Monday, July 17, 2017



Happy the one who can leave in due time
Death makes life unforgettable

In 1974, I knew Pierre Boulez indirectly since I was reading the music treatises of Pierre Schaeffer and some other books on the subject of modern music, concrete music, noise if you want, but also plain music from classical to jazz, from negro spiritual to Black and Soul, from the Beatles to The Who and AC/DC or vice versa. I was ranting and raving on David Bowie the non-bipolar fluid gender hermaphrodite. I was already waxing sentimental and dazzled by the genius of Leonard Cohen, and yet I was trying to enter another world, the world of a distorted stressed psyche that has managed to survive a couple of traumas including the one of extreme eyesight impairment from birth to the age of six without any medical assistance. You know: “Don’t Pass Me by!” And I had enjoyed in all the twenty-nine years already behind me all that was sound, music, languages, talk, drama, radio, and so many other things to listen to and to hear even if seeing was not exactly the cup of tea in which I could rinse my “spectacles” or glasses if you prefer.

Here was my mind then (never ever published since 1974 and only read once to a small audience)


And he looked right and he saw Lawrence
And he looked left and he saw Terence
And in front of him he saw Stephens
And there and here someone else
                               Someone more
A Face anonymous and placid
       Amorphous and tacit
A face with a nose and two eyes
       With a pose and two lies
One for him and one for the world
And the pose of the comfort
                               Of the mind
We had tried hard to break the lurid front-lights
                               To jump into the dark pit
                                           Of the tender-footed neophytes
The vertigo of a mosquito
       Attracted by the bite
       The fervid taste of blood
       And the pounding grind of the slap
That will forever stop the flight
Of the buzzing nuisance
To a sad inacceptance
The clown was standing in front of his audience

And then all of a sudden
The bright imagination beam
Takes in its tight spot the face
Of what among others that is more
                               And yet nothing more
                   That is for an instant
                               And already no more
Of him he flippantly likes
       And he recreates in his mind
                   In his flesh
       Recreates with his quivering eyelids
                   Good morning but don’t touch me
                   I love you but don’t touch me
                   I want you but don’t touch me
                   I have you but don’t touch me
And phantasy phantasizes the phantasmic phantasms
       Of his desire
He plays his stringy show
On a stringent note of maybe I can
                               Maybe I could
                                           Maybe I might
                   Make him understand
       The turn of my covetousness
       The counterturn of my ravenousness
       The stand of my desirousness

The clown was standing in front of his audience
And got no answer not even a clap

He relapsed in his voyeurism
He traced the fine of an ankle
                   The line of a leg
                               The mine of a thigh
                                           That shivers at his breath
The lip brushes the softness of the hairs
The tongue waters the skin of his flesh
The fingers meet into the width of a palm
Cupping to retain the wine of the crotch
                   The milk of the breast
That mango juice he pines for
And lift it to his mouth
Furnishing his palate
       With the sultry caressing lime
       Green like the never ripe passion of his heart
Acid like the never-moored
            Overflying Dutchman
                        Of his dearth
Coating his throat with the reviving paste
       That springs high
                   That digs deep
                               That will never germinate
                               And yet will carry more fruit
                   Than the carob tree of yon savannah
                   Dead-like and lifeless
                   Like a bug dried in the moonshine
                               And fatefully immobile
There the cross of the long-legged roads
There were the east and the west meet
In the climax of their zenith
In the apex of their noon
The south emerges
                   Soothing and simmering
The flames in the eyes
The thirst in the mind
With a taste of roundness
With a flavor of boldness
A bouquet and a fragrance
Heady and exhilarating
Like the foreplay of the skin
                   Over the sharp edge of the blade
                               Of the brit milah of fervid tradition
Ready to penetrate
                   The soft sweet bread of the flesh

The clown was standing in front of his audience
And got no answer not even a clap
From the unreachable posse of indifferent masks

                               Coulardeau Jacques
                               Davis June 1974

– Pierre Boulez – David Bowie –
– Leonard Cohen –
Blissful Recollection of the Future

Music wind of the mind
Crawling creeping sliding
In out through
Ears eyes skin

Music tempo of the soul
Beating dancing swinging
Up down gone
Hands feet head

Music tempest of the heart
Loving hugging cuddling
Back forth
            All around
Chest breasts
Elbows and arms

Sitting in the dark gloom of the abbey church I listen to the opening of some symphony that reverberates under the vault and among the columns.
A butterfly flutters gracefully in the sunshine and perches itself on my knee in some green meadow behind the summer house of the vacation.
Snowflakes hover in the air and lightly cover the sidewalk of the still benighted street of my city just one week before Christmas in the cold morning air.
On the big square on a bench my street homeless friend wakes up every morning when I come and every morning I give him half my ten thirty snack.
And all the time some music resonates in my brain and tells me in a whisper between the notes, among the keys and codas, a message that I will remember.
“Go your way and keep in your fists the acorn you saved last September, keep it for the forlorn forgotten forsaken squirrel of an alley urchin that has no shelter and that longs for love.”

An acorn
A walnut
An apple
A pear
Shared and split in half
Bestowed and received
With a hungry smile
With two eager lips
With many ravenous teeth
Flat sharp pure tonic C

The schoolboy offers in one hand
The sidewalk wanderer gathers with both hands
Raises his eyes and locks them
On the blue irises pierced with a dark question


A voice from on high then vibrates like a tuning fork

“I won’t pass you by, I promise!
“But don’t vanish and go, ever!”

Olliergues, February 9, 2017

Boulez-Bowie-Cohen & (74)

Happy the one who can leave in due time


Death makes life unforgettable


Three living stars have just died in the field of music. Three supernovas that were a galaxy of their own. Leonard Cohen, David Bowie and Pierre Boulez, the whole western world in a nutshell, Canada, Great Britain and France, and the last one directed and recorded Wagner as well as Frank Zappa. A whole world is leaving and we are left alone in the orphanage our world has become.

And yet they leave in, our hands, in our ears and in our eyes a whole world of illumination, hallucination, inspiration and exquisite frustration. We have to build tomorrow’s world with what they have just granted us as their heritage, as our inheritance. Let’s take care of it for ever and ever.

Dr. Jacques Coulardeau

Research Interests:

Music, Musicology, Popular Music, Death, Musicians, and Pop Singers

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