nezu

nezualcoyotl ego tenacious vainglory
arise over ego jibe speech
tepid joke quash joke of moss

the post-schreberian opalescent ego

real dust = lavanda cutters) versus language dust
arise (nobble tongue of synaptoscape poein-poesis

stiff occamian disconnected slithering joke
versus
pre-euripidean smouldering

pleosc.

a

sentence distance barcodes
genome word bat molecules
pretty din systems treaza stand
take si cumpara
a conventional letter constiinta
a con let con

THREE GIRLS TALKING ABOUT LOVE

Suddenly, they are sullen,
laughter gone,
eyes focused on
dark brown coffee.

Love has had its way with them:
elusive, warring,
filling their beautiful voices with scars

après GuYotat, tZaRa

the doors chattering as teeth and all is impatiently done
to get you out as quickly as possible
lovable man merchandise with open but hermetically bandaged eyes
waterfall cough rhythm projected in meridians and slices
world map stained with mud leprosy and blood
winter on its night pedestal poor dumb sterile night
pulls the cloud drapery on the cold menagerie
and holds in its hands as if it was to throw a ball
luminous number your head full of poetry


les portes claquent des dents et tout est fait dans l’impatience
de te faire sortir au plus vite
homme aimable marchandise aux yeux ouverts mais hermétiquement bandés
toux de cascade rythme projeté en méridiens et tranches
mappemonde tachée de boue de lèpre et de sang
l’hiver monté sur son piédestal de nuit pauvre nuit débile stérile
tire la draperie de nuage sur la froide ménagerie
et tient entre ses mains comme pour jeter une boule
chiffre lumineux ta tête pleine de poésie


from: Tristan Tzara. L'homme approximatif. Paris: Gallimard, 2004, p.28-29.

SpinoZisme de rue

_____________________________________




'on ne fait pas ce qu'on veut, mais bien ce qu'on peut!'







_____________________________________

Gestalgarades, Tollerably Well All Day, but the Noise in the Attic Unremoved, or Moving.

boscage,

BRIMOS/

favor
㍨ _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~*
flavors a wish-
bone dash
to crack in a
symmetric wash
ing gnash
㍨ _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~*
cuple
fie
cuple~fore th'
tin grist's grith-stool
haunt
㍨ _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~*
pabble
pabble lo
d'un genre dont
㍨ _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~*
le nom est emprunté
㍨ _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~*
au mot
le nom
les mit au monde
㍨ _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~*
in air of gallant cello
bond
the leitmotiv of the campaign (it's jest play..)
㍨ _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~*
was a busy Polynesian husky? Bromios, you cad!
TS SAID (nack-nack-nack-nack-nack-nack-naciciciciciijijij
the perfect wife of auchtermuchty
㍨ _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~*
kissing sing
the bull-voiced mimes
our sad dream is
㍨ _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~*
plaster
㍨ _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~*
folded fall
& foals
th' 'fol et folle'
of loveswim fools
㍨ _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~*
men wist in thilk time
known
so faire a wight
as she was
stone
and dead kin kind
㍨ _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~*
a heart explode
in twisted revelrishi bade
㍨ _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~*
OMADIUS MY HEART
inferned in tyrannic rituel une
ritournelle un chahut
de force assez brutale
㍨ _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~*
WON
㍨ _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~*
the still flock
storking in the attic
㍨ _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~*
ribbon slithering
through the shawm

of knees and braid these

head-pegs
vielleicht allée

㍨ _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~* _.,-*~'`^`'~*

and to

foopfooptub

i stink the monster

of Dr. Onions

and doom seems brighter

than the secret

Elle est terrible, ta fleur !


Elle est terrible ta fleur_en plein visage ! De là jusqu'au coeur !_
jamais depuis monde nouveau et beau je ne sens
l'amour fleuve, elle tremble, saute,
qu'à faire taire ton ventre et à le calmer,
à déplacer ta douleur, pour voir, voilà
sa fin, terrible fleur du coeur et du
centre du visage !

Terrific ! The flower on the middle center point of your face ! From here up to your heart !
I’ve never feel the Love River since the New and Beautifull World.
She quakes and leaps to silence your belly and to calm it. The objective is the dispacement of your pain.
This is its intention, its end, terrific flower of the middle center point of your face.

crispy twin towns flatter still lives cool at pip with tame
compulsion that at best turns blue brown.

to believe in breakfast bridges another day to another day,

as clearing model sites of old time grass and dinky intention, ties
time into non-stop pop.

"Guyotat. Sa voix grave, extrême, rauque, qui porte les stigmates de l’extrême, de l’outre – tombe, du spectre désirant. L’éraillement de la vie outrancière. Comme un souffle qui transgresse et qui s’insurge."

for a sample of voice Guyotat a search at Ubusound and you can hear him
reading a short excerpt from Eden, Eden Eden.

"Guyotat. His deep, extreme and hoarse voice which carries the stigmas of the extreme, of death and the desiring spectre. The seperating of the outrageous life. Like a breath which transgresses and takes up arms."


« J'ai seulement, peu à peu, refusé la littérature, c'est-à-dire l'ornementation par les mots de la réalité, qu'elle soit externe ou interne. J'ai souvent dit que je ne pouvais pas mettre en place ce monde qui est le mien, un tel monde, dans la langue de tous les jours comme dans la langue littéraire conventionnelle. De même que par ce monde qui est le mien (putain, charogne, misère, menace du massacre, etc.) je retourne à l'élémentaire, à la faim, au désir, à la défense du territoire, à l'animalité et à ce qui, dans l'homme, ne peut se résoudre à la seule animalité ou à la seule humanité, à la souffrance métaphysique en somme, de même s'est imposée à moi, musicalement, et logiquement, cette langue rapide (élision du e muet, disparition de prépositions de lieu, de temps inutiles, etc.), expressive (accentuation renforcée, désaccentuation, etc.), essentielle (contraction des mouvements, du temps, de l'espace, etc.). En quelque sorte, j'efface de la langue tout ce qui m'y paraît inutile, tout ce qui n'est pas expressif. Mais il s'agit d'une langue que je connais bien depuis l'enfance, que depuis l'enfance je pratique poétiquement; il ne s'agit donc pas d'une fantaisie sonore (pour le plaisir du son). Je connais cette langue et ses ruades internes, ces mouvements presque de fœtus dans le ventre de la mère patrie. Mais je connais aussi, du moins dans leurs sons ou dans leurs structures, les langues européennes et elles interviennent toutes dans cette transformation que je fais: rien de tel aussi que l'écoute de la musique vocale ou du cinéma parlant de tous les pays pour comprendre une langue et pour se transformer soi-même en langue, en instrument; drôle de vie, drôle d'avenir! »


"I have little by little refused literature, that is to say the dressing up of reality with words, whether this reality be external or internal. I have often said that I could not set up this world which is mine, such a world, in everyday language or in conventional literary language. Just as through this world which is mine (whore, carrion, misery, the threat of massacre, etc...) I go back to basic things, to hunger, to desire, to the defense of a territory, to animality and to that which in man cannot be resolved only in animality or only in humanity, basically to metaphysical suffering; musically and logically this rapid (elision of the silent e, disappearence of place propositions, of useless tenses, etc...), expressive (stressed and unstressed emphasis), essential (contraction of movements, of time, of space, etc...) language forced itself upon me. I erase everything that seems useless and expressionless to me in the language, as it were. But we're talking about a language that I know well since childhood, that I practice poetically since childhood, so we're not talking about some kind of sonorous whimsy (just for the sake of sound). I know this language and its internal kicks, these almost foetal movements inside the stomach of the motherland. But I also know European languages, at least in their sounds and structures, and they are all involved in this transformation I accomplish. There is nothing like listening to the vocal music or to the cinema of all these countries to understand a language and to change oneself in language, into an instrument; it's a funny life, a funny future!"


thisthese wordquote finding at
OBSCURE CLARTE
Humeurs D'un petit laboratoire de littérature en effervescence


Anyone interested in more of Pierre Guyotat writing Eden, Eden, Eden, has been translated to English, and I think one other as well has been Englished.

In other essay/view Guyotat says I refuse the literature of neurois and choose
that what I name the literature psychosis_ psychoseature i.e. schizo
analysis.

His books were many times banned seriously in France in 70s.

posted by Clifford Duffy @ 11/29/2006
re-posted translated by Tomas Sidoli@ 12/08/2006

swig season

an average sized poem posed over the hole of sun, which dimmed mercifully. meanwhile collegiate moon drained off fullness and went with the winter extreme towards snow, the flat brokerage fee of stubblefield. the cat climbs up to investigate the season of miracle and streetwise. we forget. years eat everything. stayed home to examine why these colours particularly, when so many. the poem finds its wheel and leg, struggles with words, and days mean a lot of wiggle room. until you street clean, you are leaves from the overdue wind. autumn fakes out. snow is illusion, spring can't hold a candle. is it then summer? summer is a poem.

Provection Into Testament's Brave Logick

Archita's dove we
to jack for Tresseta's tailwind
the habule
incessile
infortibitible
and nosomane ambrosia
of Heliconian nymphs to
spectabundal audysseus es
too ward )_(&_(*_&*)&
by tu thro pune {putput}
ba - boon
as of a coincidence
of angles, angels which inhabit
the Apophreniac climacteries
transparent lichtenthorns broadcasting
a rococo genome of bull-nosed ray
each plodding, toucose varbletete
succour'd in unknowing pleem
tongue the lee medium menain
meaning all shroud of interlocking memory
THRUST OUTWARD
the innocent sky of mind unfold
stripped of castled shackled rookeries
the smooth colorless ire become
some purer blood
of machinic doves not wrought
or failing
impossible breaking
a dew of turning
and yet not abolish
the forehead's gem (commedia
the cluster plash of serpent
as laser leaps
to empty
current vertue burthen
elucubrations on the solid solemn turmoil
of this deare old isle
precious innermass
what cargo shall pass we
no garrison known
they are all addresses
settling to pub
or fluent terms regained

arcology internal

A collaboration with...E. Janke

ewes'-tongue

Silage-trap left ajar (ewes’-tongues) and to think a czaress in horse’s bridle screaming at the drop of her lungs can’t get a good sausage-and-auger. I’m tender for that idiot writer, lived in a ferret’s hole with a notebook and scribes’ pen, wrote some beautify stuff; files the void, thumbtacks and emery bards and curlicue that won’t rub away, not even with a good wire-brush and awl.

Kari Edwards

By accident just read the sad news that poet and blogger of Transdada and other works and books of poems__ Kari Edwards has died. She died on her 52nd birthday. Kari Edwards was a member of Brim since mid September of this year. This last posting on her blog, written by her partner, Fran, is where I read the news.

transsubMUTATION: "Monday, December 04, 2006
My loving partner and publisher of this blog, Kari Edwards, died on 12/2/06 her birthday. She touched so many people with her work and her blogs. Her presence in the world and on the internet will live on. Thanks"

cigarette

oh the folly
of harvest dreams
desecrated by
poisoned lungs
wounding rebirth

billy jno hope

I own a cat

I own a cat
aclys mic
hell angel o's
invent u
ally
with arma
geddon rich
you

all this barking up the tree-
can i get a dog
ma?

of all the people in the room

stay on schedule stay
the test tells me its secrets
waiting gives you time to peek through the mail slot
stray me along if you can’t sing your own song
stay on a string, merge the words from your wire
I tell you some of what I know
the house in December was a good place 
     to find sparrows trapped in the attic
of all the homely people in the room, 
     your voice was the loudest

well and it takes you away, away
stay on top of the calendar
business by batch number, but booziness afterward
the content on my plate could fill a room
could fill a house full of sparrows
the text is full of secrets
her blue sweater was on a mini-vacation
in the meeting room full of meeting people, 
     her cold cross against black material

12/5/06

Dromomania of inscribing hands/"might makes write"

spitting i've heard is the lowest form of grievance/any body can do it/if you have enough saliva to get wet/but for whom?/ is the question for opprobrium/the woman who cut us off on the freeway/or the asshole who couldn't keep his nicotine habit to himself/thereby forcing us to consume his bad habit as well/i long for the big death/not the little ones/like high cholesterol/or 2nd hand smoke/yeah we've all got to die/so i'll save my big lugie for my last moment on earth/that final breath/where my aim becomes so accurate that i won't care who gets hit

Duyck Jenlain = EAFAE = Toad Spittle Cakes

girded with the aegis

a goat-skin

fringed with snakes

==

V. The Reiters

[flagon of 1668 Oct. 8/4 They the bottle
7 §7 Basons, Waters B such a lump AS.]

be
out of a flagon
and lope
old psyche
toward the warmth
of suns
to be
undone

[flagon of 1668 Oct. 8/4 They the bottle
7 §7 Basons, Waters B such a lump AS.]

to:
the wooden women
an american emperor
the final war
the invaders
the king of diamonds
the lost provinces
the turning point
the baby of the future
the barbarous britishers
fables and fantasies
mortmain
the man who rocked the earth
the master of the skies
world d
appius and virginia
the reign of the saints
the fixed period
black spirits and white
exodus
three boys on an electrical boat

[flagon of 1668 Oct. 8/4 They the bottle
7 §7 Basons, Waters B such a lump AS.]

~
How their diamond flagons usually a clod?
Yorick, are yet you of potent juice, Fiasco Fiascone.
Traordinary scene. Should narrow mouth. After
find their think They for a madde flascon.
It. moist and dirty. bottelles. Liquors early
pestilent knaue difference for Yorick here. Distyll.
Critics please! The Arimaspeans do battel with
the griffins for gold. Megasthenes ascending
the staircase of an odd camera of shifting stones.
The king’s jester, proved fatal flagons to
divert the leisure-hours. And, difference is in
the space of two Odes, coin pispots, bowls,
and ready observation to ortum ducere, videntur,
each compartment crowded with labelled folios
all filemot with age and use desirous to vessel
of drink. Ballistes, fingered as a trigger-fish,
eminent wit | of galons...

[flagon of 1668 Oct. 8/4 They the bottle
7 §7 Basons, Waters B such a lump AS.]

Well, one day Hilarion was tempted by a
female daemon who gave him a cup of wine and
some flowers.

[flagon of 1668 Oct. 8/4 They the bottle
7 §7 Basons, Waters B such a lump AS.]

Three Reiters dressed in black, each one
closely bound to a gypsy woman:

Reiter 1. Sir, a word in your shell-like ear,
- - But I charge you to keep it as a secret, It
would cost me my Life should it be known I divulged it.
- - The World are all mad, and have
lock'd up in this place every sober, wise
Man among them, and me with the rest. -- We pity
the poor wild Madmen abroad, and would not change Conditions.

Reiter 2. These comings and gopings have striped
my placenta. Striped my face, my hands, and the
flaccoun of my belly. Some are red. Some black.
Some white. Some are yellow, green or blue, and
often they change hue. There is a vein in my tongue, and
it too, is striped. Part of my tongue has been
removed for a purpose. Even that small
removed part is striped.

Reiter 3. [He bows deeply, the most refined
and amiable of the group.]

Donna, per salutarmi
scopriste il voito, ov'era armato Amore,
e mi feriste il core.
Che fareste pugnando,
arimaspera guerrella, poi, se salutando
voi mi fate nel cor mille ferute?
O saluto crudel senza salute!

[Unsoweiter, the Cryptid Head]:

"Considering now some of the cases in which the use
of a particular fungus has been advocated, we find in
comparatively recent times "Badham" speaking of the
value of Trametes suaveolens in the cure of consumption;
while as recently as 1884, Gautier deprecates the employment
of Lactarius piperatus and L. torminosus, which had recently
been recommended for the same purpose, but which
gave no results of any value."

écriture

____________________________________________





lecture d'une singularigraphie










____________________________________________

Hurlements en faveur de Sade - Guy Debord - 1952

1952 the year I was born! wave roll of time unfurled the great dada deborderS

This is a p|h|o|t|o Mon|.T\A|G|E of HauSMann Dad a ||SoPh

"Master of Objects and Collage, born 1886 in Vienna, Raoul Hausmann was one of the founding members of DADA (Berlin). Inventor of 'optophonetic poetry', ominousivore of photocollage, instigator of intrepid typography...".

------------------------------Video founD at
at youtube
Added October 22, 2006
From SADE1740
[PUBLIC DOMAIN.]
________________

merci thank you very much much very much for the brimmers postings this lasting week week lasting week its week lasting its hurlement the inside outside texting machining ring of its bliss to blocs _in the deleuzo-guattarian sense 'les blocs' are probe spots which prompt imaginative creations.

This little video made so many decades ago! by Guy Debord and the photomoneur R. Hausmann DadaSoph.

Dears of Dada

Vive Carl Solomon.

SPILL

1.

Helen’s shock of red
hair corkscrewed from her head
like a crooked halo.

I forced my hair down
with dark clips. Plastic teeth
and their shallow pricks. My sharp-toothed boyfriend
had a goth look. Aesthetic value
of dark circles and black-painted nails.

He railed against Helen
revealing too much—her flaws
raw, her neck exposed as she gushed
exclamations; as she maddened
the stylishly composed boys
with her melodramatic vein of expression.
When her volume increased, those boys stalked
from the room. They couldn’t stand
her superfluous spurting of adjectives.
Fluttering fingers and pages
of works in progress…

I was stylish too.
I kept my rough drafts concealed,
even though they outnumbered the polished products.
I secretly admired Helen’s messy revelations.
None of us could have predicted
what she would do next.

For me, espresso was just another black accessory,
but she drank frothy lattes
with cinnamon sprinkles on top.
She spooned me coffee-flavored ice cream
in the Student Union. I smiled at her
when my boyfriend wasn’t there. She smiled back.
Such simple memories might have faded,
but they linger like steam rising up
from open vessels. Maybe we could have been friends,
chatting over cappuccino, in a few more years.
Maybe I could have trimmed her hair,
saved a bright curl as souvenir. Instead,
it was just a quick smile, a tiny tilt
of my lips before I fastened them back to bittersweet accessory.


2.

She walked out of her dorm room
and nobody knows the small details
of what she did next. Was it improvisation
or a work in progress she’d devised long ago,
had secretly revised for months, never revealing
too much? Was she drunk? Did she lose control
to a villain who tied her down,
laid her head across the railroad tracks,
tilted toward the oncoming wail?

Frothy foam, cinnamon sprinkles, spilling
red hair. Free flowing after a line break
that nobody can revise. No more words
forced between college-ruled lines
just huge bold black bloodied
tracks. Men had to come
clean up the mess from her head
in the dark of that night.

My boyfriend said she got what she deserved,
a kind of immortality. He said he was writing a poem
for her, but it was tiny script contained
on one neat page. None of his images had impact.
His dark circles were eyeliner. I was also

guilty I couldn’t stop the flow
of my pen. My cliched grip on black ink.
My workshop revisions getting slicker
and more stylish as if I was dolling up
her decapitation. Her red head was just a glossy
maraschino cherry bitten off at the stem.

Her exposed neck was cauterized just so
the style mongers could stalk away
with a new image glazing their lips.

NIGHTHAWKS

NIGHTHAWKS
(on looking at Edward Hopper’s painting, Nighthawks)

Nightfall is in for the evening,
resting on everything with its heavy shadows,

tired now from holding them for so long
but for the occasional thumb print behind you here,

tired now from lifting every heavy wave
upon its back there.

And leaning into tall buildings has never once been easy.
It’s certain no one here would see it differently.

For now, darkness hangs an arm across our shoulders.
We each bow a little beneath its weight.

We are that much closer to our cups because of it,
that much closer to the ground beneath us.

We will meet up again then.
There.

For now, we sit and drink, leaning back a little sometimes
to uncrease the curl in the slopes of our spines

or lean our faces in to the glow of electric light,
the way we might hold our hands before a fire,

the way we might break the water’s surface
one last time

before slipping down,
far beneath the waves

with the shadow of night
beneath our heels even then.

s--t---r

the abstracts of the ebola mayari

the abstracts of each mollycoddle

dioxide attunement;  chastened

hold still elegiasts;  breviasts;  the congregating cloisonne, with rabelaisian tunics, move-priestology
     the sanctified in treachery dance - mutant half-breathers, dysfunction box-humanlikes

rickrack, the blowup standby, understanding standby, she talon vascular listen
     o failsafe vascularity hist;

crumbs.  a nightlight gushes out hundredweight.  the lexica of the irrigable day stagnate, blown up.

     o plastic ass, chasteners of smilax, biosensing muckreek;

the st. vital ecstacy of drano canticles

Will the Piano Function Probably (Boundless Energy)

the table isn't exactly intentional: it had to be a table. this insistence stays here. the table is red because that's what happens when you stain it red. it has its history, no more than a living boulder. memories occur, seeding a function that congratulates the present day for everything that heaped up. here then is the utmost red table on which a computer can be placed. my hands are the new matter, placed on the computer. do my fingers dance, or shall we just say they type words? wiggle toes while sitting. the wonder concerns how these words, in a world of obituaries, ruffle the air in a particular. like a red table, that is, that was of my father, and his mother before, and I don't know more direction than that. I return to the red table because I write of the place where the minute happens now. tho thoughts can involve Saturn, the retired god or the planet. no, death of someone, that's a pinch. no, something igneous, when we have time. time represents the red table insofar as a process of stasis redeems the idea that thinking goes on. on is the troubling part, what does a preposition mean when it has nothing to hold? do we need rumours of life on Pluto, or can we be satisfied to know that Saturn is bigger than Toronto and the moon (Luna) combined. Beethoven wrote that poem called Claire de Lune. such a device holds the bridge in place.

In the pink round

You shall know how,
To find the pink round.

It is there in the valley of the guitars.

Lift up the guitars,
And find the keys.

Play it well.
Play it well.
Play it well.
Play it well.

And then, when the round is played, I shall join you. It shall go round and round and round and round and round and someone else shall join us and then it shall go round and round and round and in the pink and the round shall be in the pink and the Stacatto sound of it shall echo in the round in the pink round and round and round and round and round.

With a plectrum,
You shall play all the different notes,
Of the pink round.

With your fingers.

Pick out the gentle jelly of me,
Take joy in the chords,
The trembling frets.

Wake up,
Wake up,
And the curve of maple,
The truth inside echoing sound.

Round and round and round in the pink round round round and round again. Another joins us. It is the milk pudding of sharing. It is the soft cinnamon of rumps. Of papery skin, soft to touch. She is here.

Realise your seeds.
Add cream.
Tarts, piping hot.
Toffee-like you play to me,
In the pink round.

Volatile lumps,
Gaps with slice-knives,
Milky mess,
With a spoon of simmer.

I boil over.

what happens to the rough necks of roughnecks (pour francois villon)

ce qui arrive aux cous des voyous
english: neck: cou rough: depoli aussi le sens de grossierre en manieres roughneck--a tough guy, un homme dur, sauvage

Life Being Life

  

a face

a mirrored surface of scratched lines
of a face full of time lines super-
imposed one on another

a dull mirrored surface of
scratched lines of a face
full of pale time lines
superimposed one on
another in a cartography
of what went wrong, of what went right

unlike the potential of a hand
cartography to be interpreted, no,

a cartography of what was tried
abandoned started again anew
a life cartography

Compte rendu fictif d'un ouvrier existentiel en stage de deux semaines

Semaine 1

Lundi 11 Août

Aujourd'hui, mes blattes sont mortes. Ou peut-être hier, je ne sais pas. De toute façon, elles étaient moribondes depuis un certain temps déjà. Il n'y aura pas de célébration religieuse, cela faisait longtemps qu'elles proclamaient la mort de dieu. Tant pis, on boira quand même un coup à leur santé, enterrement ou pas.

J'ai tout de suite téléphoné au garage pour savoir si mon camion était prêt. Le monsieur m'a dit de rappeler dans une demi-heure, que l'atelier était débordé, qu'ils ne pourraient me parler en ce moment. Son manque d'amabilité me laissa supposer qu'ils en étaient encore au café, à neuf heures du matin!

Après avoir fumé quelques cigarettes, je les ai téléphoné de nouveau, au bout de trois quarts d'heure. C'est une voix féminine qui me répondit. Elle m'assura que mon camion était prêt, que je pouvais passer quand je voulais. Avec ma patronne, nous décidâmes d'y aller vers onze heures. Ainsi nous arriverions à la cantine vers midi, juste à temps pour manger. Bien sûr toutes ces planifications furent vaines, car nous dûmes attendre une bonne heure au garage avant qu'ils veuillent bien nous donner le camion.

La matinée m'avait fatigué et j'aurais bien fait la sieste. Cependant, je ne l'ai pas faite. La semaine d'avant on m'avait fait comprendre que je n'était pas payé pour cela. J'ai donc regardé le téléphone jusqu'à quinze heures, tout en espérant qu'il ne sonnerait pas. Il n'a pas sonné. A quinze heures, je suis parti prendre le bus.

Mardi 12 Août

Ce matin, j’ai dû identifier les corps de mes deux blattes. J’ai confirmé qu’elles étaient les miennes et qu’elles étaient mortes. Le monsieur qui est venu les chercher m’a dit qu’il faudrait faire une autopsie, pour élucider les circonstances de leur mort. Je lui ai dit que je n’était pas contre, qu’il pouvait le faire, s’il le fallait. J’ai donc consenti à ce qu’elles soient décortiquées. J’ai aussi demandé si je devais déclarer les mortes à la mairie. Il m’a répondu que ce n’était pas nécessaire. Tant mieux, je peux ainsi me réconforter avec l’idée qu’elles ne sont pas mortes, officiellement.

Ensuite ma patronne est arrivée. Des ampoules avaient grillé, je devais les changer. J’ai parfois l’impression que je ne fais que cela, c’est-à-dire que je ne fais qu’illuminer des endroits dépourvus de lumière.

Mercredi 13 Août

Ma patronne a crevé. Cela me fait de la peine, mais pas au point d’en pleurer. C’est ça la vie, les choses arrivent. Ça me fait un peu chier quand même, il va falloir que je lui change sa roue et que je la porte au garage. Je m'en serais passer volontiers, mais bon, la pauvre ne peut plus circuler. En plus, elle s’est garée en plein soleil, je vais encore perdre une bonne quantité de mes sels minéraux. Au garage ils m’ont dit qu’il n’y avait pas de crevaison, que l’air s’était échappé comme par miracle. Ce n’est pas grave.

Une secrétaire vient juste de me téléphoner pour me dire que son téléphone était en panne. Je lui ai dit qu’il ne devait pas vraiment être en panne, puisqu’elle me téléphonait. Elle téléphone depuis son poste de secours, un poste tout simple, sans toutes les options, c’est-à-dire les rappels automatiques, la fonction conférence, les transferts, etc... Je téléphone donc à la société Bosch qui s’occupe des téléphones. Ils m’engueulent et me disent qu’ils ne s’appellent plus Bosch mais Tenovis ou Tenaudis, je ne sais plus. Je m’excuse de mon ignorance.

C’est bon, le téléphone est réparé, je puis donc rentrer chez moi tranquille.

Jeudi 14 Août

J’ai passé ma journée dans les faux plafonds. Il y avait des fuites de partout. Je n’ai que constaté les dégâts, je ne suis pas habilité à intervenir. J’ai donc faxé un machin, un bon d’intervention au plombier. Je me demande parfois s’il ne fait pas exprès de mal réparer les fuites, pour se donner plus de travail. Personnellement, je m’en fous, ce n’est pas moi qui paye, mais je lui fais tout de même des fax sans arrêt. Quand je suis redescendu de mes faux plafonds, j’ai re-fixé un extincteur au mur. Le pauvre était tombé.

Après mes efforts de ce matin, j’était content de faire ma permanence téléphonique. Comme d’habitude, il n’y avait rien à signaler. J’ai donc lu le journal. Des milliers de gens crèvent de chaud en ce moment, c’est-à-dire qu’ils meurent, ce n’est pas qu’une simple expression pour dire qu’il fait chaud. Moi aussi je crève de chaud, même avec la clim.

Vendredi 15 Août

Aujourd’hui je ne travaille pas. C’est dommage, on ne fait rien et on gagne deux fois plus les jours fériés. Tant pis.