lundi 8 octobre 2007
I want a fish bone shaped life
I want a
fish bone shaped life
Lying on a
blue plate
I want a
thingamajig shaped life
In the deep
bottom of a contraption
A
hands-filled-with-sand shaped life
In form of
green loaf or jug
In form of
slabby slipper
In form of
faridondaine
Of chimney
sweep or lilac
Of ground
filled with stones
Of wild
hairdresser
Or besotted
eiderdown
I want a
life in form of you
And I’ve
got it, but it is still not enough
I’m never happy.
Je découvre aujourd'hui (on est aux environs de mars) qu'il y a une autre traduction proposée là
samedi 15 septembre 2007
One day
One day,
There’ll be
something more than the day
Something
franker that will be called Jode
Something
as translucent as rosin is
That one will
elegantly crimp in an eye
There will
be the auraille, crueler
The
volutin, more casual
The summum,
less never ending
The baouf,
still covered with snow
There will
be the chalmondre
The
ivrumini, the barhoic
And a whole
field of analognes
The hours
will be different
Not the
same, without result
No use to
decide right now
The precise
details of all this
One thing
remains certain: one day
There’ll be
something more than the day
dimanche 15 juillet 2007
Time to live
Time to live
He rushed down the hill
Stones were rolling under his feet
Up there in between four walls
The alarm was singing joyless
He was smelling the scent of trees
With his body just like a forge
Light was flooding along with him
Making of his shadow a dance.
Hope they leave me time enough
He was jumping across hair grass
He picked a pair of yellow leaves
Deeply imbued with sap and sun
The blue steel cannons were spitting
Short flames of dry fire
Hope they leave me time enough
He reached the waterside
He plunged his face into the flow
He laughed out of joy he drank
Hope they leave me time enough
He got up to jump
Hope they leave me time enough
A burning yellow brass bee
Stoke him down here on the bank
Blood and water went blending
He’d had time enough to see
Time enough to drink the stream
Time to bite into
A couple of sunny leaves
Time to laugh at his killer
Time to reach the other shore
Time to run towards his wife
He’d had time to live
samedi 16 juin 2007
Arab Poem
We were
screwing, when I saw the shadow of a tapir,
Sweet love,
rushing across your black pupil.
I stood up,
before he could blow a whisper
I killed
the insurgent of a gandoura stroke.
This
adventure took place on top of Mounts Chérif
The monster
was twitching, like a restless machine
I shouted,
Animal, you seem to be stubborn
I jumped on
his sturdy backbone
And he
groaned a plaintive grizzling
And fell
dead nearby the trims
Allah!
dimanche 10 juin 2007
There is still enough
They’re
breaking the world
Into small
pieces
They’re
breaking the world
With a
hammer blow
I don’t
give a dam
I don’t
give a dam
There is
still enough for me
There is
still enough
Since I
still can love
A blue
feather
A sandy
track
Since I
still can love
A scary bird
A thin
blade of grass
A dewdrop
A wooden
cricket
They can
break the world
Into small
pieces
There is
still enough for me
There is
still enough
I’ll still
have a breath of air
And a tiny
thread of life
A bit of
light in my eye
And the
wind in the nettles
And even,
even,
If they
throw me into jail
There is
still enough for me
There is
still enough
Since I
still can love
This
corroded rock
And these
iron hooks
Still
covered with blood
I love it,
I love it
The frayed
board of my bed
And the
straw mattress
The dust of
the sun
I love the
judas that opens
The men who
have come in
Who come
closer, who take me
To find
back the life of the world
I love both
of these long rungs
And this
triangular knife
These men
dressed in black
It’s my
saint’s and I am proud
I love it I
love it
This basket
filled with bran
Where I’m
going to lay my head
Ho, I truly
love it
It’s enough
for me to love
A tiny
blade of blue grass
A dewdrop
A love of a
scary bird
They’re
breaking the world
With their
heavy hammers
There is
still enough for me
There is
still enough, my love.
mercredi 30 mai 2007
I'll die of a cancer of the spine
Fist published in Swans
http://www.swans.com/library/art13/xxx121.html
I’ll die of
a cancer of the spinal column
It will
happen on an awful evening
Clear, hot,
perfumed and sensual
I’ll die of
the putrefaction of some little known cells
I’ll die of
a leg torn out
By a huge
rat burst out from a huge hole
I’ll die of
a hundred of cuts
The sky
will have fallen on me
That breaks
like a heavy window
I’ll die
from a shriek
Running through
my ears
I’ll die
from muffled wounds
Inflicted
late in the night
By bald and
wavering killers
I’ll die
without even knowing
That I’m
dying, I’ll die
Buried in
the dry ruins
Of one
thousand meters of collapsing cotton
I’ll die
drowned in dirty motor oil
Overridden
by unconcerned insects
And just
after, by concerned ones
I’ll die
naked, or wrapped in a red cloth
Or sewed in
a bag with razor lames
Maybe I’ll
die without worrying
And with
nail polish on my toes
And my
hands filled with tears
And my
hands filled with tears
I’ll die
when my eyelids will be torn off
Under a
furious sun
When I’ll
be told, slowly
Cruel
things in my ear
I’ll die of
seeing kids tortured
And men
surprised and deathly pale
I’ll die
eaten alive by worms
I’ll die my
hands bound to a waterfall
I’ll die
hands burnt into a sad fire
I’ll die a
bit, I’ll die a lot,
I’ll die
without passion, but I’ll die interested
And then,
when everything’s over
I’ll die.
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.
samedi 13 janvier 2007
If there was a bird left
She’d be
here
So heavy
With iron
guts
And brass
trimmings
Tubes of
water and fevers
She would
run straight on her tracks
Like death
herself runs to war
Like the
shadow runs in eyes
There is so
much work in her
So much
skill holding the lime
So much
pain, so much sorrow
So much
anger and eager
And there
are so many years
Clear
visions all together
So many
wills gathered up
So many
wounds, so much pride
Metal torn
out from the Earth
And then
tortured on the flames
Metal bent
harassed and plagued
Twisted out
in form of dream
There’s the
sweat of all ages
Enclosed in
this sort of cage
Thousands
of years of waiting
And
awkwardness defeated
If there
was a bird left
And a
locomotive
And me
alone in desert
Standing
between bird and thing
And if I
were told to choose
What would
I do, what would I do
He would
have a tiny beak
As it suits
to conirostres
And two
shining buds for eyes
And a small
chubby belly
I would
hold him in my hand
And his
heart would beat so fast…
All around,
the end of the world
Two hundred
twelve episodes
He would
have a grey feather
A bit of
rust on breastbone
And his
fine and dry legs
Like
needles girdled into skin
Come on
then, what will you keep
Everything
has to perish
But for
your loyal service
You’re
allowed to keep with you
Only a
unique sample
Comotive or
tiny bird
Starting
everything again
All these
heavy secrets lost
And all the
human science wrecked
If I’m
leaving the machine
But his
feathers are so fine
And his
heart would beat so fast
That I’d
keep with me the bird.