Wednesday, March 21, 2012

bois seul - en cours

bois* seul
bouffe brûle fornique crève seul comme devant
les absents sont morts les présents puent
sors tes yeux détourne-les sur les roseaux
se taquinent-ils ou les aïs*
pas la peine il y a le vent
et l'état de veille

drink alone
feed burn fuck die alone as if in front of
the absent are dead the present stink
take out your eyes divert them over to the reeds
are they kidding?
or the sloths
it's not worth the bother there's the wind
and just being in the state of vigil will do

*bois  - either "wood" or "drink"
*aïs - sloths
  ais - the binding of a book

musique de l'indifférence

musique de l'indifférence
coeur temps air feu sable
du silence éboulement d'amours
couvre leurs voix et que
je ne m'entende plus
me taire

indifferent music
heart weather air fire sand
from a silence a crumbling of loves
covers their voices and
may I no longer hear myself
fall silent

La Mouche

entre la scène et moi
la vitre
vide sauf elle

ventre à terre
sanglée dans ses boyaux noirs
antennes affolées ailes liées
pattes crochues bouche suçant à vide
sabrant l'azur s'écrasant contre l'invisible
sous mon pouce impuissant elle fait chavirer
la mer et le ciel serein

between the stage and me
the windowpane
empty except for it

belly face-down on the earth
girthed inside the black guts
antennas are maddened wings bound
legs clawing mouth sucking in the emptiness
slicing the air crushing itself against the invisible
under my powerless thumb it gushes
                                              causes the capsize
sea and serene sky

Monday, March 19, 2012


à travers la mince cloison
ce jour où un enfant
prodigue à sa façon
rentra dans sa famille
j'entends la voix
elle est èmue elle commente
la coupe du monde de football

toujours trop jeune

en même temps par le fenêtre ouverte
par les airs tout court
la houle des fidèles

son sang gicla avec abondance
sur les draps sur les pois de senteur sur son mec
de ses doigts dégoûtants il ferma les paupières
sur les grands yeux verts étonnés

elle rode légère
sur ma tombe d'air

through the thin partition
that this day when a child
Prodigal in his own way
returned to his family
I hear the voice
it is moved it comments
on the World Cup

still too young to do anything

the same time through the open window
through the air                                        period
the swell of the faithful

his blood spurted with abundance
on the sheets on sweet peas on her guy
over her wide open astonished green eyes

it wanders lightly
over my airy grave

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

être là sans mâchoires sans dents

être là sans mâchoires sans dents
où s'en va le plaisir de perdre
avec celui à peine inférieur
de gagner
et Roscelin et on attend
adverbe oh petit cadeau
vide vide sinon des loques de chanson
mon père m'a donné un mari
ou en faisant la fleur
qu'elle mouille
tant qu'elle voudra jusqu'à l'élégie
des sabots ferrés encoure loin des Halles
ou l'eau de la canaille pestant dans les tuyaux
ou plus rien
qu'elle mouille puisque c'est ainsi
Purfasse tout le superflu
et vienne
à la bouche idiote à la main formicante
Au bloc cave à l'oeil qui écoute
De lointains coups de ciseaux argentins

being there without jaws without teeth
where has the pleasure of losing gone
its gone with the pleasure
                                    scarcely less
of winning
and Roscelin* and you are waiting
                           oh little gift
empty empty except for the rags of a nursery-rhyme
my father gave me a husband*
to be in the flower of youth
let her dissolve
as much as she wants until the point of the elegiac
still far off from the clamor of the work-shoes in the central market
or water of the grumbling rabble in the pipes
or nothing more
since that's the way it is
finish everything superfluous
and might it come
with the idiot mouth is a hand jerkingly trembling
with the hollowed prison the listening eye
to the far off snips of silver scissors*

*Roscelin - Medieval philosopher

*Medieval nursery-rhyme

*The Moirai (The Fates)

perhaps a precursor to Rockabye or Godot... need to look further into relationship

Thursday, February 9, 2012

à elle l’acte calme

à elle l’acte calme
les pores savants le sexe bon enfant
l’attente pas trop lente les regrets pas trop longs l’absence
au service de la présence
les quelque haillons d’azur dans la tête points enfin
                                                                    morts du Coeur
tout la tardive grâce d’une pluie cessant
au tomber d’une nuit
à elle vide
lui pur

her turn to do the calming
her pores knowing her friendly sex
wait not too slow regrets not too long                      absence
in service of presence
few tatters of blue in mind specks in fact
                                             dead of heart

all grace overdue of a rain      
August nightfall

her turn to be empty
his turn to be pure
of love

Beckett, Samuel. Collected Poems in English and French. Grove Press. NY, NY. 1977. Page 40.

Tuesday, January 31, 2012

à poil

I don't feel as if I can analyze The Unnamable in a dignified and scholarly manner that would make valid arguments, so I will share my personal experiences.

When I'm reading my thoughts, feelings and present awareness become stripped away and I'm left feeling raw and ... human.

It is a terrifying and exhilarating experience to be so vulnerable.

After just finishing The Unnamable I laid in my bed and stared at space for an amount of time I don't remember, stripped my clothes off and took a bath where I also stared at space for an unknown period. I didn't scrub myself with soap or lather my hair with shampoo, but laid in the tub in the water and stared at the shower head.

Suddenly aware of how my brain was working- how thoughts are formed, broken down, glorious and shameful I felt fear in knowing I couldn't manifest control. Fear and anxiety of being helpless.

As I spent that time in the bathtub I had an ongoing battle to silence myself.

Stop. Nothing. Be quiet. Not being quiet. You're an idiot. This is stupid. Nothingness. I'm hungry. This water is getting cold. Stop. Quiet. Why aren't I doing work? No. Yes. No. YES. Get up. Stay. Blank.

Was this Beckett perpetually? This is torture.

Torture and simultaneously bliss.

In that moment of pure nakedness I felt closer to an essence of simply being. And although it was a violent experience - I went there. And there is comfort in knowing.

"...I'll wake, in the silence, and never sleep again, it will be I, or dream, dream again, dream of a silence, a dream silence, full of murmurs, I don't know, that's all words, never wake, all words, there's nothing else, you must go on...." (pg 407)