for Jean Tortel that "petal" should be masculine, I just can't get used to it ... --Jean Tortel, Ratures des jours double invertible counterpoint isn't reversible counterpoint reflexively your cough improves you shitty bird look how it flies off something made of raw meat wrapped up in feathers there was someone underneath it (me) bared shoulder bird-shat you were reading Khlebnikov in the sun between lawn and clouds all fields of wild garlic (buttercups) one eye alit on the page where nothing not one shriek or neigh is done in for peony foreskin Rimbaudian miction who these days worries over an episodically rural shoulder (not necessarily bare) sun the air stirs impossible to predict the invisible droppings their song with an omnivorous lilt smudged old skin white threads green in the Kleenex that wipes it dandelions snort at your feet pure yellow like before a pitiful experience bucolyric in nature that % added pertinent modular citations between azure and miniscule shit a delicate screen print you oughtn't to (at your age) show yourself off like that (even out of sight) like going out all night light in the bars drinks too hard for a woman so small and alone in her room she says she's afraid all this silence didn't come to complain about bad hookups other perils otherwise perilous than the bird (its droppings) to sur-survive sure before the afterwards and your cough that tobacco but you how are you managing writing and making money writing for peanuts paid in buckshot lost and found retrograde Mercury with a hint of bestiality give-or-take an (overstressed I admit it) perversion's their specialty this however tacit daily menu is my responsibility my damnable mistake takes half a century to erase its shame fake twitch in the wings carried on the wind rubbish a know-knowing-knowledge singular seed like the stye cured by the golden band one day open isn't working night falls hush we're dead and hey! we're up all the gildings have fermented the invalid drowses anticipation of coitus everything's all chewed up oh! no he curdles the milk in his saucer since the sun turns let your old happening begin again bleeding impossibly forever after I-us three in Venice in steam the morning (the vaporetto's beauty) returns to everyone their own heresy placebo perfusion might as well purge yourself bound to all living things by an ancient chain sister-brother two damaged intra-uterine disharmony side by side a single pocket separate two sardines jockeying for liquid space placenta cake today a spit of land between the Rhone and Durance double-yolked eggs lay an eviler omen than unfertilized ones treasure or discharge our hermetic destiny split up teeming under smoke feminine the mother fertilized three times carrying to term only the first litter hey! what! barnyard or illicit maneuvers womanly bleeding under laminary sticks moaning park tomorrow summer will snuff itself out in a village dance the fabric of her dress was yes microfilm until that night when she spoke to me (I hear her voice) two years after her death posthumous stage direction biscuit made of air her voice tortures me its music like a word because a word tortures me reality on layaway as a kind of retort one slice from a red tart it's fine it's fine well shut up eventually everything slows down Kleenex bird clouds buttercups broken scene fire on the clocks like in 1930 of course I'd do it but no return to a historical golden age a pulled brake evades the juddering immobility that we call catastrophe a trick of the light and the patterns it makes cold work paid to antifreeze we favor sometimes the unconscious optic that leisurely digests all the outmoded tactics an effect of ultrathin film swiped over the tummy of a laid off baby-me the poem without epithet lodged in its structure that's what's worrisome sudden invitation to share a horchata this one has almonds in its name but it isn't Russian agitating field the poem cuts out an internal history Mandelstam the Armenian twinned nut at the heart of the poem admiring the sky in a puddle is not a new practice but still reassuring We--are alive We--remember the thing that we call cowardice--anguish in the heart that sees all the forces laid out to annihilate you that impulse toward the sun and the stars as if to grab hold of a memory as it arrives in a moment of crisis for example this nighttime landscape when the moon rises over it like the one at 9:08 the 13th of July a radiance which is its coffin Don't expect me this evening for the night will be black and white a frantic approach this reduction in exposure time the more there's objective certainty the less there's interiority come by tomorrow I'll cook some polenta the maize grain beloved of indigenous souls Montezuma changed his clothes four times a day putting on four different outfits each completely new never again worn dead silence the trees' putrefaction if the past's weight is well worth the volume supposed to hold the future I'll yet travel abroad replaying isn't performing Dada's anti-artistic but terribly cultivated how could anyone penetrate it the poem isn't a body barely a room this morning a postcard from Rome it wasn't nanni B but Catherine W nanni will call three days later from Paris this time did you know that when Brecht and Benjamin met in Le Lavandou in 1931 they talked about Kafka you who go swimming in Lecques and send me texts that never arrive remember Lucrece by Vulcan's cock remember Lucrece you can never wipe off the traces of a traced woman to arrange on a map the space of a life--rooms crossed notebooks filled up but catacombs too you have to break down the old dead to make room for new arrivals internal memory is the living memory that's the one that beats in the true heart of books so many years wanting to write a true book as alive as these acacia flowers that fall in clusters their unpronounceable scent the book you can smell it it's something else entirely something to see between white lies and blancmange the present is a false present scraps of the past rerun on end a black market traffic past-future not any more there than here rewound baffled the thing that dams the future all these simulacra photogenic drawings a string of rehabilitated monkeys among which you can make out only two albinos the flowers you can cook them in fritters not books same for apples or grapes red and green grapes Seraphine's Seraphine Louis de Senlis admirable old bat peerless painter who managed to astonish even the great Picasso but let's get back to Lucrece not the one raped by Tarquin's son but the other (Titus Lucretius Carus) and in so doing deploying logic (a little logical spirit) will suffice that unheralded prophecy from book VI the one where the scourge of plague blows destruction and death on men and livestock unceasingly repeated today this cruelty at the heart of the species I knew a travesti who was in his practice much more radical than your artist colleagues the ones who devote all their energy to the syntactic rhythmic engendering of a new language while on the other hand research into the processes of production was the major preoccupation one part of the world passed away coldly exploited by the other this had to do with the right to change a diphthong into two vowels or processes up to and including pinching the flesh of each when each is one then two and often one in each that leads to as much subjection as soups dumped out scorching the backs of mouths philosophy's progressive penetration when the obscene becomes a bad omen cartography on flat-screen the rabid pig-idiocy database processing pepped up with filth though legibly displayed flattening of surveillance biometrics trackability everyone watching every one else my God it's a wonderful world! me sick? I'd invent the sky's delicate shadows for it arrange dinner parties orgies for dessert women forbidden to fist-fuck all the Asters are Althusserians (it's tricky to make a fist) since just like in the theater the betrayer is more in the right than the one who stays loyal the betrayed knows much more than the one who isn't betrayed the spectator is not a horizon but more like a destiny every stage a laboratory of violence this poem for example written from day to day a nondisposition of proletarian time when the present crosses a false present series of momentary fictions here or there the body laid out in a still life like the body of an extra I am an intermittent poet and doubtless untimely claimed by no one I wipe my glass dry after drinking in another life I'd be a barmaid swear it's a promise I'd double your shots of Jack Daniel's and we'd smoke Craven "A"s with our publisher dear and for you it'd be your beloved vodka I'd order by the case from Moscow yesterday the fresh mint leaves in the rum on the rocks lent the provincial night a Cuban air drinking I thought of the clinamen declension of atoms tacked on to the tragic character of Lucretius who according to Saint Jerome killed himself in his fortieth year simple mystery of a secret life Lucretius disciple or simple vector translator and consummator of Epicurus spit on morality when it engenders no pleasure in six cantos the distant rival of Empedocles describing bodies and the void as things the void first condition and movement while the wind that blind body still today blows through and shakes the acacia I write under all the space under it it falls on the meadow at every moment in every place every sort of image is at our disposal if I close my eyes the world stops lines of the poem like the delicate lattice of foliage that mistakes line up proves all these manuscripts descend from a single archetype xxx denotes a lacuna *** a corrupted passage the archaisms as the deviant orthographies have been preserved the punctuation in the Latin text obeys modern convention you too one day or another you'll want to shuffle off undone by a fistful of dismal star charts only the sun gets up to cross the street paying no mind to the general racket the gulls make did you know Giono to translate Melville dressed up as a sailor now in the Lacoste cafe they serve you an abysmal pistou I wanted to leave for Berlin wound up in Cavaillon Sebastian there told me a story of mistranslation that actually turned on a kind of bowdlerization Caesar wouldn't've said "even you, my son" but "you too, you son of a bitch" when you live in Marseille you're in a better position to get the mistake as you do Brutus's real function et tu I'd say just as much to a guy from round here & meantime I'll save him a pup from my bitch "for a bazaar, it's a bazaar" that's a quote like "it's to die for" all told the more things change I'll run back to cliche when I won't have anything else to say on the subject Albumblatt or page from an album is a little instrumental piece dedicated to a friend or a master it isn't specified if he should be living or dead Jean Tortel is alive he lives in his books his books are his seed poetry with every step it takes it sheds a skin its base disciples don as they crawl along in its wake everything I say will be true in the other world 2008-2009
Further translations of Giraudon's poems by Jeff Nagy and Lindsay Turner will be published online at chicagoreview.org, along with an introductory essay by Amadine Andre.-ED.
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|Date:||Jun 22, 2018|
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