INDIO GRIS
Weekly magazine through Internet
Nº 71. THURSDAY, OCTOBER  4^TH ,2001

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

Indio Gris

INDIO GRIS Nº 71

YEAR II

EDITORIAL

Poetry asks for freedom and, not, precisely, a freedom  measured by flags.
Poetry is asking the whole time
for a proud freedom,
all the wonder of what is unknown in that freedom.
Not a freedom to be placed as a statue, but
a FREEDOM that destroys all the statues.
Not an obscure and narrow frozen river, but
a big lake and its sun where everything might be possible, even sailing against it if that's what you want.

She ambitions to be a permanent presence of what is human in that freedom.

She furiously shouts among the rocks: everyone or no one. UNIVERSAL THROAT, while on the earth, if someone cannot deal with man, there won't be man.
Each man a man, or everyone or no one.

Trembling and between the tremor, the smoke of the cigar,
and I end up crying vilified because I can't go on any longer
and in the midst of such misery, a grandeur:
The fervent desire of being that freedom, that man.
Fabulous.
             Free, also, from freedom,
she lets me know that I won't be capable.
My unhappiness does not have her approval, but neither her pain.
She, in each encounter, twists my neck until she pulls out
a word, or else, she turns my life into a celebration,  for me not to stop saying.

His freedom is infinite.
More than a dance to be danced by everyone,
a dance that has from everybody, the most precise movement.
I travel without no apparent return.
and I don't carry with me nor weapons, nor alcohol for the road.

Only words and some love.                

Cesira recites Menassa

I have given back almost everything
I am only left with these few tears
to cry over the shoulders
of the one
               who needs my tears
                                              to live.

DARLING, DARLING:

The knapsacks contained the air of the sea,
smells of vegetables eaten under the sun.
Fits of obscure rainy days
and your eyes of mad dove,
of a dying woman very close to light.

The knapsacks contained marine breezes,
entirely free and beautiful antelopes
and that noise of beasts making love,
inventing the destinies of men to come
and that rubbing of fire against fire
and that imperceptible juggling of desire
and a crazy peace dove wounded
by the light of your body opening to the night.

The knapsacks were full of smiles,
even my dead father smiled lively.
the little whore of the French poets,
the poor creature, in my knapsacks, smiled angrily
and a beau, a poor enamoured beau,
sand and honey, cloying, smiled.

Vertiginous angels and my mother, still alive,
knitted one after the other, the incredible,
waken, crazy, smiles of love
and everybody ate and drank vehemently
and the joy of the wind was dance
and the universe itself held up its own madness
and the knapsacks contained something from the universe.

    I don't have a father, I don't have a mother, everything is the same for me…

I don't give up being a doctor, because that was a course of studies.
I don't give up to be a psychoanalyst, because it is a work.
I don't give up to be a father, because that is a function.
I don't give up to be a poet, because I can't.
I don't give up to be a man, because I like it.
If the poem is possible, life is possible.

DARLING, THEY WILL USE ME TO MAKE THE MONUMENT TO THE PENIS

 I said it to you in silence
don't let go the mooring lines,
freedom doesn't exist.

What exists is the folly, the shadows,
the silly slavery of man
towards his occupations,  towards his sexes.
A collection of ultramodern
little animals and big faggots.

I am, I said it to you in silence,
the last father of the West,
the last lover,
the end of love.

Between death and desire, I speak life.

I name you, beloved, I name you
and naming you is not enough.

I recall warmly
your blood over my skin,
that cellular delirium,
your body in my body.

We talked and said: to be is impossible.
I recall, however, my beloved,
historical, unexpected subtleties
against the lives of men.

Your flesh, beloved, your resplendent  flesh,
bunches of humanity everywhere.
Sores, wounds everywhere. Bloods,
between us recalling death.

Now, I say to myself, this can't go on any longer.
I am an artist.
A catastrophe of the soul.
A faith torn by history,
a crossroads for man.

To be by my side, would be enough for me.

A man who belongs to no one,
with his own senses, loves,
a chain of words, life, desire,
inexhaustible pleasure.

The penis, I told you, was an imperfection.

Desire of the man whom you desired,
that you remain with me, detained,
quiet in the soul, conversing.

I would like to confess to you that I am a solitaire.

Since the beginning of time,
among wild beasts, I live fleshes and surfeits.
I am the poet,
in my deep and millenary body,
at the edge of the abysses of madness,
I write my verses slowly and I look at
your uncontrolled race towards death.

Making love time is always more than enough,
we are millions and millions, thousands of centuries,
sharing my bread and my poisons and yet,
my foolish preoccupations for man.

This time it's about enjoying, living.
Enough with experiments, enough with being,
I wish you to desire,
I don't need you,
let's make love.

 subir