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"my ultimate vocation in life is to be an irritant, someone who disrupts the daily drag of life just enough to leave the victim thinking there's maybe more to it all than the mere hum-drum quality of existence."
- elvis costello
"i like the slowest poisons, the most bitter drinks, the most powerful drugs, the craziest ideas, the most complex thoughts & the strongest feelings. my appetite is voracious and my hallucinations even crazier. you can even throw me off a cliff, i'll say: -
so what? i love to fly"
- clarice lispector
TSUNAMI GANG is edited by Henrik Aeshna/Eros en Feu
General Consultant/Contributor: Cécile Hoogenboom
* This autumn/winter collection is specially dedicated to
JACQUES NOËL from Parisian bookshop UN REGARD MODERNE
(Ali Baba's cave) & supporter of independent/DIY culture, incl. Tsunami bOOKS Paris - R.I.P.
To Kim Kardashian's robbers - great shot, guys - DADA Halleluyah!
(although this issue is FREE & has NO COMMERCIAL PURPOSES, all the money raised will be donated to poor Kim)
Thanks to all the artists & friends present in this bubblebomb
- All rights reserved to the artists.
- original Ian Curtis cover photo by ©Kevin Cummins
WILDLOVE FROM PARIS!
November 23 2016
LIONS DE MER & UN BLUES POUR MISTER JIMMY… /
SEA LIONS & BLUES FOR MISTER JIMMY
(BILINGUAL ENGLISH/FRANÇAIS – TRANSLATED BY JEAN-MARIE FLEMAL
JAMIKA AJALON: BLOOD POEM
FORK BURKE: LIBATION & ORGASM
LOU COUTET: 9 SONGS
MALIK CRUMPLER: WRAP US IN RAPS
DENNIS FORMENTO: SO WHAT IF YOU’RE EINSTEIN
CATFISH MCDARIS: HARDHEADS NEVER MAKE GOOD CANNIBALS
CHRISTOPHER MULROONEY: DWELLERS & HARPBOOK
UCHE NDUKA: 5 POEMS
ESKIMO PIE: THE ELUSIVE WATERFALL
YOUNISOS: CARNAL EXPERIMENTAL POETRY
REPORT (URBAN EXPLORATION):
DADA WITHOUT DADAINE?!
+ DOSSIER 3 BRAZILIAN WOMEN WRITERS:
- WILD EROTICA
+ BRAZIL: MARINA COLASANTI,
VIRGINIA SCHALL, CLAUDIA MARCZAC, HELGA HOLTZ &
+ PORTUGAL: MANUELA AMARAL &
MARIA TEREZA HORTA
TOSHIKO OKANOUE: SURREALISM IN JAPAN
AENNE BIERMANN (1898-1933)
BLACK MIRROR – LIFE LOVE DEATH THE VOID AND THE WIND
WILLIAM S. BURROUGHS: A « STRANGE » DREAM
CLAUDE PELIEU/LU PELIEU: JE SUIS UN CORPS NU…
DAVID LERNER: THE FUTURE TASK OF LANGUAGE
KENNETH PATCHEN: AN ELECTRIFIABLE INTERCOURSE WITH A FEMALE ALLIGATOR
ALEXANDER TROCCHI: THE FEAR OF IMAGINATION WILL DESTROY US
CAMERON: CINDERELLA OF THE WASTELANDS (A POEM)
GRISELIDIS REAL: ECRIVAIN, PEINTRE, PROSTITUEE
ALAIN JOUFFROY: MODIGLIANI, BEATRICE, MONTPARNASSE – VIN WHISKY HACHISCH COCAINE POESIE AMOUR
KEN LOACH & SELFISH CUNT: FUCK THE POOR
"La force mystérieuse de la métamorphose agit dans un nom ; comme un anneau au doigt, il semble de prime abord pur hasard, sans conséquence, mais avant que l’on ait conscience de sa puissance magique il se développe en vous, sous votre peau, et s’unit, sceau du destin, à l’existence spirituelle d’un être."
Stefan Zweig, L'ivresse de la métamorphose
LIONS DE MER & UN BLUES POUR MISTER JIMMY: 5 poèmes & un rêve à San Francisco, par CHARLES PLYMELL - (SEA LIONS & BLUES FOR MISTER JIMMY: 5 poems & a dream in S
"Jazz joy - Bad boy - the party’s over -
unless you wanna scream -
once more in cool time - blues for Mister Jimmy"
"Écrivain, poète et éditeur, Charles Plymell est né dans le Kansas en 1935. Il a frayé à San Francisco avec la Beat Generation avant de partir faire le tour du monde. Il habite aujourd’hui Cherry Valley, où il anime les éditions du même nom." - Editions Lenka Lente
Poèmes choisis de Te bouffe pas la tête (EAT NOT THY MIND), par Charles Plymell
Avant-propos de Mike Watt - Traduit de l’anglais par Jean-Marie Flémal (In Memoriam)
© 2009 Charles Plymell. Tous droits réservés.
Special thanks to PAM PLYMELL
ELLE JOUE MEMPHIS
Cherche dans les étoiles les
qui ont laissé des dessins sur la vitre
leur dernière fiesta la nuit
où le regard intemporel de la poupée
découvrit notre amour
dans la soumission aux
derniers orphelins de l’univers.
Au revoir navire élancé tanguant dans les roseaux (*) ;
les vents tourbillonnants des jours qui déferlent meurent comme une
apocalypse incrémentielle retombant dans la poussière.
Pas de prises interdites –
distribuant les lots.
(*) Navire élancé : « slim boat » dans le texte original (NdT).
SHE PLAYS MEMPHIS
Look into the stars
who traced on the window
their night’s last party
where the doll’s timeless gaze
found our love
in bondage to
the last orphans of the universe.
Goodbye slim boat nodding in the reeds;
whirlwinds of passing days die like an
incremental apocalypse settling in the dust.
No holds barred —
À Mike Watt
Sur l’horizon orange les éclats d’étain de la lumière artificielle
envoient des ailerons pourpres vers les vagues silencieuses
baignées de lune et qui reviennent sans cesse
et les danses sur une image sans demeure pour l’éternel
vœu de pauvreté des numéros de jackpot à rappeler
la chance dans les vents exaspérés où des mélodies
jouaient parmi les branches noires et tordues
comme les transes oubliées d’une langue.
Aujourd’hui les Lions de Mer échangent leurs vœux
au bord de l’eau près des rivages étrangers
où des rejets toxiques au-delà des arcs glissants
mêlent des spores nouveau-nées à ce bourbier qu’est la vie.
Les ailes des goélands
sont des robes sacrées
en long et en travers.
To Mike Watt
Pewter slivers of artificial light in horizon orange
bring purple fins to moonlit silent encore waves
and dances in a homeless image for poverty’s
eternal wish of jackpot numbers to recall
the chance in galled winds where played
the tunes in twisting black branches
like a tongue’s forgotten trances.
Now Sea Lions exchange their vows
in water’s edge near alien shores
where toxic waste past gliding bows
mix life’s paddle in newborn spores.
The seagulls’ wings
are holy robes
in bow and beam
UN PRESSENTIMENT DANS LE VENT
Une glace noire recouvre l’asphalte
et les lumières de la rue la font luire
L’iris bleu commence à se faner
et les lumières de la nuit contrefont ses lignes
Le cœur est toujours le premier à savoir l’avenir
le dernier à retenir les problèmes d’un esprit sans logis
Nous travaillions ensemble pour le cœur ancestral
Ma sœur Betty faisait du stop vers Pocatello
où ceux qui empruntaient les rails laissaient leurs signes
au-dessus de leurs camps de braises
une fois les derniers fayots mitonnés dans les boîtes
Un siècle plus tard un oiseau savait de toute façon
que j’étais un pigeon et il me suivit pour avoir des graines
Ses paupières ne s’étaient pas ouvertes et il finit comme proie
Je l’appelai Betty au Chant brisé
Seule la sagesse du bonheur peut suivre les
nombres infinis et emmêlés du paradis
qui scintillent et dansent autour des rails vers l’ouest
Sous les étoiles reposent ses obscurs vacarmes d’argile.
PRESENTIMENT IS IN THE WIND
Black ice is on the asphalt
and the street lights make it shine
Blue Iris is beginning to fall
and the night lights fakes its lines
The heart is always first to know the future
last to hold the problems of a homeless mind
We used to work together for the ancestral heart
My sister, Betty hitchhiked into Pocatello
where those who rode the rails left their signs
above their camps of embers
the last beans cooked in the cans
A century later a bird somehow knew
I was a soft touch and followed me for seeds
Its eyelids had not formed open and it fell prey
I named it Betty Broken Song
Only the wisdom of luck can follow the
tangled infinite numbers of paradise
that glisten and dance along Westbound rails
under the stars lay its darksome dins of clay.
Au Kansas, les fondamentalistes
m’ont enseigné que Dieu créa l’homme
à Son image et selon Sa ressemblance.
J’espère qu’il aime Son sale trou de cul !
In Kansas, the Fundamentalists
taught me that God made man
in His own image and likeness.
I hope He likes His dirty asshole!
Aujourd’hui, les autoroutes ne sont plus que routes secondaires
et aucune ne suit ma propre route.
J’en ai plus qu’assez de ta route
alors reconduis-nous sur l’autoroute.
Enfant du jazz
la fiesta est terminée
à moins que tu ne veuilles hurler
une fois encore en un tempo cool
un blues pour Mister Jimmy
Nowadays highways are byways
and not one going my way
I’m through with your way
so get back on the thruway.
the party’s over
unless you wanna scream
once more in cool time
blues for Mister Jimmy
Le nom de l’hôtel
Ça a commencé par une visite à San Francisco, après tant d’années. Nous nous sommes arrêtés à un célèbre hôtel. Je peux me rappeler son nom parce que j’ai eu un rêve typique d’Alzheimer. Et c’est sous la forme d’un rêve que j’ai compris à quel point c’était horrible.
Quoi qu’il en soit, je finis par me retrouver dans un district où ma sœur était morte à la rue. Je ne puis le décrire que comme une combinaison de Portrero Hill et de la Marina, mais cela ressemblait à mes souvenirs du Fillmore voici plus de trente ans : sombre, complètement détruit par les flammes, vide et prêt à s’effondrer.
Je me mis à marcher et à marcher, ne voyant que les ombres des vieux rails et voitures Mini. Les rues étaient noires, vraiment black, comme s’il avait plu de nombreuses nuits. Occasionnellement, un personnage flottant passait et je lui demandais où se trouvait l’hôtel, mais je ne pouvais me souvenir de son nom. Je demandais qu’on m’aidât, de grâce, et je passai en revue les noms des célèbres hôtels dont je pouvais me souvenir, mais aucun ne s’avéra être le bon.
Je grimpai une colline de toitures en bitume qu’on avait incendiées et le feu était toujours en train de couver et j’entendis une voix dans le lointain dire que c’étaient les mômes qui y avaient bouté le feu. Je trouvai un chemin au bas de la colline et j’étais épuisé quand j’aperçus des personnes se tenant en face de quelques clubs aux néons blafards. Un taxi semblait s’approcher quand une des femmes à l’extérieur du club l’appela en même temps. Je lui demandai, de grâce, de me permettre de le prendre, parce que j’étais si fatigué que je ne pouvais plus aller plus loin et qu’il me fallait rentrer à l’hôtel. Elle dit qu’elles étaient fatiguées elles aussi et qu’elles avaient besoin du taxi.
Je poursuivis mon chemin vers un stand de nourriture et commandai un plat de quelque chose avec une tranche de quelque chose. Retourné, il s’avéra que ça ressemblait à une part de pizza sens dessus dessous. Bien que ce ne fût pas ce que j’avais commandé, je décidai de l’emporter et sortis mon porte-billets pour payer. Des photos dont j’ignorais qu’elles fussent en ma possession se mirent à tomber sur le sol en même temps que mes cartes de crédit. J’essayai de les ramasser afin de les examiner, alors que d’autres continuaient à tomber. Je vis ce qui ressemblait à un portefeuille abandonné sur le coin du comptoir. Une grosse femme passa en face de moi juste comme je parvenais à ramasser le contenu et le replacer au-dessus du portefeuille sur le comptoir, pensant que j’allais attraper toute la pile et le portefeuille abandonné. Alors, quelqu’un s’empara de la pile et s’enfuit. Je demandai à un noir âgé tout près s’il avait vu qui l’avait emporté. Il se déplaça vers une porte de l’autre côté de la rue et dit qu’il pensait que la personne était entrée là. J’allai jusqu’à la porte pour regarder à l’intérieur. C’était un autre club et je demandai au portier noir si quelqu’un venait d’entrer. Il me demanda de le décrire, ce que je fis. Alors, il me dit que personne de cette description n’était entré et qu’il était inutile de supposer que la personne que je décrivais était noire. Je répondis que non, bien sûr, et il me referma la porte au nez.
Une des femmes ne prit pas le taxi, de sorte que je me mis à marcher avec elle en espérant qu’elle irait dans ma direction, parce que je ne pouvais pas continuer sans aide. Je discutai avec elle pour qu’elle me permît de marcher en sa compagnie. Elle me demanda où j’allais et je lui dis que je ne pouvais me rappeler le nom de l’hôtel. Alors, je pensai à l’adresse de Glenn, au 1403, Gough Street, mais je me rendis compte qu’il n’y vivait plus depuis des années. Nous marchâmes vers l’endroit. Je l’étreignis et lui dis que j’avais besoin d’aide. Son corps devint comme un sac vide. Je l’étreignis davantage encore et lui demandai de l’accompagner chez elle et je l’embrassai. Sa bouche était vide.
NAME OF HOTEL
It began as a visit to San Francisco after many years. We checked into a famous hotel. I can remember its name because I was having a dream that typified Alzheimer’s. I realized in a dream fashion how horrible it is.
Somehow I ended up in a district where my sister died on the street. I can only describe as a combination of Portrero Hill and the Marina only it resembled how I remembered the Filmore over thirty years ago: Dark, burned out, vacant, and crumbling.
I began walking and walking seeing only shadows of old Mini rails and cars. The streets were black noir as if it had been raining many nights. Occasionally a fleeting figure would pass and I would ask it where the hotel was but I couldn’t remember its name. I would ask to please help and I went through the names of famous hotels I could remember, but none of them sounded right.
I climbed a hill of burned-out tar rooftops still smoldering and heard a voice in the distance comment that it was the kids who set them afire. I found a path down the mound and was exhausted when I saw some figures standing in front of some dim neon clubs. A taxi seemed to be approaching when one of the women outside the club hailed it at the same time. I asked her to please let me take it because I was so tired I could go no farther and I had to get back to the hotel. She said they were tired too and needed the taxi.
I walked farther to a food stand and ordered a dish of something with a side of something. It came out turned over resembling a slice of pizza upside down. Though it wasn’t what I ordered, I decided to take it anyway and got out my billfold to pay. Photos that I didn’t know I had began falling on the ground along with my credit cards. I tried to pick them up to look at them as more fell out. I saw what looked like a wallet lying at the corner of the counter. A heavy woman moved in front of me just as I was able to recover my pile of contents to place on top of the billfold on the counter, thinking I would cop the whole pile and the left wallet. Then someone copped the whole pile and ran. I asked an old black man standing nearby if he saw who took it. He motioned to a doorway across the street and said he thought the person went in there. I went to the door to look in. It was another club, and I asked the black man at the door if someone just came in. He asked me to describe him, which I did. Then he said no one of that description had come in and that there was no need to assume the person I was describing was black. I said of course not and he shut the door in my face.
One of the women didn’t take the cab, so I started walking with her hoping she was going in my direction because I couldn’t keep going without help. I pleaded with her to let me walk with her. She asked where I was going and I told her I couldn’t remember the name of the hotel. Then I thought of Glenn’s address at 1403 Gough Street but realized he hadn’t lived there in years. We walked toward her place. I hugged her and told he I needed help. Her body became like an empty bag. I hugged her more and asked to go home with her and kissed her. Her mouth was hollow.
Avant-propos de MIKE WATT
Poète, Charley Plymell rêve avec son cœur, sent avec ses mains, puis travaille avec les deux. Qu’il s’agisse de secouer les mots pour essayer de donner un sens aux idées ou qu’il s’agisse de les élaborer juste comme ça, selon la situation. Quand il utilise ce qui, pour d’aucuns, passerait pour des platitudes sur lesquelles s’appuyer comme sur des béquilles, il ressuscite en fait des expressions en les tirant de l’inertie létale à laquelle les avait vouées une pensée trop nonchalante, il s’envoie une solide bolée d’air avant d’y pénétrer et de les forcer à acquérir une nouvelle vitalité. Sa perspective est celle de l’apprenant obnubilé par «j’y suis allé », mais il est une réflexion qui mérite le détour et c’est celle-ci : « Peut-être n’est-ce pas les années, mais les kilomètres » et vous pourriez envisager d’essayer une bagnole déglinguée, pas vrai ? De faire jaillir et mousser de la joie, de vous plonger dans chacun des mondes que sont les poèmes élaborés par Charley, pour sentir une possibilité… de ces jours-ci, ce jour-ci, même, cet homme, précisément… Me voilà – je vous parle, tout en écrivant sur lui, afin de partager avec lui sa célébration du mot – depuis la poitrine qui pompe et la flamme derrière l’œil et, en face de l’œil, que
doit-il arriver ? Quel esprit a dansé et virevolté et parfois s’est élancé dans
une spirale suffisamment longue pour prendre le temps de penser à cette chose, de réfléchir – mais sans la tête – à ce qui colle ou ne colle pas dans certain détail, vous voyez ? Imaginez donc, pour un éclat de rire venu des tripes et qui fait mouche et vous laisse émerveillé, quel don grandiose que de laisser un compagnon de voyage dans l’émerveillement… Soyez bénis.
À la basse, Watt
"the only way of tolerating existence is to lose oneself in a perpetual orgy of absurdity"
sebastian horsley (1962-2010)
We contain all the passions
and all the vices
and all the suns and stars,
chasms and heights,
trees, animals, forests, streams.
This is what we are.
Our experience lies
in our veins,
in our nerves.
between grey blocks of houses.
On bridges of steel.
Light from a thousand tubes
flows around us,
and a thousand violet nights
etch sharp wrinkles
in our faces.
(George Grosz, c. 1919)
the digestive system is so smart…
- ginsberg’s howl
or "that's how the cookie crumbles" said the Crow
DADA WITHOUT DADAINE -
LOLLY GOBBLE BLISS BOMBS
by henrik aeshna, perfumed with diOR sauvAGE
concerning DaDa TODAY:
- DaDA without dadaine -
i prefer newborn's meconium
on the white sheets of heaven
vesuvius' breast milk &
katrina in a teacup
bottled batrachotoxin* tsunami-cola
cocaine & cyanide for breakfast
yves saint-laurent's phantom faces staring at me
wherever i go
like a sublimaze trip of total accomplishment
or the good ole 'Orgasmic Toast'*
dada is a heyokha*/goliard* soulcode like an irezumi tattoo
shared in secret only by feral children &
underground nymphs the oya-scream* of cicadas in heat
it changes skin & casts off its hip molt whenever its granted an
dada has no sex color class gender party nationality this or that
dada is androgynous
its genitals are jellyfish-like eyes writing mad odes to the asteroid that exploded over earth wiping out all the dinosaurs
Dada is not born yet
it's just brewing up in that ole dreamcocoon you call MYSTERY PIGPIG TAKHAK or HEY JOE
lost in Tao-lation
now here nowhere
ready to burst
while babylon burns
i watch the orange-haired fairygirl fly the transparent kite of my heart
& share a glass of champagne w/ kim kardashian's robbers
on top of the highest tower
gnarling stoned laughing out loud blaspheming
spitting diamond chips & philosophical pearls into the air
vive DaDa fuck dADa !
(*) 'orgasmic toast' - reference to a poem by Baroness Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven (1874-1927)
(*) Batrachotoxin - (BTX) is an extremely potent cardiotoxic and neurotoxic steroidal alkaloid found in certain species of frogs (poison dart frog), melyrid beetles, and birds (the pitohui, blue-capped ifrit, and little shrikethrush).
The most toxic of poison dart frog species is Phyllobates terribilis.
Poison dart frog (also known as dart-poison frog, poison frog or formerly known as poison arrow frog) is the common name of a group of frogs in the family Dendrobatidae which are native to tropical Central and South America. These amphibians are often called "dart frogs" due to the Amerindians' indigenous use of their toxic secretions to poison the tips of blowdarts. However, of over 170 species, only four have been documented as being used for this purpose (curare plants are more commonly used), all of which come from the genus Phyllobates, which is characterized by the relatively large size and high levels of toxicity of its members.
It is argued that dart frogs do not synthesize their poisons, but sequester the chemicals from arthropod prey items, such as ants, centipedes and mites.
(*) VANYA YUDIN - A Russian boy was found in an apartment filled with caged birds at the age of seven. His mother neglected him and he was raised without any human communication. During this time he embraced his feathered friends around him and learned to communicate with the birds. He picked up a variety of mannerisms and chirping noises even flapping his arms when flustered. In 2008, the State took custody of him and he is currently in rehabilitation.
(*) HEYOKHA - The heyoka (heyókȟa, also spelled "haokah," "heyokha") is a kind of sacred clown in the culture of the Lakota people of the Great Plains of North America. The heyoka is a contrarian, jester, and satirist, who speaks, moves and reacts in an opposite fashion to the people around them. Only those having visions of the thunder beings of the west, the Wakíŋyaŋ, and who are recognized as such by the community, can take on the ceremonial role of the heyoka.The Lakota medicine man, Black Elk, described himself as a heyoka, saying he had been visited as a child by the thunder beings. (Thunderbirds).
(*) GOLIARD - The goliards were a group of clergy who wrote satirical Latin poetry in the 12th and 13th centuries. They were mainly clerics at or from the universities of France, Germany, Spain, Italy, and England who protested the growing contradictions within the church through song, poetry and performance, often within a structured carnivalesque setting such as the Feast of Fools. One of the largest and most famous collections of goliardic poetry is the Carmina Burana.
The goliards, as scholars, often wrote their poetry in Latin. Travelling entertainers, the goliards composed many of their poems to be sung. These poems, or lyrics, focus on two overarching themes: depictions of the lusty lifestyle of the vagrant and satirical criticisms of society and the church. Portraying their lusty lifestyle, the goliards wrote about the physicality of love, in contrast to the chivalric focus of the troubadours. They wrote drinking songs, and reveled in riotous living.
Their satirical poems directed at the church grew from what they saw around them, including mounting corruption in monasteries and escalating tensions among religious leaders. As a result of their rebellious writings against the church, the goliards were eventually denied privileges of the clergy. Their strained relationship with the church, along with their vagabond lifestyle, also contributed to many poems describing the complaints of such a lifestyle.
The satires were meant to mock and lampoon the church. For example, at St. Remy, the goliards went to mass in procession each trailing a herring on a string along the ground, the game being to step on the herring in front and keep your own herring from being trod upon. In some districts, there was the celebration of the ass, in which a donkey dressed in a silly costume was led to the chancel rail where a cantor chanted a song of praise. When he paused, the audience would respond: "He Haw, Sire Ass, He haw!". The University of Paris complained:
"Priests and clerks.. dance in the choir dressed as women... they sing wanton songs. They eat black pudding at the altar itself, while the celebrant is saying Mass. They play dice on the altar. They cense with stinking smoke from the soles of old shoes. They run and leap throughout the church, without a blush of their own shame. Finally they drive about the town and its theatres in shabby carriages and carts, and rouse the laughter of their fellows and the bystanders in infamous performances, with indecent gestures and with scurrilous and unchaste words."
The goliards used sacred sources like texts from the Roman Catholic Mass and Latin hymns and warped them to secular and satirical purposes in their poems (such as in the Drinkers Mass). The jargon of scholastic philosophy also frequently appears in their poems, either for satirical purposes, or because these concepts were familiar parts of the writers' working vocabulary. Their satires were almost uniformly directed against the church, attacking even the pope.
(*) OYA - Oya (Yoruba: Ọya, also known as Oyá or Oiá; Yansá or Yansã; and Iansá or Iansã in Latin America) is an Orisha of winds, lightening, and violent storms, death and rebirth. In Yoruba, the name Oya literally means "She Tore". She is known as Ọya-Iyansan – the "mother of nine." This is due to the Niger River (known to the Yoruba as the Odo-Ọya) traditionally being known for having nine tributaries.
"We’re having too good a time today. We ain’t thinking about tomorrow."
john dillinger (1903-1934)
"One does not sell the land people walk on."
Crazy Horse, Oglala Lakota Sioux (circa 1840-1877)
"Do you see me as mad?...
Because there is desire within me, everything glimmers"
Hilda Hilst was born in 1930 in Jaú, Brazil. A prolific writer whose work spans many different genres, including poetry, fiction, drama and newspaper columns, her eccentric personality — she claimed she would go to a planet called Marduk in her afterlife — attracted more public attention than her work. She was a beautiful woman with an active social life in São Paulo, but at a certain point she decided to retreat to the countryside to dedicate herself entirely to writing. She died in 2004, and while she had already received some public recognition, many of her important books were already out-of-print by then. Her popularity has grown since then, and all of her books have been published in new editions. Some of her work has also been translated into Italian, French, Spanish and German. - Beatriz Bastos
Because there is desire within me, everything glimmers.
Before, daily life was thinking of heights
Seeking Another decanted
Deaf to my human bark.
Sap and sweat, they never came to be.
Today, flesh and bones, laborious, lascivious
You take my body. And what rest you give me
After the readings. I dreamt of cliffs
When there was a garden by my side.
I thought of climbs where there were no signs.
Ecstatic, I fuck you
Instead of yapping at Nothingness.
(translated by Lavinia Saad)
I come from ancient times. Long names:
Vaz Cardoso, Almeida Prado
Dubayelle Hilst... events.
I come from your roots, breaths of you,
And I love you tiredly now, blood, wine
Unreal cups corroded by time.
I love you as if there were more and derailings.
As if we stepped on ferns
And they screamed, both our victims:
I love you small like one who wants MORE
Like one who guesses everything:
Wold, moon, fox and ancestors.
Say of me: You are mine.
(translated by Lavinia Saad)
I smile when I wonder
Where in your room
You keep my verse.
Away from your
In the first drawer
Close to the window?
Do you smile when you read
Or are you tired of seeing
On my ripened face?
Do I seem beautiful
Or am I to you, perhaps
Too much of a poet,
And not serious enough?
What does the man think
Of the poet? That there's no truth
In my drunkenness
And that you prefer
A friend more peaceful
And less adventurous?
That you simply cannot
Keep in your room
Of my passionate words?
Do you see me as mad?
Do you see me as pure?
Do you see me as young?
Or is it true
That you never knew me?
(translated by Beatriz Bastos)
Various poems (translated by Lavinia Saad)
From cicadas and stones, words want to be born.
But the poet lives
Alone in a corridor of moons, in a water-house.
From world maps, from shortcuts, voyages want to be born.
But the poet inhabits
The field of inns of insanity.
From the flesh of women, men want to be born.
And the poet pre-exists, between the light and the nameless.
Do not look for me there
Where the living call upon
The so-called dead.
Look for me
Within the deep waters
Within a heart fire
Between horses, dogs,
In the ricefields, along the high
Or with the birds
In someone else,
Climbing a hard path
Rock, seed, salt
Life's paths. Look for me there.
While I write a verse, you surely live.
You work your wealth, and I work my blood.
You will say that blood is not having your gold
And the poet tells you: buy your time.
Ponder your hurried life, listen to
Your inner gold. I speak of another yellow.
While I write a verse, you who never read me
Smile when someone speaks to you about my verse.
To you, a poet is like an ornament, and you change the subject:
“My precious time cannot be wasted on poets.”
Brother of my moment: when I die
Something infinite also dies. It’s hard to say it:
A POET’S LOVE DIES.
And this is so large that your gold cannot buy it,
And so rare, that that smallest piece is so vast
That it doesn’t fit in my corner.
If I seem to you nocturnal and imperfect
Look at me again. Because tonight
I looked at myself as if you were
looking at me.
And it was as if water
To leave your house that is the
Just slipping by, not even
touching the riverbank.
I looked at you. And it has been
That I understand that I am
earth. It has been so long
That I wait
For your brotherly body of water
To stretch over mine. Pastor and
Look at me again. From a lesser
And more attentively.
What if I tell you that I saw a bird
Upon your sex, should you believe it?
And if it isn’t true, the Universe will not change at all.
If I say that desire is Eternity
Because the moment burns without end
Should you believe it? And if it’s not true
So many have said it that it could be.
In desire we are touched by sophomania, ornaments
Immodesty, shame. Why can’t I
Dot with innocence and poetry
Bones, blood, flesh, the now
And everything in us that will become misshapen?
The Obscene Madame D
The hours. Ecstasy. Dryness. Stung before the outdoors, I lapped the
air, colors, nuances, and I stopped breathing before certain ochres, the veins
of certain leaves, before the smallest of leopards, before the gray-white
feathers that fell from the roof, gray of a stony gray, a shimmering
silver-gray, and having seen, having been what I was, am I this one now? How
can I have been Hillé, vast, and plunging fingers into the matter of the world,
how having been, can I have lost she who was, and be today who I am?
Life is raw. A handle of tripe and metal.
I fall into it: a wounded stone embryo.
Life is raw and hard. Like a mouthful of viper.
I eat it on my pale tongue
Ink, I wash your forearms, Life, I wash myself
In the scant narrowness
Of my body, I wash the bone rafters, my life,
Your leaden nail, my rouge coat.
And we wander well-heeled the streets,
Crimson, gothic, tall bodies and glasses.
Life is raw. Ravenous like the crow’s beak.
And it can be so giving and mythic: a brook, a tear,
An eddy in the water, a drink. Life is liquid.
Heights, strips, I climb them, I cut them out
And the two of us hover, Life and I
In the red of the tempest. Drunk,
We dive clear-headed into the croaking wine.
What stylish jest. What straight-backed
Seraphins. The two of us in vapors,
Lyrical and lobotomized, and the ditch
Becomes peak, and mud is transluscent
And Nothing is extreme.
I unpeel mad daily life
And its pasty rite of paraboles.
Patient, priestesslike, very well-mannered
We await the tepid dusk, the glass, the house.
Ah, everything becomes dignified when life is liquid.
Also raw and hard are the words and faces
Before we sit at the table, you and I, Life
Before the shimmery gold of drink. Slowly
Stillnesses, water lentils, diamonds appear
Over past and present insults. Slowly
We are two ladies, soaking in laughter, rosy
Like a berry, the one that I glimpsed in your breath, friend
When you allowed me paradise. The sinister of hours
Becomes a time of conquest. Languor and suffering
Become forgetfulness. After we lay down, death
Is a king who visits and covers us with myrrh.
You whisper: Ah, life is liquid.
J’opte pour le regard esthétisant, avec épigraphe de femme moderne inconnue. (« Je n’arrive pas à expliquer ma tendresse, ma tendresse, tu comprends ? ») Je ne suis pas un rat de bibliothèque, je comprends à peine le musée de la place, je n’ai pas de transes de production, je n’ai pas la vocation de gitane, et j’ai aussi ce qu’on appelle l’oeil aux péchés. Même pas ici ? Je récite WW (Walt Whitman) pour toi :
« Amour, ce n’est pas un livre, c’est moi, c’est moi que tu tiens comme ça et c’est moi qui te tiens (est-ce la nuit ? étions-nous ensemble et seuls ?), je tombe de ces pages dans tes bras, tes doigts me stupéfient, ton souffle, ton pouls, je plonge des pieds à la tête, délice, et ça suffit —
Suffit les regrets, les secrets, l’impromptu, suffit le présent glissant, suffit le passé en video-tape impossiblement véloce, repeat, repeat. Reçois ce baiser seulement pour toi et ne m’oublie plus. J’ai travaillé toute la journée et maintenant je me retire, maintenant je pose mes lettres et traductions d’origines multiples, m’attend une sphère plus réelle que celle rêvée, plus directe, rayons de lumière autour de moi, Adieu !
Rappelle-toi ces mots un à un. Je pourrai revenir. Je t’aime, et je m’en vais, moi incorporel, triomphant, mort. »
Ana Cristina Cesar (1952-1983), Gants de peau & autres poèmes
Traducteur : Michel Riaudel
Issue d’une famille protestante, Ana Cristina Cesar naît à Rio de Janeiro en 1952. Après des études de cinéma et de lettres, elle part vivre en Angleterre en 1979.
Lectrice d’Emily Dickinson, de George Eliot et de Sylvia Plath, son travail d’études sur la traduction littéraire porte sur un autre grand nom de la littérature féminine : Katherine Mansfield. En effet, en 1980, elle propose une version commentée de la nouvelle Bliss dont le texte a été une grande influence pour la poétesse. On y retrouve même des échos dans l’opuscule Gants de peau, édité en 1981. En 1982, elle réunit cet ouvrage et ses deux autres recueils Cenas de abril et Correspondência completa dans une anthologie intitulée A teus pés.
Figure de proue de la poésie dite marginale, Ana Cristina Cesar se suicide en 1983.
"I introduce you to the most discrete woman in the world: one who has no secrets."
Ana Cristina Cesar, a Brazilian poet and translator, was born in 1952. She is recognized as a leading experimental poet. Her major work, A Teus Pés, (At Your Feet), a hybrid text features lineated verse and prose. Cesar committed suicide in 1983.
TWO POEMS FROM Ana Cristina César’s A TEUS PÉS (At your feet) Translated by Brenda Hillman and Helen Hillman
Dialog of the deaf, no: friendly in the cold. Sudden brakes
on the wrong side of the street. Sighing in the intersection. I introduce
you to the most discrete woman in the world: one who has no
For the first time I broke the golden rule and i flew away and didn’t even
measure the consequences. Why do we refuse to be prophetic? And
what dialect is this for a small evening audience? I flew up and now, heart, in a car on fire through the air, with no grace, crossing the state of São Paulo, at dawn, for you, and furious: and now, against the traffic.
EXTERIOR. DAY. Exchanging my pure indiscretion for your dated story. My breaking in to your conjunction. SEA, BLUE, CAVERNS, CAMPS & THUNDERS. I lean against the walls of the little streetcar and cry. I catch a cab that travels various tunnels of the city. I corner the driver. I dribble my faith. The newspapers don’t call for war. Twist, son, twist, even far away in the distance of the one who loves and knows he’s a traitor. Drink a bitters in the old corner pub, but think of me between flashes of happiness. I love you strangely, slyly, with other scenes mixed with the flavor of your love.
Brenda Hillman has published nine collections of poetry with Wesleyan University Press, including Seasonal Works with Letters on Fire. With
Garrett Caples and Paul Ebenkamp, she co-edited Richard O. Moore’s Particulars of Place (Omnidawn, 2015). Hillman teaches at St. Mary’s College
where she is the Filippi Professor of Poetry.
Helen Hillman was born in Brazil in 1924 and received her early education in Porto Alegre before coming to the United States for college. For many decades, she lived in Tucson, Arizona, where she was a homemaker, a translator and a naturalist; she currently lives in New Jersey.
Il m’est arrivé de cacher un amour par peur de le perdre,
Il m’est arrivé de perdre un amour pour l’avoir caché.
Il m’est arrivé de serrer les mains de quelqu’un par peur
Il m’est arrivé d’avoir peur au point de ne plus sentir mes mains
Il m’est arrivé de faire sortir de ma vie des personnes que j’aimais
Il m’est arrivé de le regretter
Il m’est arrivé de pleurer des nuits durant, jusqu’à trouver le sommeil
Il m’est arrivé d’être heureuse au point de pas parvenir à fermer les yeux
Il m’est arrivé de croire en des amours parfaites
Puis de découvrir qu’elles n’existent pas.
Il m’est arrivé d’aimer des personnes qui m’ont déçue.
Il m’est arrivé de décevoir des personnes qui m’ont aimée
Il m’est arrivé de passer des heures devant le miroir pour tenter de découvrir
qui je suis et d’être sure de moi au point de vouloir disparaître
Il m’est arrivé de mentir et de m’en vouloir ensuite, de dire la vérité et de
m’en vouloir aussi.
Il m’est arrivé de faire semblant de me moquer de personnes que j’aimais
avant de pleurer plus tard, en silence dans mon coin.
Il m’est arrivé de sourire en pleurant des larmes de tristesses et de pleurer
tant j’avais ri.
Il m’est arrivé de croire en des personnes qui n’en valaient pas la peine,
et de cesser de croire en ceux qui pourtant le méritaient.
Il m’est arrivé d’avoir des crises de rire quand il ne fallait pas.
Il m’est arrivé de casser des assiettes, des verres et des vases, de rage.
Il m’est arrivé de ressentir le manque de quelqu’un sans jamais le lui dire.
Il m’est arrivé de crier quand j’aurais dû me taire, de me taire quand j’aurais
De nombreuses fois, je n’ai pas dit ce que je pensais pour plaire à certains,
d’autres fois, j’ai dit ce que je ne pensais pas pour en blesser d’autres.
Il m’est arrivé de prétendre être ce que je ne suis pas pour plaire à certains,
et de prétendre être ce que je ne suis pas pour déplaire à d’autres.
Il m’est arrivé de raconter des blagues un peu bêtes encore et encore,
juste pour voir un ami heureux.
Il m’est arrivé d’inventer une fin heureuse à des histoires pour donner
de l’espoir à celui qui n’en avait plus.
Il m’est arrivé de trop rêver, au point de confondre le rêve et la réalité…
Il m’est arrivé d’avoir peur de l’obscurité, aujourd’hui dans l’obscurité
“je me trouve, je m’abaisse, je reste là“
Je suis déjà tombée un nombre innombrable de fois en pensant que
je ne me relèverais pas.
Je me suis relevé un nombre innombrable de fois en pensant que
je ne tomberais plus.
Il m’est arrivé d’appeler quelqu’un pour ne pas appeler celui que
je voulais appeler.
Il m’est arrivé de courir après une voiture parce qu’elle emmenait
celui que j’aimais.
Il m’est arrivé d’appeler maman au milieu de la nuit en m’échappant
Mais elle n’est pas apparu et le cauchemar fut pire encore.
Il m’est arrivé de donner à des proches le nom d’ami et de découvrir
qu’ils ne l’étaient pas.
D’autres en revanche, que je n’ai jamais eu besoin de nommer m’ont
toujours été et me seront toujours chers.
Ne me donnez pas de vérités, parce que je ne souhaite pas avoir
Ne me montrez pas ce que vous attendez de moi parce que je vais
suivre mon cœur !
Ne me demandez pas d’être ce que je ne suis pas, ne m’invitez pas à être
conforme, parce que sincèrement je suis différente ! Je ne sais
pas aimer à moitié, je ne sais pas vivre de mensonges, je ne sais pas
voler les pieds sur terre. Je suis toujours moi-même mais je ne serais
pas toujours la même !
J’aime les poisons les plus lents, les boissons les plus amères, les
drogues les plus puissantes, les idées les plus folles, les pensées les plus
complexes, les sentiments les plus forts.
Mon appétit est vorace et mes délires sont les plus fous.
Vous pouvez même me pousser du haut d’un rocher, je dirai : – et alors ?
J’adore voler !
Traduit du portugais par Aurélie Tyszblat
"Capturing glances of the moments that passed us by, in times when we were maybe too young to realise that they weren’t there to stay until eternity would have torn us apart.
But still old enough to know they were worth noticing."
Lily Zoumpouli was born in Thessaloniki in 1994.
She started taking photography seminars with the photographic team Stereosis and got her Certificate in 2012 at the age of 18 (2010-12).
In 2015 she was offered a lifelong membership to exhibit her work on LensCulture professional worldwide photographer’s website.
"The need for a way of connecting through a medium with my own feelings and surroundings became the catalyst of this works existence.
Each photograph has a background story that carries on its shoulders the reason for its own memory.
The distance that separates us from our subject is the one that needs to be walked, in order to find the reflection of our inner selves and others combined into one image,
forming a mixture of selves."
"A connection being conceived within a captivating atmosphere that was inspired by the desire of transferring into another reality, forming a duality through the final outcome of the photograph.
The intense element of nude is depicting the return to an innocent comfort of being bare naked, but mostly of being pure towards yourself and towards the observer- displaying a self and its shadows."
"Every so often there are staged moments representing a personal dive within every part that belongs to a past or a present, trying to be revealed through a newborn subject so to keep on recreating itself."
"An autobiographical documentary combined with allegorical aspects give a sense of spontaneity along with the subconscious, and slowly take over during the process of discovering a world out and within our own individuality."
- words from Lily Z's Bio Note
Modigliani, Béatrice, Montparnasse + vin whisky hachisch cocaïne poésie amour - La Vie Réinventée de Alain Jouffroy
"je suis un corps nu & lourd qui se brise secrètement
je suis cette fatalité de cristal"
Lu Pélieu est l'auteur de Claude Pélieu: UN AMOUR DE BEATNIK - lettres à Lula-Nash, 1963-1964
Inauguration of the Pleasure Dome is a short 38-minute film by Kenneth Anger, filmed in 1954. Anger created two other versions of this film in 1966 and the late 1970s. According to Anger, the film takes the name "pleasure dome" from Samuel Taylor Coleridge's atmospheric poem Kubla Khan. Anger was inspired to make the film after attending a Halloween party called "Come as your Madness."
Seven times I rap upon the mighty door of the subterranean vault - open - open
I stand without in the drafty and bent corridor that approaches thy lair.
Seven times resound my summons on the stony door and the dead stern caves and cursed the midnight hour
come thou forth,I bear a lamp for this terrible darkness, thou shall behold the face known in dreams.
Mine eyes are terrible and strange, but thou knowest me, behold my garments are of a rich cloth
and i bear the air of a land of bounty beyond the sea, come forth.
Thou are in the shadow of the light i bear, and thy garments reek of the dead and the sun misplaced.
We shall ascend the stair which is fraught with unwholesome things, the stone rolls before me
and into the blazing vault of the night of nights, we go forth as light.
Dark star i seek you in all the endless rooms of the universe.
i have entered the maze of chaos and searched the promises, no end and no fulfillment,
but i have seen your helmeted head flashing gold from all the bloody triumphs and sunsets of the world.
I have heard your voice singing lonely songs of desire in the wild wind, i remember the artistry of fingers that held the rose in wonder
your musical throat sounding the hymn of love, seeking since the birth and the crashing star nebula.
Kingdoms of muscle and star foam, pursued and pursuing, radiant warrior, how long my beloved god, how long, how long, how long
MARJORIE CAMERON (1922-1995)
In post-war Japan, a shortage of goods and materials meant the country was flooded with commodities from foreign countries. Okanoue used fragments from Western fashion magazines such as Life, Harper’s Bazaar and Vogue, to create radical compositions combining body parts, animals and inanimate objects in dynamic arrangements. Although the component parts of her collages originated from Western sources, Okanoue herself regarded her technique of image making as deeply rooted in Japanese tradition. She thought of her works as a form of hari-e (‘hari’ meaning pasting and ‘e’ meaning a picture in Japanese), a traditional Japanese technique of making pictures by pasting small pieces of coloured paper onto pasteboard.
It was only in 1952, upon meeting the poet and artist Shuzo Takiguchi, that Okanoue found her own place in art history. Takiguchi was a leading figure of the Surrealist movement in Japan, and introduced Okanoue to the works of the famous Surrealist, Max Ernst, whose style had a decisive influence on her. During the subsequent six years, Okanoue produced over 100 works. Her collages remained idiosyncratic and dreamlike in their juxtaposition of contradictory imagery. In 1953 and 1956, she held solo exhibitions at Takemiya Gallery, Tokyo. However, as with many Japanese women of this era, her marriage in 1957 ended her artistic career.
Okanoue returned to her hometown of Kochi, where she now lives. She is married to the painter Fujino Kazutomo. Her work faded into obscurity and was overlooked for almost 40 years. However, it was rediscovered by the curator of the Tokyo Metropolitan Museum of Photography in the mid 1990s, and has since gained recognition for its contribution to the Japanese avant-garde. In 1996 her works was shown in Meguro Museum of Art, and has subsequently been collected by the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston, and the Museum of Modern Art, New York.
VIEW MORE: http://www.beetlesandhuxley.com/
The Future Task of Language
Who are the new theorists of poetry? How
many rules might be broken – how many newmade up? What are the future tasks of language? Questions and answers.
— ad for a recent event called »Syntax as Intellect: Language Poets.«
the future task of language
drive a cherry-red Mercedes Benz
into the heart of hell
and place a bet on God
the future task of language
burn itself down in prayer and
invent a new code for beauty
the future task of language
will be to invent a way of
dealing with loneliness
the future task of language
is more like a guess written in fire
than a new coat of ideas and a
real close shave
the future task of language
is more like something erupting
than something figuring itself out
over and over again
the future task of language
will be to do whatever the fuck it wants
the future task of language
is unknowable, impossible, grief-struck, mad,
wired, wild and weary,
broken-down, dragged up, smashed, floating
in the wind
- from WHY RIMBAUD WENT TO AFRICA
David Lerner (November 23, 1951 – July 1, 1997?) was an American renegade poet born in New York City. Lerner came from a family of Russian-Jewish renegades, and grew up as a so-called "red-diaper baby". Lerner published numerous articles as a journalist, including material on the Russian singer and poet Vladimir Vysotsky. Lerner pursued a bohemian life and became involved in the notorious Cafe Babar in San Francisco about 1986, a group dubbed as the Babarians. Lerner and Bruce Isaacson co-founded Zeitgeist Press and have been referred to as 'the Ezra Pound and T.S. Elliot of the underground.' Lerner's common-law wife, Maura O'Connor also published poetry.
One of Lerner's most celebrated poems, "Mein Kampf", is a seminal statement of underground poetics in response to the weight of the mainstream. In it he says:
sell arms to the Martians
than wait sullenly for a
letter from a diseased clown with a
telling me that I've won a
bullet-proof pair of rose-colored glasses
for my poem "Autumn in the Spring"
Lerner was associated with the Lyman Family a.k.a. Fort Hill Construction, who have preserved his literary memory. Lerner's work has not yet been fully collected in an available edition. A considerable amount of Lerner's work is still unpublished, including poems, prose, and a large volume of letters.
Lerner died of a heroin overdose in 1997 and Zeitgeist published 'The Last Five Miles to Grace' posthumously. Bucky Sinister of the San Francisco Bay Guardian wrote: "Lerner was a broken-down saint if there ever was one. He was an eloquent screamer, a soft-spoken rageoholic, a madman with a great manuscript. His poetry will always be a reminder of a time when poetry in the Mission was spontaneous, magical, and more than a little bit dangerous." - Wikipedia
THE DREAMY WORLD OF LARRY DELINGER
click image to view full size
LARRY DELINGER BY HIMSELF:
I was born in a very small town, in the Sandhills of Nebraska, near where Crazy Horse had his vision quest. I studied piano from the railway station master’s wife and later from an alcoholic pianist who moved to our town, to live with her sister and dry out. She was Sioux Indian, from Los Angeles and her husband, a bop Viola player with a club foot had recently died of an overdose of Heroin. She knew all the Jazz greats: Ellington, Ella, Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday, Lester Young etc. She started a band and I played trumpet and her nephew the trombone. She taught me all the Jam keys and the etiquette on the stand. I was a teenager and I hid her half pint of whiskey in my suit coat and she gave me piano lessons where I learned how to analyze Debussy but with jazz chords. I grew up, went to college, got married had four beautiful children and moved to California. I found my first composition teacher in Los Angeles CA, Earnest Kanitz, and later, my best teacher, Edward Applebaum, in Santa Barbara CA. Through no fault of my own, I started writing music for the theatre. This took me to the Mark Taper Forum in Los Angeles CA, the American Conservatory Theatre in San Francisco CA, The Denver Theatre Company in Denver CO and the Oregon Shakespeare Festival In Ashland OR, plus the Oslo Nye Theater in Oslo Norway. Also Broadway. Through my work in recording studios, I met many fine musicians who asked me to write pieces for them and, Along the way, I started making Art as well, Collages mostly and I’ve never stopped. My first influences in Art were Robert Rauschenberg and Joseph Cornell and my Art teachers, Mike Monahan and Juan Manuel Perez Salazar have taught me how to see. Music and Art, Art and Music: MAGIC (Smaller on the outside, Bigger on the inside).
EMILY'S WORD -A COLLAGE BY STEVE DALACHINSKY
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Poet/collagist STEVE DALACHINSKY was born in Brooklyn after the last big war and has managed to survive lots of little wars. His book The Final Nite (Ugly Duckling Presse) won the PEN Oakland National Book Award. His most recent books are Fools Gold (2014 feral press), a superintendent's eyes (revised and expanded 2013/14 - unbearable/autonomedia) and flying home, a collaboration with German visual artist Sig Bang Schmidt (Paris Lit Up Press 2015). His latest cds are The Fallout of Dreams with Dave Liebman and Richie Beirach (Roguart 2014) and ec(H)o-system with the French art-rock group, the Snobs (Bambalam 2015). He has received both the Kafka and Acker Awards and is a 2014 recipient of a Chevalier D’ le Ordre des Artes et Lettres. His poem “Particle Fever” was nominated for a 2015 Pushcart Prize. Forthcoming from Overpass Press “The Invisible Ray” with artwork by Shalom Neuman.
MORE ON STEVE DALACHINSKY : COLLAGE TEMPÊTE & FREE JAZZ
La liberté n’a pas de prix. Nous le savons, c’est notre force et notre espoir.À pas de louves, à pas de tigresses et d’oiseaux, nous marcherons sur la lune s’il le faut, nous gagnerons l’espace qui nous revient, à nous qui sommes le baume sur les blessures, et l’eau dans le désert, parfumées, étincelantes, offertes et blessées, douces et violentes, femmes et magiciennes, princesses de nos sens et du désir des hommes.
“Punishing the poor is part of the State's project; it is knowingly inefficient or cruel, and its goal is to drive people to frustration, despair, hunger and suicide.
It is not an accident that the poor are punished for their unemployment. That’s their project, that’s the point, that’s what has to happen because their model of society produces unemployment and if people question that model then they are lost ...
"(...) The present system is one of conscious cruelty,” “It bears down on those least able to bear it. The bureaucratic inefficiency is vindictive and hunger is being used as a weapon. People are being forced to look for work that doesn’t exist.
"(...) the current criteria for claiming benefits in the UK is "a Kafka-esque, Catch 22 situation designed to frustrate and humiliate the claimant to such an extent that they drop out of the system and stop pursuing their right to ask for support if necessary - The state's attitude is not an accident. The poverty, the indignity, the humiliation people go through is consciously done. "
Ken LOACH (1936-)
FUCK THE POOR - SELFISH CUNT
ENGLAND MADE ME II - SELFISH CUNT
The Borders of Love
Between two mouths in a kiss
Windowglass of solitude
Selection from Black Mirror: The Selected Poems of Roger Gilbert-lecomte, translated from the French by David Rattray, published by Station Hill Press, 1991. All rights reserved.
I come from afar
in the marches of night
Much farther than one might imagine
My story is slight in the city of light
Well known in the deserts of famine
With her teeth and her nails she’s everywhere
I let her mangle me
But her eyes say I’m a piece of slime
And she will strangle me
And if my berth tonight I choose
In the havens of misery since
I never knew how to refuse
To the bottom of the heap I slide
With neither pisspot nor candle
But oblivion’s obscene solicitudes
To me alone a lovely
Into the Eyes of Night
A woman dozes on a roof her name is night
Ancient abandoned to the perils of intoxication
To sleep’s fumbling treasons
Dreamer in an avalanche of slips
Ditched on a high glassy place to eyeball outer space
Over the corroded zinc where old man sun the killer
And his old lady that tearful poisoner the moon tend bar
Our big sleepwalker’s nails screech all at once
Her fingers sprout insanely squealing diamonds
Drops of blood singing in midair
Dance like beads of mercury
Up to this woman curled in the monster’s lap of nothingness
A chimney fumes a cloud in tatters
In sooty black silk the night wind
Pitches a nomad tent
Lining heaven a celestial floater
In the sleeper’s huge adoring
Eyes their lids stirring as
Long long lashes flutter and
Shrinking stars explode
The name is night she sleeps with one eye open
And all the world at stake on what she does
The Perpetual Incantation
That awful mask a snapshot
Transfixes on the surface
Of a perennial torrent flesh
The awful mask a mugshot
Of drugged solitude
May the rainburst erase it replace it
With a vacuity that shines
A dazzle of nonentity a
Sightless clairvoyant of white shadows
One forever eaten by wind
The Four Elements
To Rolland de Reneville
If I say Fire I am ringed in flames
When I say Water Ocean expires at
My feet an empty hull floating in solid
Crystal a mummy on ice is Air
In Earth the castaway takes root sleeping
Under the leafy tree of his own body
The dream’s golden branch shoots out his mouth
A dirt-caked mouth exhaling to the sky
From lungs inside out like booming treetops
Red harvest in the mortal midnight sun
I Want to be Damned
Where the Prophet Stopped
To Claude Sernet
I’m not the one that went up I’m
Still the other guy the man no man looks for
My face behind the red mask glory shame
Faces the wind wind is my only guide
I’ll stand there like a statue even as
Some crazy gust knocks down a ruined house
Leaving me upright forget about night
What do you want of me the only one
Standing yet cold numb restless not all there
To reach the persons long dead go for the crack Black light from the other sun filters through
And if ere evening I happen to fall
Flat on my face in the road arms outstretched
A jolt of the old juice my ultimate
Will bring me to my feet for the defeat
Night will hasten as I howl in a voice like
Great waters growling in the vault of night
Until the coming of that sign that hour
Leave me alone go on deny a prophet’s
Power to turn life inside out transmuting
All sense to an immortal flash of pain
Leave me to the horrors inside my empty
Head and they are damning damned damned damning.
Coronation and Massacre of Love
To the pale east in the agony of ether
To the west in the night of great waters
To the septentrion in back of the north wind
To the south blest by the ashes of the dead
To the four animal faces of the cardinal points
To the face of the bull
To the lion’s face
To the eagle’s face
To the forever unfinished and ever agonized
At the heart of a dove
In a snake’s coil
From the honey of heaven to the salt of the ocean sea
Of the icons meaning femal space only one lives
It is a woman’s body made up of stars
A shape and vessel holding universe
A blue skinned body formed like the sky
A home to ghosts and to the children of night
A place of absence stillness gloom
The whole of space and what it holds
In a field all white a black hole
Like the cave of the sky
The whole body of woman is a vacuum to be filled
In a cloak of pale shadow
Floods sky and living flesh
From pole to pole
From the occult currents common to flesh and stars
To the bottom of each earthy body
And fault through which a volcano of madness
Nail that screaming woman
To the tripod
Her mouth consumed
In the flaming
Glory of the bitter laurel
Like a raging sea
Her hair is a
Her eyes an eclipse
Stars are streaming out of her fingertips
Her tragic flesh draped in a silk of tremors
Her face carved in the marble of fright
Her feet the sun and moon
She strides along like an ocean
Rolling her hips
In a long ample pulsing swell
Her body embodying the night
Black flame the double mystery
Of an inverse identity
Shimmering in the mirror of great waters
In the desert of love a glimmering visitation
Blind prophetess your eye has the clarity of cut glass
Let the ear of your heart
Hear the lion growl
WithinVeiled in a red fog and buzz
Of blood seared by the venomous spells
And prestigia of desire
Exciting in the bend of your nocturnal throat
The voracity of vampires
Vast dance of nuptial gravitations whole
Worlds and seas pulsing
To the heartbeat of a weeping sun
Down into the temple lost in the forgotten deep
Down into the medusa hole that first spawned
A panic shadow on the first night of the creation
Hear the trumpet blast and the scattered seed
Blasting all the way to bedrock at the bottom of the deepest cave
She dances to connect night and mother sea
A plant connecting earth and blood of heaven
As Antaeus revives by touching earth
To revive empty space by touching skins
In your bosom I lie in order to perform the rite
Of homecoming to where I came from when not yet born
The animal sign of the archaic ecstasy
In your bosom I lay the offering
Of balm and venom mixed
Blind as I am
In the caves of being that are the antechambers of annihilation
Yet who could peel the mask off your face
And the skin’s opaque frontier
To reach the quivering fulcrum of the self That point at dead center of the eye
Of an endlessly expanding series of rings
Itself perfectly motionless at the bottom of the heart star of the absolute
Empty point foundation of all life and of the forms
Which according to the circle of torments
Become the secret of blind change
Whence the desperation
Of a love canceled in a double absence
At the thunderstruck peak of delirium
An act of androgynous unity
The man had forgotten forever already
Before the universe had even begun to exist
In the Tibetan story
Lost in chaos unkempt and
Darkness like a
Mouthful of dirt
A dead person’s fatless shade
Whirls in black oblivion shivering
For the icy slithering of ghosts is all there is out there
When suddenly it finds itself Drawn to a distant glimmer then
Looking into an enchanted cave
A light-filled paradise of warm jewels
A little kingdom of splendors and beatitudes
In the region known as essence of desire
Which though never sated is forever satisfied
Lured by the exhilarating smell
Only to awake riveted
Rooted in uterus
A ghastly fetus doomed to one more round
Of procreative desperation
Spinning on the wheel of the horror of existence
All the way back from the eldest fetal ancestor
To the putrid mother of us all
Our first ancestor rot
In her robber of foxfire
The demented queen
Who makes and unmakes
Forms and fortunes
And by committing the eternal feminine
Star-studded bones and all
To the honor of ash
Imposes on skin’s
Statuesque and pride inclination
Water’s dread horizontality
SO it is the duty of the artist to discourage all traces of shame
To extend all boundaries
To fog them in right over the plate
To kill only what is ridiculous
To establish problem
To ignore solutions
To listen to no one
To omit nothing
To contradict everything
To generate the free brain
To bear no cross
To take part in no crucifixion
To tinkle a warning when mankind strays
To explode upon all parties
To wound deeper than the soldier
To heal this poor obstinate monkey once and for all
To verify the irrational
To exaggerate all things
To inhibit everyone
To lubricate each proportion
To experience only experience
To set a flame in the high air
To exclaim at the commonplace alone
To cause the unseen eyes to open
To admire only the absurd
To be concerned with every profession save his own
To raise a fortuitous stink on the boulevards of truth and beauty
To desire an electrifiable intercourse with a female alligator
To lift the flesh above the suffering
To forgive the beautiful its disconsolate deceit
To flash his vengeful badge at every abyss
It is the artist’s duty to be alive
To drag people into glittering occupations
To blush perpetually in gaping innocence
To drift happily through the ruined race-intelligence
To burrow beneath the subconscious
To defend the unreal at the cost of his reason
To obey each outrageous inpulse
To commit his company to all enchantments.
Kenneth Patchen, The Journal of Albion Moonlight, 1941
I will say nothing
no soft paragraphs – automatic agreements – no democracy
resonate weapon speak be devastated be free
I will say nothing
a sentence can be stretched out over generations
the listener is speaking
I will never sing the memorized song
Some days never end – the laundromat – counting 10 quarters – I am fond of watching the fading
and the yellow – black plastic garbage bags – finger promises over the hole – my arms sweat
keep walking – words reduced to first letter recognition I remember – there is
Soak the silver you will need aluminium baking powder boiling water and a bowl
Stop celebrating Christmas
honor your dead be clear about their immortality and yours
duplication fields nourish no message no instructions
got no leg room memory
How do you destroy a people one generation at a time
Food is what
It looks like permission cut
Food is ancestor plant speak
A body can get use to it`s soul in all forms
I don`t find it poetic
The forest needs a good laugh – I say it is only a vending machine
There is no overload information
Doris Stauffer cut in half is still Doris Stauffer
What interests me – these interruptions that I allow to shift how a word is chosen – He asked me
What do you collect – I told him street cleaning sticks and metal circles – I asked him
What do you collect – he said little paper notes discarded by his students – Choose one and
It shall be the last line of this poem – Days later he sent me the name Doris Stauffer- He asked
Can you use that
Dreams slip Tell everything – Expect it
I tried hard – I went to Freud – A drive is no pleasure
outburst angry genitals fought language wounded – fought connection
healing 10 generations past and 10 generations future Healed now
you have to know how – and you must do this work
Realize the implications
Present authority addiction – leave me out of it – World View rooted in laughable separation
Connection this freedom – How deeply human is possible – I believe he aligned himself with
Divine timing – He said Yes and gained access – He said Yes and the others said No – discovered
is a word that blocks our understanding of Spirit – our ancient greatness – there is no object –
Therefore I am – no object no object no over there
We are Orgasm
function – How do you travel – All healing is sexual healing all creation communication is orgasm
energy – there are worlds in your sex – there are points and locations – I correspond to earth
Reich an infinity ongoing narrative – the beginning middle and end are simultaneous and therefore
need not exist – This confidence without need – He identified the NO people – He said their Blood wouldn`t stretch out – a poetic way to say something very deep and certain – Violence is this NO
Something disturbing has locked in place – Their blood won`t stretch out – Their Blood won`t
Insist you refer to it as reality – OrGanism OrGasm OrGone
I wrote down Republics – How much time does need require to create out of us
I`m training Dream to be – eliminating No at the source
Fork Burke is a poet currently living and writing in Switzerland - She received her BA in Creative Writing from The New School, New York, NY. Her poems have appeared in Hoezo Lepels?, PRAXILLA, Lyre Lyre, Unshod Quills, Caucasus ArtMag and Three Rooms Press publication Maintenant, as well as Le désir Live Radio Show for Art Basel 2012 – Basel Kunstmuseum Radio 2012 – 2012 Lyrics for BLOOD by Nick Porsche. Contributing poet at The First Brussels International Underground Poetry Festival – Her book Licking Glass is a book of poems, poetic essays and other images. Licking Glass is also included in the permanent collection of Poets House Library, NY, NY. Recordings include Fork Remixed – Which was among the winners of the Australian International Song Competition. Her latest Spoken Word recording is Durch die Blumen.
Deborah Stevenson was born in Washington, DC. She grew up in Tokyo, went to high school in Baltimore, and got her BA from Sarah Lawrence College in New York. She lived for many years on the West Coast, and returned to the East Coast, where she lived in Brooklyn, NYC until 2015, when she relocated to the coastal town of Belfast, Maine.
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that writes. There is nothing to lose"
Eros would never leave
Poetry would never leave
Neither would serenity
The grass is conclusively grinning.
a touch of depravity
A jar filled with memory
slowrollingit through a cliff
while belligerence takes your mind
As if birth is not a death sentence
each dawn harvests shrapnel
what the violin did not tell the flute
as if yesterday's massacres weren't enough
were we not targets on sidewalks
sadder than all the winds found in translation
what a sapling said to a hater
don't aim your void at me
as you teach i grow
into the part i strum
aria & patio i split
a mask apart i
split a myth apart
you go on pulling down
a wineglass appears in your hand
there are worse things
than having a leg fetish
On an envelope
Writing on a blackboard
there's a bookbag i've got
If you sucker yourself
into becoming a nostalgia act
If you sucker yourself
into becoming a novelty act
don't blame me.
Damn the middle class mentality!
My guilt is the penalty for not
being a mediocre. Where to begin
is with a league of one.
So effing sorry
for blustery fuckery.
From a document
He doesn't just stop
at the animality of humanity.
leads to another appearance.
Were you there when
Negritude became a tourist
attraction? Awfully so?
Call it dismay. How good it
is to rage again. Leave
the sandbox. Stay on the lam.
Passing down the crown. A heart
that writes. There is nothing to lose
if you wait for the tide to answer your questions.
At the height of it
60 thousand souls took
to the streets in Paris
for your liberty in 1971.
Either way you kept your options open.
Move it. Now.
"Our attention is
Our blood is cheap Our poverty keeps
the engine oiled"
Our story is
no ink for us
Our story is
always the same
no change for us
Our story is
lit only after blood
no fame for us
Our loss is
our only gain
only then attention
Our attention is
Our blood is cheap Our poverty keeps
the engine oiled
Our power is our
reason for being
slaughtered Wrap us in plastic then
Let us lay on styrophone Wrap us in raps
Let us disappear
through microphones Wrap us in melinated uniforms
arm us with laughs Wrap us in slogans
brand us with ads
Wrap us in tobacco leaves
arm us with questions never asked
Wrap us in patent leather
arm us with peach cobbler
Wrap us in raps
Let us bless microphones
And when it all falls nanoscopic
Wrap us in chromosones
Or just wrap us in ideas and topics
Her father disappeared when the trains whistle blew,
Her mothered heard and strapped her to the wall with Guerilla glue
Her brother disappeared when the plane roared overhead
Her mother heard and hid her in the shed
Her sister vanished when the kettle hollered
Her mother heard and drowned her in the bottle
Momma finally disappeared when she looked round and saw,
The ground bubbling
and up from it coming a rose Sphinx's paw
Malik Ameer Crumpler is a poet, rapper and music producer that’s released a multitude of albums, short films and five books of poetry. He founded Satori Ideas Media and co-founded the literary journals: Madmens Calling, Visceral Brooklyn and Those That This. He is the new curator of Poets Live, has an MFA in Creative Writing from LIU Brooklyn and performs regularly in Paris and New York. Crumpler also wrote several musicals, ballets and arias commissioned by Harvest Works, Liberation Dance Theater, Firehouse Space, Panoply Lab, B’AM Paris, B’AM Vancouver, and
Double Wei Factory.
The Suburbs thereof
text and images by Matt Rosen, London
Nicholas Hawksmoor was a radical English Baroque architect that designed six of London’s most striking and misunderstood churches.
Together, these buildings trace a sacred and hidden geography of London. Whilst some view the placement of his buildings and their architectural symbols as occult and folkloric, I see London’s Hawksmoor churches as sketching out a future map of religious dissent and inter-cultural harmony. Their placement echoes the growth of bohemian and immigrant communities that began in his time with Huguenot refugees and carries on to this day.
From east to west, the route is as follows:
Start. St Alfege's, Greenwich, underneath the Thames through the Greenwich Foot Tunnel to St Anne's Limehouse, through Shadwell to St George in the East, north through Whitechapel towards Christ Church, Spitalfields, back down towards the river to St Mary Woolnoth, past St Paul’s and Holborn, into Soho and finally to St George's, Bloomsbury. End, approximately 11km walked in all.
These images come from an ongoing project, all captured along the route that joins up these six sites, tramped again and again with camera in hand in a bid to understand the latent contours of my city of birth.
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"six hundred cold knives standing up in lunatic sheaves through the fiery dawn"
of flayed oxen
glowing in broken sensory flows
streams of beheaded redheads
pouring in the gray sluice of my torn skull
six hundred cold knives standing up in lunatic sheaves through the fiery dawn
flood of tender thighs
milky blindness around morning light
and my brains
unctuous atrocious brains
licking the blade of tenderness
When a giant blade rises in the sky,
yelling at the sky :
YES ! and fuck you ! sky,
the river of desire
in silence, may vomit
its convulsed scum
its slaughtered melons
young velvety vulvas
and amputated nymphs
and monstrous anal-dildos
Younisos writes what he calls "carnal experimental poetry". He's the author of Carnage Sensitif, in French ; and his upcoming book is in English : Carnal Flux and Sensory Slaughters. He lives in Tangier.
The Elusive Waterfall
In 100-degree heat
We wandered far past Main Street, Downieville
In search of the waterfall.
Beyond the cemetery of sweet peas
Climbing the steep rock ravines in July
While the skinny-legged bikers rolled by.
All of us destined for
The double-creamed cones
Served by red-headed nubiles.
Later we slept on the redwood deck
Outside of the unbearable warmth
Of the wood cabin.
Clinging to each other at 11 p.m.
No longer afraid of cinnamon bears
Or striped skunks.
Like the feral cat
We rolled on the road of the moment
As we fucked goodbye
In all the languages
As we locked tongues
Under the silent cedars
And carved our names
Into the nite--
I/We wuz here.
Rebecca Morrison or Eskimo Pie is a poet living in the French countryside where she is refurbishing an art gallery. She has published 6 books of poetry and is currently working on a novel. She has edited eskimopie.net since 2002 publishing poetry, art and fiction. She has a new website in France at illuminationsgalerie.wordpress.com (after Rimbaud).