FUSIONED - DIRECTED - WRITTEN AND CORRESPONDED BY: MENASSA 2001
DON'T KNOW HOW TO SPEAK BUT WE DO IT IN SEVERAL LANGUAGES
GRIS, IS A PRODUCT
INDIO GRIS Nº 66
have tried everything. To transform myself into Satan,
grope in the dark, approach without fear,
I tried mystery, gibe.
came to be all castrated and
I wanted to become winter,
zero crossed out by death.
my attempts I have travelled. From country to country,
so, violently whipped by desires,
centre, to perform a goal from middle field,
beyond silence and ardour.
arrive, darling, to arrive
arriving, as always, drop by drop,
the end of the month, my love, to reach, I try flying.
God, to reach my beloved at the end of the month.
hours go by and scraping a direction,
was the day of the artistic tribute to the PLAZA DE MAYO MOTHERS.
were four hours of songs and poems, almost a bloody orgy, where death and
song were also the wind.
were tortured and killed several times during those four hours. We also
killed without ceasing. I, as usually happens to me in those cases, ended
I returned home I told Her that the world is shit and that we had
understood almost nothing from life and that in reality we were all a
little insane. She tried to wake up without completely accomplishing it
and in dreams
she said two or three times:
Long live Perón and the Montonera Evita!
shook her lightly and told her:
Don't pretend to be asleep, baby, that I want to tell you that the
world is sinking, crumbling, that very few are left in the world, that we
are already so lonely!
Come - she told me - put your little crazy head between my legs,
can't you see that your gaze makes me tremble?
Leave me alone, baby. I want to tell you that I have my head full
of dead and quartered people. Hands severed in the moment of pulsing a
guitar, throats torn out in the moment of singing, breasts destroyed in
the moment of feeding. I tell you, baby, my head is blown with blood and
pus. Children kicked to death before being born. Men and women killed or
mutilated or immensely sad on the verge of dying.
while I died a thousand times without dying and cried like a faggot in the
previous lines, had pressed her buttocks against my pubis with certain
firmness. I loved those buttocks, that daddy's little ass, so many times
fucked by me. Buttocks opened without scruples and I recalled that for
that ass I
had given half of my life, but just at that moment…death had
frozen my soul and I told it to her:
My love, today 30,000 missing people are pulling my dick down, to
the secret tunnels, down, darling, to the secret tombs, down darling, a
fall where death freezes your blood.
I saw all of them die one more time. Touch me - I told her, for her not to
mistrust in such a cemetery.
Darling, sex doesn't exist.
she touched me, lightly, first with the back of her hand she played with
my pubic hair almost to the point of laugh or excitement, then with the
palm of her hand she caressed me under my balls, making her long and thin
fingers reach my anus, closed by terror and, without touching my dick she
directly sucked it. And while her tongue moved desperately against death,
I came to think that this time she was right. I let myself be carried away
by the rhythm marked by her tongue against the frozen shadows of my night
and slowly started to move. She, grateful, flung her mouth against mine
and kissed me
endlessly, afterwards, between moans and sobs, she pressed herself
strongly against me and told me:
It was also my Motherland, I'm dead, too: Love me!
embraced her strongly and we fell asleep.
next morning, I got up thinking of a big psychiatric clinic, with place
for everybody including also the dead.
in an inferno, I try to deliver these words of my fire to some poet.
head is on the verge of blowing itself up, the crying of the whole
humanity is concentrated today in my hands. The perfect pain of a billion
mothers crying for their children forever dead. The entire earth
bloodstained, crying hopelessly for the unlimited violence of their
desperation has no limits. I let myself fall in the arms of a tango and
the fall reaches my father's tomb.
I am father, I have come to uncover the last secrets of the being of
poetry. I lie down by your side and I am that grey ash that flies among my
verses on its way to truth. This heaven of mine which I suffer. A heaven
without God, without paradise, without return.
come about in your being as an antique Egyptian mummy, and I vanish among
fragrances of palatial jasmines and anisettes. I search in your name the
memory of some grandeur and I find myself
in the centre of your heart.
story coming out of your lips was to maintain my name in space. A tall,
strong, handsome man, because of those things that poetry has, all the
desert will be in your gaze. Every city, every war will grasp to his
writing in order not to die. A poem will be written at the end of this
century, which will have to be lived for two thousand years to comprehend
its essence of future.
have spent the afternoon and the worms ask for their place in my father's
tomb, I kiss for the last time my father's lips when falling and, with
elegance I leave with no destiny towards your arms.
Doctor, you know,
I can be a genial writer. Yesterday afternoon I told my husband that I
had lain down, pardon the word, with you, with my psychoanalyst. And I, you know
doctor, amazed, with my eyes opened because of his shouts, asked him:
Why darling, is it worse that it has been with my psychoanalyst?
question made my heart stop beating, my thought, the question was addressed to
me. Why? I asked myself on the other hand, should it be wrong to make love with
the psychoanalyst, and then I asked her:
And how was it?
But we haven't make love yet, doctor, what are you asking me?
How was it? Did you perhaps feel desires of dying, of being someone else?
No, doctor, you know how it was for me, I tell you myself so that you
don't have to bother. If we'd make love, it wouldn't be good for me, your little
queen, I only can with my mother, with her in general, with Death, with you if
you were able to take me with you the rest of your life. But you are more that a
coward, you are a ripe fruit on the verge of rotting, you almost don't desire
any longer and however, this rapture I feel for you… But no, I couldn't.
And what about you, doctor?
Up to here and not knowing completely why, I have pleased you more than
what your mental health could stand, without suffering from unbalanced mental
conditions which are affecting you at this moment. I have been your mother and,
what is happening to you now is the same as what happens to that child whose
mother holds in her arms until he is seven and afterwards takes him to the
doctor because the child has difficulty in walking. I accept without resisting
your complaints about my work, for not
having realised before the kind of situation that existed between us, to
be able to tell you immediately that in many occasions we had spoken these same
words and I want you to recall that you rejected the idea, got very nervous, lit
a pot cigarette and at last you told me to stop saying nonsense and that if I
continued to work in such a brutal way, you would never pay me again five
thousand pesetas per page.
I won't be able to get to the end, today, it would be better that I keep a
certain silence, she will already tell me when I should speak.
we are the sad, gagged puppets. Time has been broken, the hours flee in despair
one after the other.
Love has arrived. The
minutes are centuries, you are the sun; your warmth arrives to me from far away,
when I'm in love, your light accompanies me the whole day and great part of the
night in my dreams, that's why, doctor, I prefer to hate you, to get away from
you, forget you.
she stopped crying I told her:
my love, today give me the impossible. And she would cuddle up next to me
and would start to dream and would speak in a loud voice for me and that
would lead to another fuck.
later still, when we were about to say good-bye, I would tell her:
Touch your pussy. As you are going to touch it tomorrow when we
speak on the phone. Come on, baby, touch your pussy. Yes, like this, like
this, the way I do it.
she would look at me open-mouthed, open-legged and her agile hands,
frenetic over her sex again alive, wet with pleasure.
there it is when she starts saying between desperate and happy:
I can't go on any longer.
she continues playing with her sex and introduces slightly the tip of her
fingers. What she does, makes her desperate up to horror and screams:
I can't keep on like this, I want someone to break my pussy, I
can't keep on.
she continues playing with her sex and introduces slightly the tip of her
fingers and my dick is hard as a piece of iron, but I feel that it is too
small for that dreamy pussy, and I wet my hand with saliva and I get
myself between her legs and she continues playing with her sex, more horny
all the time and she again says like agonising:
I can't keep on like this, I want someone to break my pussy.
I put all my fingers together, one over the other, and while I say to her:
No baby, no. But who is going to fuck you now? - and I start to
introduce slowly my whole hand inside her pussy and she enjoys like mad
and rolls about and I shout to her:
I don't want, I don't want - and I slowly continue putting my hand and she
screams and screams and screams the names of all her beloved men, and I
put my hand up to the bottom and then we stay tranquil, like lovers.
the beginning, frightened, we could all fit into a sardine tin and now,
there is no room for us in the world.
is about who can live longer. In the end who buries who.
sarcastic relations from age 40 on has to do with that bet.
one who lives longer, if only one more day, justifies any corporal
perversity. Who could make fun of my overweight in my 85th
become a 100 years, without a heart or with one lung missing, it is also
news for television.
body is the body, always the same, what changes is the mind.
body in what is related to pulsing doesn't get old, what gets old are
I'm happy when I get up in the morning and I'm alive.
sell our soul for an instant of pleasure and we'll be that nothingness,
I have made a deal with her.
the purest encounters, there is always a question of money not solved.
I tolerate not to be the one I was, I can be happy.
I'm in the world of things I don't always have to be capable; sometimes
I'll have to think.
write to you makes me feel anxious from the first moment, because I
already doubted about the way I should address you. I wanted to flee, but
the insistence of errors when typing pushes me to continue.
correlative infinitives make me remember a phrase from the last Indio
Gris: "Before the end of the year, my little one, I want to let her
know that we won't be alone again."
transform pain into future, pleasure into desire, is a task for the
present though, sometimes, it might seem painful.
you for existing
In the end, I think I wrote to my psychoanalyst. Pardon me for the
confusion, and thank you.
don't you ask your psychoanalyst
for one more session in order to be able to write a letter to me?
The Indio Gris
A ESCOLA DE PSICOANALISE
COMUNICA A ENTREGA DO
psicoanalista rio-grandense que trouxe a Escola de
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