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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 80
are taken away by the wind,
we are words that come from the wind, form the gust,
like torn howls, nerves in freedom.
we are the wails pulled out of the wind.
love which is impossible to place in time,
desperate, open, multiple desire,
spin tied to themselves,
the only thing I ambition is to kill her,
don't mean with this that perhaps, someday, in the bed of some hotel, in
pierce her throat with my fingers,
LUIS ALTHUSSER, I dedicate this page to the screams that you
she died between your arms, but didn't die,
and see the bloody hippopotamus,
the divine little touch
WOULDN'T HAVE DONE IT?
open eyes like open cows,
by these findings, I spend the whole night
is something sordid among the folds of a surrendered heart.
love you, I love you, but in a black well of shame.
love you, I love you, but I get lost in myself,
Clotilde arrived somewhat furious and happy. Nothing in her voice
reflected any hidden sense:
If today I can't tell you what I came to tell you, I'll die… yesterday
I made love with a blind. Today, I feel myself reconciled with you.
up to now had I thought that the blind could make love, too. Perhaps, I said to
myself, the doctor, though blind, might be a good psychoanalyst.
Today, I feel beautiful - she continued -, worth of great men, oceans of
women. The blind man is noble, you know? Tenth dan in karate and he had never
been with a woman before, although during the encounter he mentioned a
"Swift Backward Motion", a good girlfriend of his but, also, a virgin
she talked, I felt like asking her the blind man's name in two or three
opportunities, but when she mentioned the infallible "Swift Backward
Motion", I realised without asking that the person in question was Renato,
the genial blind karate fighter, the chief of Romualdo's body-guards.
noticing that Clotilde's new relations, because of being partially my own
relations, would complicate Clotilde's treatment to an unimaginable point, I
quickly interrupted the encounter. I politely said to her:
The next time we'll have to talk about an increase in my fees.
murmurs that the efforts I make are worthless and therefore it isn't worth
to make them.
make a brutal calculation and say to her:
I'm 60, what the hell do you want me to do?
Nothing, darling, nothing - she said to me.
regained my calm and, in that solitude, I told her:
Here are my hands, cut them. Gain for yourself an ineffable loot.
The most beautiful verses of this century are in my hands.
fell on her knees in front of my feet and kissed my hands with ease
and sucked my dick a little and tickled my ass, while I combed my
hair and recited poems to her in a loud voice, where love reached the
highest peaks and after, vanished.
Don't say it to me
in that way - she shouted desperately-, I don't want to know it, I
want to die without realising anything. Go, go to work.
felt a sort of relief in her letting me, at last,
go to work. On my way to work I avoided three possible accidents
because of my way of driving.
I leave home, I always say to myself:
For he who goes forward, all danger comes from the outside.
The route is the place where more often I remember that I'm 60.
is, in psychoanalysis, the only possibility of seeing or not seeing
intentions towards the candidate demand more than exigency.
have to solve things in my favour, that is to say, in favour of Poetry.
the minimum sometimes accounts for the maximum.
division of work produces civilization.
man without other men is like a man without hands, without speech.
worry, it is the world that is crumbling down and others are left.
the other is structurally spread out, is clearly manifested in the
is also what can't be thought.
escaping war, where shall we end up?
go ahead with the world without being in the world is quite complicated.
athlete of the verb doesn't necessarily have to be weak.
FROM THE EDITOR
in conditions to say that life is a piece of sky crushed by small
feelings, totally set aside of civilization.
don't understand, but I perceive a violence in my writing, that is to say,
I'm perfectly tied to my passions. I feel exploited by life, I have
superior classes above me, everywhere.
don't know how I will go on living with so many bosses who contradict each
other in giving the orders, I really don't know what to do, war against
everything, even though I may give my life for that, which will go anyway.
nor Buenos Aires, nor Madrid, nor any son-of-a-bitch place. My life is in
the south, but in the south of the writing, there where my writing freezes
in a truth, there is my life. Pieces of century, faithlessly spread over
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