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Manifesto Minor Je ne crois pas comme ils croient, je ne vive pas comme ils vivent, je n'aime pas comme ils aiment, je mourrai comme ils meurent. Marguerite Yourcenar Persistent desire of desert this pitiful place, soon and forever; I’m no longer waiting for pearly gates or limbos. Since my fifteen or sixteen, not a single day I have stopped to consider committing suicide, the perfect answer to this awful world; and I have predicted to do the definitive perform before my thirties. However, I will turn forty-three the next month, and I still, ¥oh ego! `trying to justify me on this minor manifesto. Even if for ten years, I have decided to say NO to almost everything, I continue to please me routinely with small illusions: the eyes of a girl or her ass, a particular word for a poem, the progress from the physics, and not much more. Singular autism, broken fate, stranded in this misery valley, hostage in this sordid country-jail, territory governed by brute butchers, where unfortunately I was born, butI hope not to die. Owner at last of a definite No; No to all fatherlands, silly or no; I refuse to bear a nation on the face. No to all touching bridges, Not to the primitive habit of frequenting the supposed pairs to reinforce the own existence, I avoid those grubby cafÊs where pathetic dummies exhibits their miseries, where they pose its fake loneliness and congratulate reciprocally for their insignificant achievements. No to any aberrant love, Ah! That, that people calls love, two persons rubbing each other their shit-lives as it were the great thing, No to the efficiency of all jobs, even the intellectual ones, except the physics; but I am an ignorant in that field. No to the

contemporary art in all their artsy-craftsy ways; weak treadmill, No to the promise of heavens or hells which control is in faulty religions, No to the personal paltry poetry or from the others; linguistics ‘tricks, anemic regulated verses, deathly complaisant light that nothing illuminates. Vulgari elocuentia (all books fall of my hands) No to the lyrical circus of the hierarchical poetasters, No to 'le dur dĂŠsir de durer' of Eluard, No to have too heavy possessions: always dressed by thrift shops, Not a car, a bed, a woman, or a personal library, or even a coffin, No to pets ,although in general I sympathize whit all animals, I have always see with distrust the adult that needs the company and affection of a dog (or another pet) to fill their affective lacks or for the necessity of imposing authority on other ; submission that shows the fascist that they have inside, really pathetic. Neither to procreate, abominable crime, long live for the joy lust without end. No to the certitude of the daily mirror ,No to the hallucinogenic reality, I finally embrace the vacuum, No the buddhist one, mild zenith; but one made of flesh, truly, vivid, clear, without blessing utopian ends; every morning all mornings, every night my night, each start an uncertain end, probable route, tidy hell without a schedule, in my white bathrobe hoping to be nothing, totally nothing, until the stars stop to appear through my skylight, until I returns into atoms; until even this galaxy, in which I have believed to exist/resist, finally disappears into a black hole, , end of this Big Bang that is just our Big Bang. And notice that it was an illusion everything that we took as realtime, because it exist only a fundamental time and it is mathematical. The incomprehensible is also part of the reality, which means that it exist a hidden truth that we not understand yet.

I magnify the NO to extravagant limits, say those who hate me, I skipped all agreements, always ready to leave, not to share, nobody can count on me to reinforce its existence, I hate all brotherhoods; I usually regret more the death of an elephant, than a lethal tsunami. Although I had always felt more empathy for those who are deprived (one day I will be one) that for those that everything possesses; a fact evidences my aversion to humans in general: With some regularity vultures land in front of the house, shredding the garbage’s bags, and spreading its contents everywhere, I have felt compassion for them, even fondness, but when I see indigents making the same thing, most the times I insult them. I only feel sympathy for children, because I see in them - maybe erroneously-the possibility of SOMETHING, but the adults disgust me, mainly the elders, they don’t have any longer the possibility of anything, pests pathetically grasped to their bones. I persist, covert, nothing to wish, drowning me in the anguish, daily perplexity, tamed ruin, nothing gave me the hapless days, I thought, and fell asleep again. And this is my last portrait, final draft: Alone, as a sovereign or a beggar, I devour all streets; the small city repeated in each face, enormous farce. And I still tacit, stay at the limit, I exclude myself, escape, remind the words, pretentious somber ossuary, although other their tiny heavens howl, sweet anarchists, one night devils, dwarf warriors and their petit battles, pitiable lives, nirvanas from 3 to 5, gambling their vacuity in the wheel of the great fortune, complaisant accomplices of the farce, wasted carousel.

No, I don’t celebrate anything, however my gloomy arrogance still requires the carnal pleasure, I need to be tie to a body, beautiful fatigue in continuum. And I continue, solitary dice, tough ,combative, stubborn, accepting all, my truth perishes before the real landscape, and my high mystery is just a ordinary mask, colossal ignorance; then, I give up, confusion total, burning pain, I still mute, and I know that the chaos will continue even if I stop all this: commit suicide. I foresee it, there are other ways, however, I believe, everything will finish abruptly with an burst brain; and please, not ceremonies, it doesn’t exist anything more pathetic that a death body, it will be great not to leave the vulgar presence of a corpse, but at less not saviors souls in the final act, not masses neither muses, not lamas, priests or gongs. And the “je ne regrette rien ”quelle fanfaronnade, je regrette tout. II Only in secret, takes place the insolent miracle of being, only in secret we inhales - oh enigma of the sensuality - the scent of our own dirtiness George Steiner Depression is the psychiatrist diagnosis, easy answer, we should go further on, and ask for what marvel reason, even if in adverse conditions all organism fight to exist, why a particular gene refuses to play this trifling game; would this genetic mutation rather be an irrefutable evidence of evolution ? Another explanation could be the anosmia,that providentially is in me from my early age, providential I say, because the lack of the smell sense has allowed me, I believe, to be less vulnerable to the historical-hysterical circumstances ; called family, country, religion, language and a long etc. unpleasant list.

I have never felt nostalgia for the idyllic past that suppose the childhood, my mother’ scent, the neighborhood, the food. For me is had been easy desert everything: family, language, country and all “cultural Imprinting', responsible of every human silliness. Afterward, I can live everywhere, eat almost any food, speak several languages, stand this short time being at the margin of everything, and an ancient shield is my silence, the mature tear. Die off the last smiles, the last mundane caprice, good-bye to the soft skin of the girls and their stormy fondness, I will hide my final face in a foreign country, other languages I shall speak, other streets to walk around, it will be other my ways, different my struggles, skinny my features, lean my body, and before the fifties, final of this desert; but from now on everything will silence. If the astrophysicists say that the Big Bang exploded in silence, is it not reason to continue making noise. III Nous avons tout à dire, et nous ne pouvons rien dire, voila pourquoi nous recommençons chaque jour. Francis Ponge Once again, I sit down in front the PC; not expecting make a Magnum Opus, but because for fear of the time and to notice that the fingers are at their place… and also the night, and because the solitude is so hurtful to me, that it has became difficult even to be in touch with myself. ¿Why the spirit must be explain with the ruins of the flesh and the words. Even if I’m above and beyond almost everything, I continue building me a presence, but no longer that man dressing a bathrobe on the terrace of a building in suburb of Amsterdam that shows a video; and however who else? Yes, the one that

crosses the forest in dream or on foot could not be other than me, the inaccessible and imperturbable one. Rain falls, I still silent and wait, vacuum dream; the future will darken everything, only remains to add me to the crowd, to the most intense reverberation, and that one who nothing understood by looking at me, is a waste of time if try to ask me something. It would be necessary a secret (sacred) memory not more the duty to write / act to feel the real soul. First, the word was a cult and then it transformed into a profession Schlegel affirms. Poor all truth that are supported by words, ink that waste us, sad shelter, a waste time strangle the words if this is only a way to continue in life. ▼ Again, the abulic vacillates and writes, why to write? I ask myself, and it’s not only the fact to confirm once again the expressionless of any language, but the conviction to fall in derision, trying to clear up the personal irrevocably fatal destiny: unable to be a lover, an artist, a dead man. False skeptic, I glorify the emptiness as system of survival , inept to assume the abolition of myself, perpetuating me in the world, in the others, I exist; I modify the in/ out landscape, temporary routine, solitary parade, however , repulsion for any action, daily feeling to want disappear, discrete, like an angel who goes away, flees. The day begins, explained itself, and the presence obliges to iron the clothes, combs the hair to tolerate the rain, the death, the uncanny mirror. Horror Vacui. IV Hay dos silencios: uno antes de la palabra, es un querer decir; otro después de la palabra, es un saber que no puede decirse lo único que valdría la pena decir.

Octavio Paz The ambiguous task to create a poetry that annuls itself reveals almost a rule for some contemporaries (poets), my purpose ,my intuition- is analogous, not the goal, at the first place ,for me, be a poet, does not suppose certainly be a writer, that means , someone committed to write an "oeuvre". The primary motive that pushes me to write, the use and abuse of the language is an ontological one: the strange necessity that permits evoke me with signs, which perhaps are too far to the devise of my singular identity. Here I am, far away from the conventional writer, for whom always are a tomorrow, a future, a line where to go through; confident horsemen, visionaries of splendid and clear horizons: for me to write is not the case to exhaust an etymology, to invent a style, or to add me to the heap of bleak books that daily come to the market; it is well-known, the words had lost all its poetic, metaphysical, significant supremacy; and at present it is confine to the hypocrite and mediocre media, political speech. I supposed, only an artificial autonomy permits me to continue to force the words, knowing that the prolongation of the "coup des dÊs" is just a linguistic prosody; the poetry betray us; but in the vigil the simple intelligence opts easily for an esthetic triumph in detriment of the full experience that precedes it; the wish is then transgress the original - maternal language, and not be limited to the mere alteration of it, instead abandon any recognizable pronounceable alphabet. To save the text of the disaster of becoming book (Levinas). So I elect the silent yell, the chaos without words, I aspire to the" page blanche�, to an aphasic poetry, esthetics of the silence, mute Babel, lively convocation of death : the suicide ; every single moment is a laconic act; ; and to assume any form of write appearance: a turbid challenge, a not future.



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