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FUSIONED - DIRECTED - WRITTEN AND CORRESPONDED BY: MENASSA 2002
DON'T KNOW HOW TO SPEAK BUT WE DO IT IN SEVERAL LANGUAGES
GRIS, IS A PRODUCT
INDIO GRIS Nº 85
have broken so many breezes with my weeping,
of love, weeping of fury, silly weeping.
afterwards the vintages, the turbid wine,
weeping reminds me of a love,
pull out of my eyes the last pearls
like an ox, a cow, a decapitated calf.
exiled from water,
hidden tear, I keep it
of tears, crying of the oceans,
from liquor, from vinegar, poisoned,
was a strong tear which cried,
to remember having suffered so much,
we cried for no reason,
wines, aromatic liquors,
come from the very centre of water,
are things which leave no hope,
I'll cry for the things never cried for.
like hurling rocks,
small tear traverses the future,
cry this verse now
from me, for me, for my things.
write cried weeping in the poem
have been born
and ointments of the past,
clouds, perfect, alter my being.
of power, ardent machine of power,
climb your mountains,
impact produced in you by my first letters, made me doubt on going on
writing about our passionate adventure, for fear of damaging your
sensibility, your pride.
silence is even deeper, your dissociation more extreme.
to help you, I'll tell you that the last times we talked about money, of
the relation between money and your body, and that always disturbs you in
some spectacular way.
would have preferred everything to be for love.
everything would have been for love, my little one, there wouldn't be now
any need for separating. But I want to remind you, darling, that you came
to me to fly and not for dying, as sometimes it seems you would like to,
small and dying of fear between my legs.
leave me, doctor, wait a little longer, I couldn't yet write a poem to my
mother. I came to you, it is true, because I wanted to be like the great
women writers, who are not afraid of anything. Those writers who don't die
in the war, those writers who don't yield in front of any love, those who
burst into tears only in front of a well-written poem. Don't leave me,
doctor, right now, that I had understood that you weren't the roar of the
wind calling me to death, nor the frozen surface of the winds where, at
sundown, I shaped my madness".
didn't say to her to leave, just that time opens a road between us.
time, doctor, of course… our good-bye, the own death of our things,
doctor, we and time".
To put it someway, what had been omitted in the philosophy previous to
Freud was that there was a limit in the human existence, what had been omitted
before the discovery of the unconscious was that man was a mortal being.
Therefore, what was going to be repeated doesn't come from any past, but it came
from the future. What was going to be repeated in the symptom wasn't a
repetition which came from the past, but that psychoanalysis produces such time
where the repetition is triggered from the future. That is to say, from that
material limit to the existence of man is from where that mechanism of
compulsion to repetition is triggered and
allows to elaborate theoretically the instinct of death. A time that, the
people who dare giving it a name, call it anterior future and that it has the
characteristic of not abiding to the essence of the Aristotelian time.
Thanks for now, we'll
continue the next time.
time there were more words, accompanying that oceanic feeling where the
whole body transforms itself into energy and it joins with the energy of
The murmured or
Love, love. How much I enjoy it. Your pussy drags me mad.
my husband shouted:
at my dick, how it swells.
I, lying upwards with my legs flexed, well open, being the frame of the
hole for the utmost pleasure, I went crazy as my friend's tongue ran,
licking from my clitoris to my ass and slightly penetrating my vagina.
astride me, offering me his ass that I could barely reach to lick touching
it with the tip of my tongue and his huge dick well held by his two hands
and his ass that went up and down touching alternatively my tits and his
hands accompanying the movement, made the nacreous drops surge, in
mouthfuls, which fell over my friend's face, and slipped as if they were
pearls detained over my pubis, while she laughed and laughed and she
rubbed her face with my husband's semen as if it were a face cream.
the top we came down in a dive to look at each other in the eyes and say:
great passions between persons are love stories that never began.
happiness: to be able to reign over words already pronounced.
lives corned by his own passions, which, sometimes, are sad.
only way to stop making accounts is to spend 5 and earn 10.
somebody talks about what shit he/she is, he/she clearly wants the whole
world to be made of shit, that is to say, made to measure.
one must stop even though the most beautiful faces may darken.
loosen all reins, all. People must do or say what they can. And if they
can't anything, they will neither be told anything.
live tranquilly can also be terrible.
FROM THE EDITOR
a sort of extraterrestrial intelligence, that is to say, what I would like
to be. Now, who knows when the marine opuscule which weaves the dreams of
the marmot will come that cannot be the grey man of the swamps but simply,
the hidden beauty of the divine mud, to put it in an interesting
way for the footmen of your servants.
write in the typewriter under the influence of a thought ripened under the
sun, I haven't written since a long time ago, I don't know then why I must
write as the Academy dictates to me. I won't let this opportunity pass, I
won't allow them to rob my properties in front of my eyes and if you don't
believe that my properties aren't made of cement it is because you don't
very well know how to see beyond words.
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