Weekly magazine through Internet
Nº 65. THURSDAY, AUGUST 16TH ,2001




Indio Gris




 Today, at last, after 40 years of trying, I feel that I'm living in the poet's house:

 A portable computer, a must in these times, and a bookcase, constantly looking at me, inciting me to read, to mix with other men, to be drawn by other verses, as it always was.

 I stop producing the Indio to become the Indio, although grey, and I declare myself victorious.

 Defoliated rumours of time
fan over my body
already left aside.

They are instants that smell rotten,
to worm-ridden flesh.

I let my hands fly
and the beginning of the century is moved
by the purity of my gestures.

The expected Apocalypses was this page.

In the midst of a war,
of the atomic war,
in the midst of other wars
the dirty wars,
the avoidable wars.

In the midst of drug
death without assistance
the invading cancer
the silent AIDS

the poet has been born.

Here I am, I am the possible example.
In the exact centre of universal madness,
I live, I do not suffer of any ailment and when I sing
It is an alien flesh singing in my voice.

I am the disquieting fits of the language,
a snake lightened of its own poison
only the slithering movements to the infinite,
lost lights, black paths of silence.

I am humane, terrestrial, full of din,
the poem that drinks the future to narrate it.
Voice without echoes, equilibrated voice without echoes, voice.  

Men wait for a soft caress in flight
that will leave sonorous, open resonance, traces of freedom,
without any measure in the innocent terrestian.

      this time we also made love in Buenos Aires

 This time we also made love in Buenos Aires.
 With classic simplicity I kissed her mouth tenderly.
 I let my hands fall in the open street of her buttocks
and she trembled, ready for the clear, diaphanous pleasure of love.

To the street, to the street, she shouted when we kissed.
To the street, to the street I answered her, trying to extract
from her enamoured breasts, sounds of antique magnolias
opening wild to the universe from one day to the other.

To the street, to the street, you could hear through the window
and they were thousands and thousands, making love with us
and her face was like the compass rose, the well of time.

Based on my habit of interrupting pleasure to multiply it,
I held up my whole body in my illuminated smile and in the middle of  
the street,]
totally surrendered, docile to our Motherland, we made love.


Surrendered to a destiny which provides me with the best, the greatest, I write for you not to think that richness and fame have separated me from you, oh, goddess of the purest spells; completely real mirage.

I call you dear, because this way it will be known that I love you. And nobody will go around saying that our relationship was vane or that our kisses were not the purest of love. And if I submerge my hands in your womb it is to define the situation with the utmost clarity. Man goes back to earth and in the earth thousands of stories which have never been published are consumed. That's why I'm writing to you, for the serpent of doubt to nest forever in our hearts. A poem so that our bodies may be immortal in that silence of love, or such a great love that at some time may be immortalised in a poem.

Oh, darling, darling, how many times I have crumbled in your lips. Sometimes, simply carried away by the hours of the day I would fall over you, beloved, from great heights, always in the precise centre of a phrase. Without knowing yet what it meant, but sensing obliquely, some ending.

I was always in lack for words, there was always something unspeakable between us. It wasn't sex, but the bloody and cruel history that makes it sing. Our stories weren't made of flesh, though they were engraved on our body.

 At dawn, your arms would break against the rain and an infinite weeping would hold us to die. At dawn, light would tear to pieces our solitude.


Practise French in Madrid
Tel. 91 542 42 85. From 8 p.m. to 10 p.m.

I have known from your mother that you would like us to slightly touch the edges of terror before the end of the year.

I want to tell you that family is such a concrete fact that having no family is like living in a city without water. It is impossible to live without it, you either carry it in the outside or you carry it in the inside; I mean: now, to avoid such suggestive terms among us like inside and outside, that family is present in us like the form of an ideological and social model or is consolidated like an unconscious ideological model.

I'll be, "I promise" before the event between us, in love with the verb, the perfect rage of a gaze. Your enamoured mother dazzled by your beauty, alienated by being able to transform you according to her din, in her lack, her man, her desire or, worse still, her envy, her despise, her remoteness.

Before the end of the year, my little one, I want to let her know that we won't be alone, together again. Time, by then, will have split our reason of being. A well of silence, the time between us, my desire, tearing her brutally from my arms, impoverished now by her absence. Move away her gaze from mine, for the time being impoverished by her remoteness and crush your gaze, darling, against what won't exist  in your dawn, not even after the great events. Against what won't be your way, not even after the most beautiful poems.

Mutilated because my body is another body, having lost prestige, even for your gaze detained by the horror of my being, impotent of being my body and my word, my shape and my sense. Your frozen gaze, forever, in a corner of the soul.

Because of the horror of my being, impotent to be exactly your threadbare image in the black mirror of death. In the dead mirror of the black silence. In the dead and black silence in the mirror. In the silent, black mirage of death, where your hips start dancing in a Macomb rhythm.

Black of magic, open, silent, to the spectral sound of drums, delicate and arrogant as an open rose put in its place. Insolent, in love with yourself and yet, before desiring, you embrace death not to ever die. You are damned! Your silence is black. Your silence is the signal  of what was left in your body from that embrace with death, not to ever die, not to ever desire, not to  ever be other than your voice.

And not wanting to go further or, on the contrary, I want to tell you that for you to cry, to become severely ill or fall in love with some unknown man, will be worthless for you, unless you can understand that your resistances when our relation is simply a conversation, they are always exaggerated.

I remember that the first time I had the courage to tell you, surrounded by precautions, that chatting with you was pleasant, you started to cry in the style of Sicilian weepers, you interrupted the encounter before time and trying to hit me in the head with your bag (blow which I avoided by stepping backwards and applying a direct blow to the jaw), you told me furiously:

-You're a bastard!

The next day, you came back dazzled by the possibility of being able to feel and express those feelings.

While you undressed, you apologised for what had happened the previous day and with your hands at the edge of silence, you told me:

- You're a son of a bitch. I don't know why I'm telling you, but it does me good to see you suffer, I want you to know that. I'm the worst of all, I have mange. I go through life hoisting my failure, your failure, doctor, do you realise? Nobody can with me. I'm the ardent flame of desire and I don't go on because I'm afraid that you might increase your fees.

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(continued from the previous issue)

 Second Part

 I, exhausted, lay on my chest and she feels that she has succeeded in making me turn round, without almost resting she opens my legs as much as she can and she sits between my legs and starts playing with both her hands with my buttocks and she feels happy and recites in a loud voice, while she goes on playing with my buttocks, poems in various languages, as if there were several women playing with my buttocks on the verge of becoming an ass, I truly feel that I can't stand it any longer and precisely in that moment, she asks me:

 - Do you like poems?

 I, before answering, had already felt that life was returning to my body and then, I told her:

 - I like you, baby. That tongue you have, baby, those exquisite little tits and that ass. What an ass you've got, baby, you turn me crazy.

 She exercising pressure with her hands on my buttocks already open, told me:

 - You have a nice little ass, too.

 And I experienced an unforgettable shuddering. And she started speaking to my ass and while she talked she licked it in a fabulous way and I started to think that I would lose my virginity. And she said to it:

- Ah, little ass! What I'm going to do to you!

 She continued with her tongue time after time and my ass opened like a poppy and she introduced her tongue in and out and did it one more time and I felt as if I were in glory and she, while she sucked, tried to penetrate me with her fingers and I said:

 No, no, no - in a very soft voice and she, at last, penetrated me and I felt a great relief and she cried desperately from emotion.

 (to be continued in the next issue)

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I tied my verses to sordid sewers,
for no one to listen to their sounds
and went to school.

I stood straight and while I talked to the teacher, I twisted the neck of any word, thinking that that way I would grow up.

And a grown-up man needs something to take after him. A gesture, a woman, a piece of writing.

Others will do the new thing, I mean that someone will have to do the old thing. To that I want to dedicate myself.


There was a time when you could talk of interior strengths. Now the only strength is that of money, meaning, all energy is exterior to the subject.


Each time, each day that goes by, she comes more modern. Today when I tried to kiss her she drew me apart tenderly, and told me: the other day's kiss was marvellous, let's not spoil it.


Today I haven't written a single word.

A dead day, I say to myself, a piece of mortadella thrown to the dogs.


After each summer, when she returns from visiting her parents, she thinks once more that people can be owned or left.

If she isn't still mad, one of these summers she will accomplish it.


He told it to me sincerely: "I don't want to be mortal, I want to be free" and I, with a trace of nostalgia, because of my own youth, advised him to undergo psychoanalysis four times a week.

Dear Maestro:

Unavoidable place to start making questions about any question.

I think that the work of interpretation that is shown in the psychoanalytical sessions of Indio Gris is unparalleled.

The verb "to rain" is impersonal grammatically speaking, because if from psychoanalysis we state that enunciation, that statement has a subject of enunciation, that is why I thought that the psychoanalyst of the last session was masterly.

There is a double debate in the psychoanalytical field, one referred to formation, terminable or interminable?, which opens two currents of opinion, two ways of conceiving knowledge. The ones who conceive it like an accumulation of knowledge, and which conveys a who knows, and the ones who conceive knowledge supported by significance, that is to say knowledge as an infinite pleasure, where the analytical pact, a significant articulation, in the end produces more knowledge than any knowledge coming from the participants.

A high-hierarchy executive without his place in the company is no high-hierarchy executive, his intelligence when he is active is different to when he is retired. And it isn't because he is old that he is no longer intelligent but he has stopped to be tied to the significance that allowed him to exercise his knowledge.

Knowledge must be exercised like power, with the only condition of not using it.

Knowledge is supported by significance when I foment that I know, I transform knowledge in knowing, it is like when the psychoanalyst thinks that he has the power when  power really belongs to transference.

Another debate that has arisen is about the psychoanalyst's body, if his/her real presence is to be present or if his/her real presence is made of symbolic presence, that is to say a significant presence.

 To pose the question the way it is being  posed  makes it stop being a psychoanalytical question, because they are posing it from the position of the analysed, and from that viewpoint the psychoanalyst is such because of the analysed, their impasses should deal with the rectification of the way of thinking the psychoanalyst-psychoanalysed significance.

 To equivocate the present body with the presence of the psychoanalyst means not to differentiate the thing of the word that names it, not to symbolise presence and absence, inasmuch absence is one of the strongest forms of presence, and still not to differentiate absence from lack, where what functions or does not function depends on if there was or not what there should have been, but that there is something that had never been, that there is something that never happened and that was the beginning.

 Thank you for this entry that is indicated by a writing hand, where I enter, through the cover of Indio Gris.

 Thank you for listening.

 I love you



Tears of exile

75 pages
3,000 Pts., 18.3 Euros

It contains thirteen illustrations of some of the best paintings of Miguel Oscar Menassa.


Indio Gris