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Nº 66. THURSDAY, AUGUST 30TH ,2001




Indio Gris




I have tried everything. To transform myself into Satan,
dress up as a priest, as someone in love or as a woman.
To be Tiresias and Oedipus at the same time.
To redouble my blindness to orgasm.

To grope in the dark, approach without fear,
the broken emptiness of the nothingness of being.
Once I wanted to have a body. To talk.
To separate forever my things from my screams.

Sometimes I tried mystery, gibe.
I wanted to be God and knocked down my body
with hard exercises because I ambitioned
to participate in the greatest tournaments.

We came to be all castrated and
that will have been wonderful.

Later I wanted to become winter,
the desolate steppe that recalls the jungle.
I wanted to be the negative side of things.
A permanent minus one.

A zero crossed out by death.
A word, I would have liked to be,
that would tear to pieces the word.

In my attempts I have travelled. From country to country,
from female to female, from word to word.

And so, violently whipped by desires,
I met love and had more children than senses,
though insignificant, more words than hands.
And I let myself be flooded by strong emotions,
desperate, because I wanted to be poetry.

To centre, to perform a goal from middle field,
that was to capture what cannot be represented,

a woman,

beyond silence and ardour.       

Cesira Cignoni recites Menassa

To arrive, darling, to arrive

I'm arriving, as always, drop by drop,
to the end of the month, love, alienated, deaf, quiet.
With three pennies I feel I am Dylan Thomas
and seventeen florins make me Freud.

At the end of the month, my love, to reach, I try flying.
I gamble two punts, recall two poets, love,
and I kiss the peak of my hope of flying, when
in silence, among verses, I ask God: Mercy.

Wings, God, to reach my beloved at the end of the month.
Little dead wings, skies of light for my mind.
Soul, some soul, God, to reach the end of the month.

Afterwards, hours go by and scraping a direction,
I reach your breasts, love, at the end of the month. Crazy,
bewitched, happy, in love with the arrival.


Thursday was the day of the artistic tribute to the PLAZA DE MAYO MOTHERS.

They were four hours of songs and poems, almost a bloody orgy, where death and song were also the wind.

We 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 up hallucinated.

When 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!

I 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.

 She, 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.

 Today 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.

 And 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!

 I embraced her strongly and we fell asleep.

 The next morning, I got up thinking of a big psychiatric clinic, with place for everybody including also the dead.

 Immersed in an inferno, I try to deliver these words of my fire to some poet.

 My 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 children.

 My desperation has no limits. I let myself fall in the arms of a tango and the fall reaches my father's tomb.

 Here 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.

 I 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.

 Every 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.

 I 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.


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

- 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?

 The 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.

Today, 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.

Sir, 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.

Cero Group 
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Carlos Fernández

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91 883 02 13


( continued from the previous issue)

Third part 

Before she stopped crying I told her:

- Today 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.

   And 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.

 And she would look at me open-mouthed, open-legged and her agile hands, frenetic over her sex again alive, wet with pleasure.

 And there it is when she starts saying between desperate and happy:

 - I can't go on any longer.

 And 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.

And 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.

 There 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.

 (to be continued in the next issue)

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At the beginning, frightened, we could all fit into a sardine tin and now, there is no room for us in the world.


It is about who can live longer. In the end who buries who.

All sarcastic relations from age 40 on has to do with that bet.

The one who lives longer, if only one more day, justifies any corporal perversity. Who could make fun of my overweight in my 85th birthday?

To become a 100 years, without a heart or with one lung missing, it is also news for television.

The body is the body, always the same, what changes is the mind.

The body in what is related to pulsing doesn't get old, what gets old are relations.

And I'm happy when I get up in the morning and I'm alive.


Let's sell our soul for an instant of pleasure and we'll be that nothingness, that irregularity.


Today, I have made a deal with her.
To leave her with all her madness
and that I take care of the costs.


In the purest encounters, there is always a question of money not solved.


If I tolerate not to be the one I was, I can be happy.


When I'm in the world of things I don't always have to be capable; sometimes I'll have to think.

Dear Editor,

To 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.

Two 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."

To transform pain into future, pleasure into desire, is a task for the present though, sometimes, it might seem painful.

Thank you for existing

Carmen Salamanca

P.S.: In the end, I think I wrote to my psychoanalyst. Pardon me for the confusion, and thank you.

Dear Carmen,

Why don't you ask your psychoanalyst  for one more session in order to be able to write a letter to me?

The Indio Gris


promovido pela RBS TV e Zero Hora
para Mára Bellini,

psicoanalista rio-grandense que trouxe a Escola de 
Psicoanálise e Poesía Grupo Cero,
com sede em Madrid e em Buenos Aires, ao Brasil, a Porto Alegre e,
por sua vez traduzao português a revista virtual semanal de poesia e psicoanálise
no jantar dia 31 de agosto as 20h30
no Grêmio Náutico Uniao (Rua Joao Obino,300-PoA)
-Caso queira prestigiar e participar com o Grupo Cero desta homenagem,
comunique-se com a secretaria da Escola.


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