Melting Pot et vin blanc doux

Parce qu'on peut pas compter que sur la Providence.

mercredi 25 avril 2007

One more

 

One more

One without reason

But since the others

Are wondering the questions of others

And answering them with the words of others

What else to do

Than write, like the others

And hesitate

And repeat

And search

And search again

Not find

Get stiff bored

Self tell it is useless

One had better earn one’s life

But my life, I’ve got it, my life

I needn’t earn it

It’s not a problem at all

All the rest is problems

But they’ve been all settled before

The all have asked themselves

About any small subject

So what’s left for me

They’ve taken all convenient words

The nice words to make verb

The foamy ones, hot ones, big ones

The skies, the stars, the lanterns

And these rough flappy waves

Rage and ravage red rocks

It’s full of dark and full of shrieks

It’s full of blood and full of sex

Full of suckers and of rubies

So what’s left for me

Should I keep silent, wondering

Without writing, without sleeping

Do I have to search for myself

Without telling, even the caretaker

The midget who’s running under my wooden floor

The wridgtabrous in my pocket

The priest in my drawer

Do I have do I have to sound myself

All alone without any extern sister

Who grabs your weenie

And lards you like a policeman

With a Vaselined spear

Do I have do I have to stuff me

A pipe in the nostril

Against a brain uraemia

And see my words flow

They have all wondered

I’m no longer allowed to talk

They’ve taken all the nice shinings

They’re all settled up above

Where poets are to stand

With pedal lyres

With eight plowshared lyres

And Pegasus with reactors

I don’t have the smallest subject

I’m only left the flattest words

All the schmuck words all the soft words

I’m only left me I this that

I’m only left whose who what’s what

Does her and him, they we you nor

How do you want me to work out

A poem with this sort of words

Never mind, I won’t do any.

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