Monday, August 28, 2017

 

Just ten years or so of poetical work.




Poetry and Poésie in a cosmological drama
https://www.academia.edu/31286323/Poetry_and_Po%C3%A9sie_in_a_cosmological_drama
Poetry, Oniric and Dramatic (Updated)
http://www.slideshare.net/JacquesCoulardeau/poetry-oniric-and-dramatic-updated

DIS-BINDING

The cotton-wool of my discomfort
Masturbates my distress
With unbearably delightful cheerlessness
And fondles my blank void-ness
With eternally resting softness
Velvet snug in the cell-lessness
Of this expanding here-ness
Of that overflown there-ness
Deictic directionlessness
Of a heartful of restlessness
Of a restful of heartlessness

The walls have shrunk in front of my eyes
The dancers resisted for a while
But the dark web of my brains
Spided them over with the white
Of the fleeing screen of ink
That traps the fish
That grounds the tanks
That blinds the shells
And rapes the oyster shrine
That shines in the dimly rosy lips
Of the sea-sand undulating with algae
Dancing with medusae
Swaying with sharks
And rolls the cloudy bouquet
Tasty and crunchy
Like a brownie sprinkled with walnuts
I grin the icing with my golden teeth
And the Rhyne wine twines round my spine
My bonnie bony back formalness
And grinds to ashes
The sweet sugary fumet
Of an herby Irish stew
Steelful like an IRA rifle
Tarful like a highland Scotch
Melts to sparkling crystal
The sweeping sway of my . . .  
. . . Rumbanesque chachawise soukouslike samba

The water chute sprays the air
With the white foam
Of the swelling current
Thrusting through the banks
Through the virginal jungle of Africa
Black and dark as a happy night
Luminous as a sad memory
That lancinates my syndromes
With the recurrence of boredom
The naughtiness of neverdom
The strife of let it be again
The resuming silence of the end
When the violet reclines its head
When the rose lilies its petals
The naked wind of the morning
Breaks through the draping sheets
And vanishes in the mourningful distance
Of a hangover showering down
On the flat bottom of our boxed lives

Only the rug will keep the stain
The flesh will be refreshed
By the absolving cup of coffee
By the pregnant Monday
That will inevitably enwomb our thirst
In the fetal capsule
Of next Saturday night
            Might be
            Might have been
Desire of the never-to-be-remembered

Jacques COULARDEAU



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