo
Menassa de Lucía Association Poetry and Psychoanalysis Class
Pablo Menassa de
Lucía Poetry Award
Second Summoning
INTERLUNIO
Free
by María Rosa Puchol
Presentation of
her book
Friday, May 18th, 2001 at 8 p.m.
Círculo de Bellas Artes
Information: Tel: 91 542 33 49
Sala María Zambrana 2 C/
Marquéz de Riera - Madrid
www.aulapablomenassa.com
Pablo
Menassa de Lucía Association Poetry and Psychoanalysis Class
Pablo Menassa de
Lucía Poetry Award
Second Summoning
CLAROSCURO
Free
by Luis de Blas
Presentation of
her book
Friday, May 18th, 2001 at 8 p.m.
Círculo de Bellas Artes
Information: Tel: 91 542 33 49
Sala María Zambrana 2 C/
Marquéz de Riera - Madrid
www.aulapablomenassa.com
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
“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 |