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Nº 71. THURSDAY, OCTOBER 4TH ,2001
FUSIONED - DIRECTED - WRITTEN AND
CORRESPONDED BY: MENASSA 2001
DON'T KNOW HOW TO SPEAK BUT WE DO IT IN SEVERAL LANGUAGES
SPANISH, FRENCH, ENGLISH, GERMAN, ARABIAN,
PORTUGUESE, ITALIAN, CATALAN
GRIS, IS A PRODUCT
OF A FUSION
THE BRIGTHENESS OF THE GREY
THE JARAMA INDIAN
THE FUSION WITH MORE FUTURE OF THE
GRIS Nº 71
asks for freedom and, not, precisely, a freedom
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.
ambitions to be a permanent presence of what is human in that freedom.
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.
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.
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.
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.
words and some love.
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
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.
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.
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.
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
the knapsacks contained something from the universe.
CLASSROOM OF FRENCH
French in Madrid
91 542 42 85. From 8 p.m. to 10 p.m.
ALL YEAR ROUND
I painted a pastel that hasn't much strength or, to put it better, almost no
strength. But as it is the first of this new series, I can expect that the next
ones can become of some value.
have delivered a sermon to the beast before starting my everyday chores.
don't like so many holidays any longer, I don't take advantage of them as I used
to and I get tired of the obligations generated by leisure. It's a sign that I'm
a bit older, which is not bad unless I deny it.
pastel I have in front of me lacks a bit of black. Could it mean, I ask myself,
that what is black isn't good not even to paint, when it is so necessary to
I feel that I'm doing things well this time. I hope not to let myself be
defeated by my mother. I have to attack her in all fronts. From purity to lust.
In her, any extreme has to do with envy.
great man doesn't need anyone and what he needs he buys.
grand man desires and loves, but he doesn't need and when he needs, he buys.
grand man remembers his mother, but he doesn't live with his mother.
grand man recalls his childhood, but he no longer crawls.
believe that the same rules can be applied to women.
it over, Doctor, there's no way back. He who wants to go back is transformed
into an idiot and must be treated as such: NOR JALE, NO PUNISHMENT,
RE-EDUCATION. What do you think, Doctor?
We'll continue the next
Amelia Díez Cuesta
Appointments: 91 402 61 93
Móvil: 607 76 21 04
91 883 02 13
ALCALÁ DE HENARES (MADRID)
I don't have a
father, I don't have a mother, everything is the same for me…
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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
said it to you in silence
let go the mooring lines,
freedom doesn't exist.
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.
am, I said it to you in silence,
the last father of the West,
the last lover,
the end of love.
death and desire, I speak life.
name you, beloved, I name you
and naming you is not enough.
your blood over my skin,
that cellular delirium,
your body in my body.
talked and said: to be is impossible.
I recall, however, my beloved,
historical, unexpected subtleties
against the lives of men.
flesh, beloved, your resplendent
bunches of humanity everywhere.
Sores, wounds everywhere. Bloods,
between us recalling death.
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.
be by my side, would be enough for me.
man who belongs to no one,
with his own senses, loves,
a chain of words, life, desire,
penis, I told you, was an imperfection.
of the man whom you desired,
that you remain with me, detained,
quiet in the soul, conversing.
would like to confess to you that I am a solitaire.
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.
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.
time it's about enjoying, living.
Enough with experiments, enough with being,
I wish you to desire,
I don't need you,