INDIO GRIS Nº 51 Einpersonen-zeitschrift zur ansammlung von müll

INDIVIDUAL MAGAZINE OF GARBAGE COLLECTION
Nº 51. YEAR 2001- MAY, THURSDAY 17
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

It was a love lost in the distances,
from the Mediterranean to the Andes.
Love of a mother who didn't bear a child.
The hope of a poor jobless man.

It was a love that when imagining,
imagined the south wind held up.
It was a love that allowed itself to be loved,
without passion, without fire, without songs.

It was a love that denied itself
even in beautiful dreams.
A love that no one in the world
would consider as love.

I was a love of the skin and of the stone.
The desert and a tiny tear.
It was a love that none would reach:

I have never felt like a foreigner as in these days.
Never as in these days so alien to myself.
I kissed a woman thinking she was a stone
and I kissed a stone thinking it was love.

Afterwards I wrote verses like obscure complaints,
empty bodies, without desires, souls without souls.
These days I saw how love covered the world
with a black robe of tears and solitude.

Nobody could stay with no one, these days,
we were all chained to love.
No man was eager for his work,
no woman lived for freedom.

And nevertheless, we loved each other the whole day.
We looked at each other with tenderness and cried,
and we remained crying until the evening,
she chained herself and I didn't go to work.

At the end of the month, when reality presses us,
we all thought very badly of love,
but we were so happy of being together
that we looked at each other with faith and we cried.

The next day we were torn apart,
no one could be spoken to about going to work.
She used to chain herself to love for another century
and I used to chain myself to her, forever.

A piece of love that doesn't belong
a verse strolling along no one's world
an orphan note escaped from music.

Today I return to Madrid, five days before I intended.
From Madrid, I might dare to think about what happen.

You would ask me, where will we end up?
Beyond the dialectic of heaven and hell,
I'm happy all the time,
since a few days ago,
living is enough.

Making love would do us good.
I imagine that strength and I shudder.
Ancient springs of a feverish summer,
I could kill you with that passion.
You could forget all your past with that madness.
If it were necessary we could be one for the other.
My thought, your flesh; your flesh, oblivion.
Dove of times, I was waiting for you.

I'll carry your body next to mine up to the paroxysm of extravagance.
There will be skin and lizards for the ceremonies.
You'll be loved,
torn into thousand pieces by the gods of imagination.

We'll walk along the road to heaven and hell and even beyond.
Beyond the prairies of nothingness.
In the peak of fear and deliriums,
in the uncertainty of volcanoes opened to the space of mutation,
where, at last,
                         I'll eat your brain.
Orgy of nerves, blood of the lovers,
desperate teeth against the infernal time machine.
I stop the eating
                        my heart cannot bear it any longer.
I need to see you crying as if you were a child.
your crying submerging us in the world of mercy.
I stop the winds of unreasonableness to listen to your weeping.
So that your tears and the time of the oceans may blend.
Oh! clamour of lovers.
Your tears
                 base on me
                                  the last secret.

Your heart and my patience will wear out the universe.
I am, I want to tell you
the last singer
the lineage of the end.
Between my legs, as it happens to everyone else,
my sex fights between life and death.

Let nobody cry another tear,
my body has died.
There will be, as I told you, darling, madness, misplacements,
my heart thrown at the side of the road,
my word
empty.
There will be a catastrophe and though
faith won't be necessary.
The journey embodies,
among its possibilities,
returning.

Pablo Menassa de Lucía Association Poetry and Psychoanalysis Class
Pablo Menassa de Lucía Poetry Award
Second Summoning
INTERLUNIO
                       Free Admittance
by María Rosa Puchol
Presentation of her book
Friday, May 18^th, 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 Admittance
by Luis de Blas
Presentation of her book
Friday, May 18^th, 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

"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."

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