About poetry -- IIHaving a meaningless thought, that is to say in our intuition of things lacking the feeling of understanding it. It appears to us unfathomable, yet given, unquestionable. In all its thickness, we come to realize this foreign body isn't subject to the laws of language, and we cannot analyze it in terms of "who? where? why?" -- or rather, doing that is less about finding the explanation that making the whole thing up, fabricating something that would borrow the consistency of discourse but loose the very nature of what it claims to throw light on. The thought is, first, there, and by that we mean it cannot be ignored. Providing it with meaning,
About poetry -- IAll my stories are not sad ones. Don't ask me to explain them! I don't write poetry for the fun of it, rythm reveals the way I am shaken, wording betrays how the idea made its way through me, filtered and filtered again, as crystalline as it spent a long time in there, as raw as it violented me; jerky when hiccup seizes me, breaking what shouldn't be beautiful.Poetry isn't meant to make sublime. I want to go beyond language to tell what language doesn't enable me to tell. In order to tell, to make visible how hard it is to speak. Feeling behind the broken style the unrest; in a short sentence, the matter of urgency; in a long sentence, asph
DrowningInside this thick water, a shapeless mass immerged Deformed phalanges by bipedal walking constrainedGreasy fur strewn with holes infesting the surface of a flabby waterStocky worn-out hands, large useless, homeless handsRisible genitalia squeezed and bloated as a bit of flesh floating under the surfaceEndless stomach sheltering a noisy digestion, streaked with pink creasesEverything leaves its trace on it. Clothes. Time. Water.Soon, furrows groove those trembling fingersAs rubber band frescos fade underwaterEvery motion yields waves, moving the liquid as much as the body in it,Mixing sour lingering whiffs of cheese and vin
A dying KnightMy Queen,An archer cherub stroke me with a boltMy wounded dark heart sobs heavy dropsOf sorrow.Lands of love are hostile valleysRed with dense forests and harrowing bramblesLicking voraciously the still gaping woundsBleeding in drear and pulsating calls.The freezing dismay of an ancient nostalgyIs slowly drying the last thoughts,A black bark grows and invades ideasThat were beautiful and gay and joyful, calm and full and serene.Yesterday again,I think,You hurt me.Here comes the dark sky as a frowned eyebrow,Bathing a valley blue of cold slow tearsWith the arid reality.Every word is a weapon, invisible, cutt
My Light, Poem in Two PartsI surmised your presenceIn a prison of glassAs if crisscrossing a drivewayOn a pedestalI thought I saw youTrembling and yet so farPinned onto the skySparkled over the nightI dreamt I fell on meYour crazy yellow danceRipping wax apartShaking the shadowsSo, I closed my eyesOpened wide my handsMy arms to welcomeYour warmthMy Light--My eyeBurnsThe valleys of light's endless watersWith material sadness-stained raysNo oneHears no more the colours of caressesDying in ideas and declaiming in riversMy mourningOriginal French:J'ai cru te devinerDans une prison de verreComme sur un piédestalQua
Sisyphus' lamentWhen you understand me, you'll understand how repetition is painful, as a symbol of an endlessly recurring time.Everything must flow, otherwise I don't live!Why anger? In order to let a fragile wall hang between desperation and I. When I don't have enough strength to stand up anymore, I won't have any strengths anymore. Then even this rempart will be destroyed by the industrious goings-on of human incoherence. I know I am still human because I am still affected. When I don't feel anything anymore, when I'm calm, when they have brought me down, when I am kneeling, docile, mute, there won't be very much of me left already. Nor anything valu