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Indio Gris
FUSIONED - DIRECTED - WRITTEN AND CORRESPONDED BY: MENASSA 2002 WE
DON'T KNOW HOW TO SPEAK BUT WE DO IT IN SEVERAL LANGUAGES
INDIO
GRIS, IS A PRODUCT INDIO GRIS Nº 84 YEAR II EDITORIAL I
am really waiting for a miracle. And I don't know if something will
Afterwards
I brush my teeth following the advise of a mature lover Freedom
calls me shouting, poor thing, hallucinated, and I can't hear it. I
don't find the coin and the beggar makes fun of my meanness. THE
MERCILESS DAISY DISCOVERS ITS OWN END AMONG ITS LEAVES To
write, certain nights, Shroud
and cross, At
the bottom of the sea, among fish, Definitely
deviated compass, The
moss under my feet has a smell of old, Living
close to nothingness, DARLING, Intellectual,
with no definite class, I
don't come, by chance, looking for nothing. I
am here because of the scents of the wind. Because
of dispersed words all over the sea,
When
the bell rang for the first time, it surprised me having a sexual fantasy, I
pressed the button to let her in and waited. When she greeted me I noticed that
she had realised something, at least she made it noticeable to me by the way she
kissed me and looked at me when she came into the consulting room, as if my
fantasy were lived by her as an objective reality. -
I come here to feed my hatred. Your eyes remind me of her. I
answered her that my eyes were first-hand, that I couldn't understand how they
could remind anyone if before today my eyes didn't exist. She argued that the
colour was also significant, to what, because I am also a painter, I said
nothing, but I thought we were talking about something else. Afterwards she
continued criticising that my complexion was too dark. I responded to that: -
Better black than white. Later,
there was a silence cut by the sound of an old youthful music, wanting things to
remain hidden even for those who are experiencing them. Time
always surprises me doing something, saying something, so after twenty minutes
of the session, I told her: -
We'll continue the next
time - and she thought that the time was scarce. When she left I felt grand,
ugly, stupid, she, once more, had accomplished not to realise that it had to do
with my job, but with her life.
Remotely,
like a story of old times Remotely,
like a story of old ghosts, Remotely,
as a story of a primitive man, Not
in the time, but in the dreams where time
I
saw how the profiles of time I
was happy, I was happy, that is what I have to say sometime, humanity must
know it, I was happy, the happiest man in the universe, I understood
solitude and thought that it was a small thing, my solitude,
compared to any other solitude, for example the solitude of
centuries, the solitude of the stars. I drift unable to hold the words at
the edge of a sense, I feel that I'm not exactly doing things well, so
that I won't know if with so much noise I will be able to hear the noise
of some weeping. I must be able to pull myself together in front of
disorder, always bourgeoisie, that is to say, that disorder, negligence is
always counter-revolutionary, whatever may be said, and whatever
revolution we may be talking about. INDIO GRIS THIS IS ADVERTISING
Tears
of exile author: It
contains thirteen illustrations of some of the best paintings |
