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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 81
be nothing is a foolishness compare to the game I propose.
don't have to be blinded by any Light
don't have to be blinded by any light
that hunger left in my nostalgia.
piece of sun fallen forever.
in that not seeing what will be impossible, speaks,
find these moments of our relationship favourable to start to tell you how
I would like things to be between us. And, nevertheless, I choose the
intermittent silence of my verses not to tell you completely, to allow
once more your luxuriant imagination, without which, I must admit, it
would be very difficult for me to go on living.
am, my dear Madam, he who wanted to kill the dove of peace. The bloody
vulture full of fury because ha had been maltreated in love since it was a
baby. Because of that, in the mortal encounters, in the nocturnal discord
of sunrise, there I can tell you of the odours of the sad butterflies dead
before really flying. Those souls without a destiny.
for the pleasure of some flying spirit,
by being unable to return to no place, open after the tremendous
inefficacy, in multi-coloured flames, wrapped among the reasons of her
hatred, I wait for her. Badly wounded, full of horror for what is
in branches, sacrificing some odour, holding back anger and
fear, love has remained in me, inalterable. I know it, in the
strongest hatreds and envies, in the deepest rips, there, poetry nests.
not a liberated imbecile to whom poetry is delivered, it is delivered to
he who gave his life to liberate himself.
She loves me when I show her my face covered in blood. When the grimace of death shows in my face, she adores me.
arrives tranquilly and before anything happens she says to me:
I have finally got fifty minutes for me…
already lying on the couch:
I'm in my first hour of psychoanalysis of the week. It will claim for
vengeance this time. Don't think that today I come here to make a fool of
myself, to freely associate about anything, but about the themes that demand
from me a quick and effective transformation, because of this, doctor, to this
of today's we are going to call it: directed psychoanalysis. to capitalise the
senses! To capitalise the senses! means, to put psychoanalysis to the service of
on philosophy I won't get far. Psychoanalysis not only cures, that is what I
wanted to tell you, but it gives a sensation of well-being.
day, tired of saying so many foolish things, I'll start singing and I'll sing,
for sure, because of the winning ways I received when being a grown-up,
apocalyptic poems, women like me embalmed by pollution.
this time, was clear, conclusive:
If I only speak about what is going to happen,
All right, doctor - she
said to me-, we continue the next time.
arriving, Rosi Provert wouldn't get off the car nor speak. The Professor
got off the car, walked around it and opened Rosi's door, he took her by
the hand and helped her to get out. And that was the moment in which they
had been closer during the whole night. At less than 20 centimetres of
distance, one opposite the other, listening to the other person's
breathing, the genital tremor.
closed her eyes and the Professor kissed her lips in an imperceptible way,
and she felt that everything in her was being torn apart. Perhaps that
what love was about, she thought, what madness!
We'll see each other some other day and continue conversing - the
Professor told her, while she opened the portals of her house.
professor was pleased. While he was driving, he sang a melody in Italian.
Rosi Provert, things were not as simple, nor so clear. She had never
experienced that uneasiness in her lower womb.
he slightly touched her lips in the street, she almost fainted because of
the revolving emotions she had in her chest, in her head, in her legs.
in an armchair of the living-room, but only for an instant, immediately
she went to the bathroom. She carefully cleaned the bathtub. She then
added some bubble bath and let the water run.
going out of the bathroom, she looked at her face in the mirror. She found
herself as beautiful as never before, she let her hair loose, went out of
the bathroom (she did everything in a beating rhythm), she put a Vivaldi's
disk in a mini-component set her mother had given her and took her shoes
ran barefooted through the corridor, the took her skirt off, she looked at
her ass in the mirror of the corridor and saw that she had a little and
and already naked, trying to dance The
Rite of Spring, she came back to reality with the noise of the water
running out of the tub.
to the bathroom to shut the faucet, she noticed herself beautifully
agitated and imagined herself running wildly, in the jungle, a prey of
dived into the tub as if it were the shores of an spectacular river in the
felt her own green eyes reflected in the green foam and she allowed
millions of coloured fish invade her, which like Oriental silks, alighted
over her body and, some of them with the Professor's eyes and, even others
with Evaristo's eyes and even other more, with Josefina's eyes, tried to
trying to escape from those fish, for some moments, voracious of love, and
playing with the green foam discovered her nipples and, in touching them,
was highly impressed about how sensible they were, that they could produce
so much pleasure, and she went on a little longer and pressed a little
and, while Vivaldi, this time, shouted out all the characters, she had her
first one and so, in such a simple way, the difference between life and
death was established in her.
they'll say, but a man is his verses and if he doesn't have his own
verses, his being is property of alien verses.
is a place where the police is similar to the Mafia: they both despise
I can with that, no, the rest is relatively easy.
nothing, only the horror of the dove of the peace dead in my arms.
finds their destiny and becomes blind in front of it.
now on, life will live.
want freedom, not friendship or advice.
found the greatest political
ignorance in the ruling class.
universe, darling, means other lives, out of ourselves.
any money, love is too cruel.
FROM THE EDITOR
have all the patience that a perennial tree must have. Can you imagine
And I'm not as many of my verses say, a songbird, but rather hundreds of songbirds nest in my own entrails. I am, for that reason, the mother of what sings in each songbird. And what I grow against time makes the flight of the birds ephemeral, they call me: POETRY.
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