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Indio Gris




   18 days from becoming 61 and I don't know what to say. To celebrate my 60th birthday I wrote 4 of my best poems but this time I don't feel like celebrating or else, I don't dare to face the poems from last year. I feel, at moments, not to able to overcome that encounter with words..

It was a total surrender, I became one more word. I had the capacity of joining everything that lived in me but, as in the case of words, in a thousand different combinations. Each day I was someone else on condition of being from the word.

 And it isn't the only problem I have, today she went past me and  dropped these words with emotion:

 - I can't love you because I know who you are.

I wanted to tell her: "I'm nobody in front of you, you can love me", but I preferred to say nothing, to sink into thoughts where the future would present me with agreeable surprises and the I told her:

 - It's no big deal…

And as I remained suspended, she took advantage of the "It's no" of the phrase and disappeared.

 Afterwards, and to confess myself completely before becoming 61, I have vocational problems: I work as a psychoanalyst, I write poems and I make a painting or so and I like this matter passionately but, in reality, day by day I'm becoming a business administrator. And, this being my case, it isn't a question of leaving something aside to be able to do something else. It is about knowing how to add up elegantly several destinies, like living the life of several persons but in my life. And with the friends that surround me I'll end up being a film producer, a script writer for films and plays. With a little effort on my part, at 61 I could start my career as an actor, found an actor's school together with Antonia San Juan and I see myself after becoming 61, delivering some conference, reciting some verse…This time I don't only see myself painting, I also see myself selling the paintings, eating my paella, my thick sirloin, my rebel lettuce, among flavours I recall the crispness of cucumber, the passion of tomato. My fried squids, my Spanish winter boiled dinner and, with nostalgia, my favourite veal entrail. I see myself drinking my beer, my Duero wine.

 And if any journalist would ask about it, I see myself, I see myself at 100 years of age making love with women. And as the poem says, without which, life isn't possible, "one after the other, or else, all at the same time". And I don't only see myself making love with women at 100, but I see myself tomorrow, the next week and as the poem goes, without which life isn't possible: one after the other or, else, all at the same time.

 And if Medicine would come to prohibit my beer, my wine, my fried squids, my painful veal entrail, my fallen tomato, my paella, my scripts, my nostalgia, and if they would come, I say to myself, to prohibit me to love women in flocks, and alone or split and those infinite hams that only love from love, the farewells and the blows and the caress. And if they would come to prohibit my witches, my love ghosts, my fucking, my grandiose fucking of a poet in love with love, if someone would come, I would, in four leaps and in only one stroke of dices, invent a new medicine and OLÉ!

Cesira Cignoni recites Menassa

In the attempt 

In the attempt of giving you all my hours
I broke the hour in a thousand pieces to give you more
I opened the heart of time and made of it a caress,
a grimace of light for your eyes, my little agony.

I walked, like a possessed man, all the roads
without counting the steps, without dreaming any dream
because everything was done to provoke a smile,
a happy slash over the sombre face of love.

And sometimes you laughed and assessed in my favour
enormous kisses that I gave you while you slept
enraptured caresses, clumsy inscrutable sweat.

And in your fragile dreams I was a walker,
someone who would never arrive to no place,
a lover without beads, an invisible necklace.

Madrid, January 15th, 1978


The history of man is a long story, a sort of birds among birds, all flying and mystery, all remoteness.

And however, the world is only one. Relative only in its confines,  every system becomes relative in its limits with nothingness, flees from itself and knows it, has no escape, but to those confines man hasn't arrived yet. For the time being, the world is only one.

Now I try to recover myself. I'm convinced that gods disturb me less than neurotics. If we can't be men, at least let's be gods. The worst thing of a neurotic: their deaf way of repetition. Their mouth always open. Their incapacity to be someone else. Their inconstancy.

Any foolishness does me well, sometimes I think that I should be more demanding, I think that certain fluctuations of my being are absolutely unnecessary. On the other hand I know, that what is unnecessary can produce an irreparable damage in 100 or 150 years.

 I have, at this moment, a sort of inferno between my hands. I'm the apocalypses of sense, a definite alteration of order. I have the possibility of metamorphosis, I'm human.


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

- Look, doctor, what is happening to me is that I'm beginning to have a different way of looking at life and love and in that new gaze I see that everything in my life was in chains.

 It's not that the beloved ones tied me to any empty space,  but that the loved ones like me, submitted by the lack of money, lived chained to a thousand illusions.

 Sometimes everything was reduced for long months to try to find the way of producing enough money for food and those things.

 Sometimes, when we made love, afterwards we asked ourselves almost full of guilt, how much money we had squandered in that love encounter.

 Love encounter that in being submitted by this question to laws that wouldn't consider its existence, was transformed in something else.

 Cruelly, I came to think that if I persisted in following that road, we would end up without love and without money and without knowing which of the two lacks were the worst.

 When one of us could raise his head, simultaneously, he had to stand to see three or four of his companions' heads fell.

 The grotesque scene would surprise so much the one who had raised his, that the paralysis of not knowing how to go on now, would last enough time as to see that someone else would see him fall noisily, together with his head, before he could use it.

 Without a head or else with the head thrown to the floor, or human dignity of which so many books speak so many things, thrown to the floor; or the pride of having been well brought forth, being loved by my mother, thrown to the floor; the only thing that we sometimes were eager for, was to count the smiles as if they were work hours. We thought that someone, someday, among smiles, would feed us.

 We fought for a decent salary, a pleasant leisure time, a passionate love and everything must be accomplished in less than five years.  Afterwards, I imagine, film making will come.

 And I timidly told him to conclude:

 - Did you ever think of working?

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(continued from the previous issue)

Fourth Part

She asks me:

- Do you like me?

 And I answer her:

 - All of you.

 Then she says to me:

 - I'm leaving.

 But then she realises that I still haven't given her my semen. And for her my semen is the most important thing. Her existence makes of any encounter, a marvellous encounter. Her absence can transform a marvellous night like tonight, into nothing.

I, that knew the way she thought of the universe, immediately after she told me "I'm leaving" and noticed the question of the semen, I told her:

- Come, my little baby.

 She would notice what had happened but instead of coming, she would get into the bathroom pretending to leave, but not yet, because she would quickly get out of the bathroom and start an apparently unimportant conversation about three or four women who, generally, would make her jealous.

- And it's so-and-so again. Did you see the tits she has? And each time she looks at you, it seems that she will offer them for you to suck. And did you see the mouth she has?, I imagine her sucking your ass and I go mad in jealousy, that's what happens to me. And when at parties you speak over the ear to that other little whore, I sense you are telling her that you are going to suck her pussy, stay calm, you tell her over her ear, that afterwards you are going to suck it.

 - Do you imagine? -she told me, looking at my dick to see if what she has been saying, had caused some results.

 Though the results couldn't be noticed in my dick, my penis yet, they had caused its effects. She was capable of defeating her invincible jealousy for a bit of my semen and that was what moved me.

 - I imagine -I told her - having so many desires, next week's sexual work, with so many pussies, so many asses, such a magnificent light spread all over the universe, I can imagine a small cabaret in London, where you and your beloved women dance for me.

 And then she would go mad and my dick would become like an iron bar again.

 - Don't talk about dances, son of a bitch. How they would move those asses as to leave you frozen, to kill you from a heart attack, son of a bitch. Now you will have to fuck it. Fuck it, I tell you to fuck it.

 And I got my enormous dick closer to her pussy, but I wouldn't put it in, I played with my dick up and down, around it and she, all of a sudden would ask me, would supplicate me.

 - Please, put it in it, please, look how beautiful it is, look how it opens.

 And she would open it herself.

 - See how it waits for you.

 And there I'd introduce my dick up to the balls and she'd call me with all my women's names, and I saw them so beautiful fucking god, giving birth to universe.

 She, in the most extreme edges of her humanity, separates me from her when she was about to come and she would turn in the bed with her ass upwards.

 I, with my dick as a new motorcycle, sucked her ass frenetically and while her ass opened  like a flower, she screamed higher:

 - Not to her, not to her.

 And it was then, I think, when I told her:

 - Yes, I'm going to fuck her.

 And that would turn her crazier and she'd open more and more to receive love and I could no longer hold up and told her:

 - I'm going to fuck her ass.

 And suddenly I put it all in and she screamed and said to me:

 - No, no.

 And she enjoyed as a stultified beast and I would apply small slaps on her buttocks and she now shouted:

 - Kill her, kill that bitch - and then she'd relax and say while she received my semen:

 - I love you, my love, I love you, I also desire her.

 I'd tranquillise myself at last,  I never knew if she could tranquillise, but in receiving my semen as a trophy, she'd fill herself up with love for me, and that love she felt, tranquillised her.


What do you think?

Pornography   or     Eroticism

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I'm not willing to swallow the fish hook again. Life has been done by no one yet. And to anyone trying to begin, it would cost a relatively big work to accomplish it.


What wears out isn't the nervous cells, what wears out is what surrounds the nervous cell, that is to say, social relations.


A psychoanalyst cures more because of what he is, rather than for what he says.


Move away until I see you. Pass again to lose you.


About them, this century, it is always known how they are going to react. If one can put up with the permanent instability of their character, to lead them is relatively simple.


Two lives tying themselves to each other brutally, aren't two lives.


I see a future opening in my entrails,
I see my heart swelling with happiness.
I attack my previous verses without mercy
and spit the face of gold and misery.

I'm the crazy twentieth century, I'm afraid of myself.
I make love and catch incurable illnesses.
I work, with zeal, to be plundered.
I write verses to shove them up my ass.

Everything but my anxiousness is calculated for me.
Everything but my desire is computerised for me.
Everything but my thirst is set in order for me.

When I write, clocks break
and that future opened in my entrails,
liberates itself from me, it becomes the flesh of the world.  

Dear Indio,

Thank you for accompanying us along summer
while holidays uninhabited the city, while the heat
invaded everything…
To overfly tedium and chronic stupidity, they became wings of words.
There was no lack of unforgettable verses, nor love words, nor witty    
interpretations, nor voluptuous palpitations…
Multicoloured wings against the almost generalised madness.
The only thing I'm sorry about is that us, your readers, do not know
how to accompany you better]
in your delicate and beautiful task that does so much for our well-
being and our daily life.

Thank you for making flying possible.

A kiss

Your reader N° 11,969.


  Sigmund Freud
Jacques Lacan
Hegel - Marx - Heidegger

TEL.: 91 542 33 49

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