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Indio Gris
FUSIONED - DIRECTED - WRITTEN AND CORRESPONDED BY: MENASSA 2001 WE
DON'T KNOW HOW TO SPEAK BUT WE DO IT IN SEVERAL LANGUAGES
INDIO
GRIS, IS A PRODUCT INDIO GRIS Nº 83 YEAR II EDITORIAL Leave,
forget little by little who I am. Let
myself sink slowly in the hours of the night, as if the night were a
woman. Write
a poem, where it is clearly shown that my life is over. Aborigine
torn by culture. Small vital monument, made letter. Desperate prey bird,
blinded by the condition of being. In some secret place of my heart, God
has died. At last, all ideals have died. I
go down the last steps. I allow a smile to be seen. I am the one who is
ready to surrender. And beyond any compensation, what I ambition is the
sensation, to know why man likes so much to die, to lose, to become a
slave. I
laugh of myself, I am an idiot who wants to make fun of justice. One who
died before the battle began. Frivolous
and fragrant, I say that what happened to others won't happen to me. And I
let myself be drawn by the tide, and I yawn, because yawning is
fashionable. To demonstrate that one gets bored with the century is
fashionable. What is superfluous, the modern philosophers say, is the
human condition. Desire, desires in another dimension of what is possible,
therefore, politics doesn't exist. Beast
covered in blood, I devour my knowledge. I
am the last gale over the world and I am also the direction of the gale. Here
in the core of my being, a man is hoisted. Let's
do some exercise, that the whole world practises: a backward gaze and off
we go. Stultified,
I try abandoning the set routes. Stultified, the new routes are drawn over
me. And
over me, your body of menaced panther. Claws of a beast, in the very
centre of your childish heart. Nacreous shroud over my neck, your
teeth, white. Red blood for the feast of the chained lovers.
Mother-of-pearl and absence. NEW
YEAR'S EVE I
fall, I am falling by the corners of your mouth, It
isn't that dance is to celebrate my close death, Dance
is so that tremors reach your skin, Before
dying, the black caress twists itself, DARLING, Today,
everything is future. I'll
count one by one each miracle. Today,
I promise you: I won't talk again about damages. From
my past I'll recall your gestures of love. Till I die, I'll look for the
poems where they can be heard. Words,
small words like waves breaking over my skin, each day I had my love for
me. Words like tongues of fire between my thighs, like birds in the heart,
awakening, like kisses of love on my neck. Little
grateful mare, I lick your fingers, I look at your eyes, I smile at you
and pleasure spreads over our land like the sun.
Today,
he arrived desperate, with nothing to say. After more than half an hour of
silence, he quickly said: -
I owe a lot to words. Without words everything would be surly,
unbearable. She usually imagines to be a body with no words. Can you imagine,
doctor? Several hours without pronouncing nothing but groans and cries that
express nothing. It isn't that I dislike to be a chimpanzee, but not all the
time. I ask myself, doctor, who will dare
tell me something that won't hurt me? Who? -
As if the open mirage of night were flowers. -
How do you know it? I went after a flower and its scent was poisoned, it
didn't kill me, but it left me open in a thousand pieces, and I feel a certain
fear to perfumes. Torn to pieces, I pulled out my nose not to sin ever again and
I fell in love completely with a woman who finally was my mother. -
The poison was in me, doctor, they were my own dreams. -
We'll continue the next
time.
-
Conversations about the sexual issue seem very intellectual to me. -
Don't say. You prefer making it, don't you? -
I don't mean that, but to talk about love as something that happens
in the mind… -
Don't be prosaic, love, after Dante is a spiritual thing, always
with more contents of fantasies and words than material events. Love,
darling, as Menassa says, is the deepest human act of human intelligence. -
Yes, damn it, but after Freud, love is garbage, maltreated
infantile remnants, unfathomable hollows, open minced meat without
extensions, something like the unconscious. -
And don't you ever go to the cinema, do you spend the whole day
fucking? -
Not fucking, because there is no one who can put up with that, but
waiting for that moment the whole day, yes.
1 When
a mechanism doesn't work, the order is to make it work. Any other
intention stops being psychoanalytical to transform itself into political.
2 What
monogamy loses is the simultaneity of two different desires, and keeping
in mind that heterosexuality is precisely the simultaneous happening of
two different desires, so different like the feminine and masculine desire
are, I think that what is definitely lost in monogamy, is heterosexuality. 3 Without
violence, LETTER
FROM THE EDITOR I
am the art of declaring oneself defeated, the immortal defeat made song.
Afterwards some will come to tell me that everything wasn't completely
right and it isn't that time when I'll die, that time I'll write some
verses and I'll remain calm, thinking that my intelligence is
irreproachable. And, as it is known, a man who can't be reproached for his
intelligence, nobody can reproach him anything, neither his morality and I
have mine. Grown
up among swamps, vaporous marshes, I mimed my body with the mist. I was
the mud and the melancholy that sinks you in the mud. And I say it one
more time: to start, I started from the bottom. One
day, I remember, there was nothing deeper, blacker than my hunger, I even
thought of stealing, to snatch from a drunkard his glass of wine. I even
thought of sticking my finger up the ass of patience. I even thought
of calming down, to look for a future for myself, but there was
nothing lower, never so much innocence.
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