I
dedicate this poem, in
general, to Everybody.
To Latin-America, because I love its future explosion.
To the famous North America, because my poetry
also sings to all that is dying. To old Europe,
and also to the second Europe, because I fear
for the future of Man in general.
To my friends, to my beautiful women,
and to the survivors of any slaughter.
To the filthy people, in general to the foreigners,
to the people who still don't have a
place to live.
To
the conquerors,
to the famous queen, Christian and masculine,
our beloved Isabel, and to her Fernando, beloved,
her grand love, her perfect calculation,
and to every criminal,
who has stepped,
-for the zeal of the conquest-
our small and large, out
of proportion, America.
To my children,
and to the sailors from the Potemkin battleship.
To the warm mothers of my children, to all mothers,
for having endured,
during 5,000 years,
the same chore.
To the women from love and anger, and whatever they may say,
I dedicate it also to the woman who had
the joy not to die. To "La Pasionaria",
for whom forty years of errors and frozen gusts
were not enough. And to Evita,
Because she died of an immortal cancer,
I
mean, the supreme ambition of eating herself.
To all the cursed, for a sort of love,
for the futility of their cries to the wind with no destiny,
for
the terrible sores and the sublime bursts
of their infernal poor madness.
To my friends, the only poets of this century,
a special dedication: Friends, IT'S NOT WORKING ANY LONGER,
it is simply about writing,
one more verse than them. The Last one,
that will say, it must be this way, all
the contrary.
I dedicate this book to get rid of them,
to the surrealists and to their pale sexuality,
which appeared after
the war and surrounded
by beloved relatives, because the question was
not to go deep. So finally,
to touch and leave.
Set off to the roads, idiots,
never protect your own bread,
and amen,
with a sort of anger, a mixture
of a few demons and silly drugs,
to the incredible whore, the crazy virgin.
And with an accent of paternal sadness, amen,
to Nadia, the lousy, filthy beggar. And vociferate,
just in case, that so little shit among the flowers,
doesn't have its true smell.
I reserve my last dedication to speak about death.
I was Pichon Riviere, our beloved,
the inventor of grupal madness and I ask,
when left with no voice, that nothing be said. You must know,
I can't answer.
I was my dear palls,
those with bold eyes, opened to the future,
those with the big blind eyes, THE MACHINE-GUNNED,
And we require for not dying, flags, millions of flags,
and from poetry all its eternal fire.
I was the renown dead,
those who died with nothing to lose, the dispossessed,
those of the bread, only in some brief sunsets,
and however,
of few words, andbecause
of the secular fear of death ,
we'll be, if everything goes right, the Modern Slaves.
And we don't ask for mercy, for us.
Chains against chains, rubbing each other infinitely,
because of the great closeness among brothers,
we promise it:
we won't stop death, but the noise will be deafening.
I was the dead poetry,
and since then, the best live with us.
For
them, the ultimate funeral, the final cremation and
then to fly,
because we already wrote:
that our words may flood,
-with the sole purpose of flooding- the nearby villages.
May everything be useful, we must not be convinced,
because if it is about being, we also were,
the death of death,
the tenebrous journey through the underworld of cemeteries,
and among the tombs of thenational heroes, we were, the wild eroticism.
The heaviest gravestones and their violent inscriptions:
Here lies the singer and next to his tomb
his beloved lies, and everything
can be a stratagem, a
black trick.
He was the singer of singers, he lived five thousand years.
I was everything that died with the big bomb.
Swarms of dreams riddled by the particles,
-horrors of the metallic transformations-
and the splendid and portentous atomic chamber pot. The final shit.
I
am finally,
and this time I excuse myself for my rudeness,
the dead who speaks. A
miracle of poetry.
A ferocious combination of everything against everything, the Mutant,
the diabolic experiment of madness,
against the atomic final of the century:
in only one voice all the words.
And now I can say,
that I am immune to the ferocious bomb and
to its consequences.
A sort of indomitable savage, barbarian in style.
The non-defeatist speaking fireball.
I
live in a far away country,
in the south of Europe. I live, as a habit, in its own centre.
At the south of the city, where the city is itself and its end.
The emptiness where the drains land, the
true limit,
between freedom and madness. I mean that Buenos Aires
hasn't died, because living, I live in its suburbs.
And nevertheless, -because of the old vice of mystery-
no one suspects. Standing on
the sidewalk of my house,
tilted, my legs crossed, and with my right leg backwards
leaning against the new traffic light, and
the cigarette
hanging from my mouth as if I were a braggart,
and nevertheless, they think I am a misunderstanding,
a wild grasss grown unexpectedly out of season.
I grow with difficulties, under the tense gaze
of the amazed farmers. So much beauty
for the end of the century, hadn't been forecasted.
And for that reason, for having infringed the law of apparitions
the opaque murmur of slander looms over me,
Transform
us from avant-garde into elite, revolution
your life.
Don't stand any longer
the weight
of our words.
SPEAK.
In
the end of the century, nothing is little for me.
I am a courageous man, that is to say,
a chronic disillusioned person, a
starving man.
Yesterday
I resuscitated because it is just the same
to
open your mouth than shutting it.
I am, therefore, the resuscitated one,
the robust man who had no bread.
A man quartered by hunger, The small,
piece of flesh and its word, the stench.
Don't look for me out
of you, I am invisible,
a sort of intestinal clogged shit,
a memorable fart at point-blank range, I mean,
the rotund drums of the fatal tachycardia.
An unexpected stabbing pain in the middle of the heart.
To come about, I come about from a country, where
dying
was not enough. I am the profound one,
he
who believed in freedom, the ambitious one,
he who was attacked by the fever,
he who costed more. I have,
in my manners, for the conquest of the universe,
the illuminated Stupidity: to
open my mouth and to shut my mouth
sixty times per minute, and each time to
emit a sound,
and each time to produce
the perfect silence, the deviation, the new direction.
A little farther from truth, power doesn't exist.
It would be convenient,
then, to ration hatred
to prevent heart diseases.
To hate, to hate, I hate bread,
because of a kind of anger towards what is biological
and to its eternal drug addicts, -sick people without knowing-
the eaters of bread.
I
was ready, I remember it, to give my whole life.
I lived, I assure you, among cannibals.
I was their king, the greatest devourer of bread,
and
they called me ever-ruminating jaw.
Workers of tiredness, no more bread, let's
go after gold.
Let's oppose to the morale of their factories,
of their national schools, our own morale:
we don't believe in hunger, we are survivors,
and we oppose to the vapours of their musty alcohol, the
poisoned smoke of my verses.
Tonight, the last one, I want to party.
A slow agony, until sunrise, with fire of liquors,
with our drugs of perennial vision and
the famous,
brilliant paint for Indians on our faces,
on our chest moulded by life,
on the architectonic asses of beautiful women.
Red
drums, artists of the noise, for the dance.
Each
hour dancing, is a miracle of life.
Each
hour dancing, transform itself into millenniums.
To be, with this rhythm, I assure you,
we'll be historic.
And
now, to fight for power and make out of that
an entertainment.
The first stepwill have to do with
garbage recollection. It will be necessary
to recollect all the filth.
With us,
the old-fashioned fragrance of old filth
and the warm and youthful scent
of the small filth, the children's filth.
We'll go all together, always, and we'll live
from bad to worse each time. Slowly, we'll dominate
the world.
We know it, none of us will follow the good path.
Man will die on his knees or he won't die.
Slave of his own madness, of his quick, mortal
stupidity.
The
poet wants to rule
all that foolishness and he can.
Rereading my writings, you will notice that I
am
a great leader, a soul without
destiny, a poor man.
To
own, I owned everything,
the pale knowledge of the idiots,
the hoarse joy of the moribund, my poor pals,
my
poor black angels,
my renown filthy people, my martyrs.
We
knew everything about war, we feel nauseated.
The macerated fleshes, the chests covered
with blood,
the souls pulled out
of their places to be thrown
to emptiness, forever.
Since then we advise, to have no more roots,
no longer the illusion of
having, for
us.
We carry death with us, we are human.
The caricature of what is unspeakable. A war of words
against biology, against
modern physics.
We are the great alternative, the anti-atomic sex.
The truth, the perfect symptom. I
am
the only one who doesn't change, death goes by,
and however,
I keep myself young.
Shit
goes by, and I still maintain
my perfumes,
my virginal ass, my woman undamaged,
the passports and love in order.
Forever
poet, I didn't need of my body to live.
To the voracious claims of justice,
I kept giving it words, I am for that,
the only complete piece of the system.
My body doesn't exist.
This
time, to come, we have come for the
prestige.
We are the ones who unclog
the sewers, the
filthy ones,
the
last seekers of lice, the laughingstock,
those who emigrated without knowing, the foreigners.
We
are, my love, the swell of shit against antiquity.
Those in charge of touching the enfant
terrible's ass,
the beautiful and tiny cups of porcelain,
and your gesture of queen,
among the highest tops of the trees.
We
are the barbarians, we come,
to put it someway, to prick balloons.
INDIO GRIS
THIS IS ADVERTISING
Tears
of exile
author: MIGUEL OSCAR MENASSA 75
pages 18.30 Euros,
3,000 Pts.
It
contains thirteen illustrations of some of the best paintings of
Miguel Oscar Menassa.
