Friday, March 16, 2018


Poetry without any borders but plenty of frontiers

Poetry, a mental orgasm
The poet, a verbal onanist
Poetry and Poésie in a cosmological drama
Poetry, Oniric and Dramatic (Updated)

No one knows where poetry starts and when poetry stops. It is in all our days, minutes and hours. It is with us all the time though most of us do not see it or realize it is hiding in our pockets.

Poetry comes down with me from my higher floors when I step into the soil of the garden and try to slither between the flowers and among the vegetables. A lady bug is a treat on a green leaf and a bee is a visitor on a rose.

You can easily hear the chirping cicadas and the warbling birds twitting their messages to the whole world, their messages about the coming weather, the impending storm, the unforeseen shower. They know better than we do: they are the poets of nature.

In the evening I close up my shutters and my windows and my doors and I curl up under my featherbed and try to ruminate what I have swallowed too fast during the day.

They all come back, the good, the bad, the evil, the ugly too and the angry above all with their screams and their fiery eyes. They could easily reduce you to ashes and you are no phoenix. Your death will be final, at least in this momentary and transient existence. You may get a second chance beyond the ashes and the flames, reincarnate in bones and blood.

It is so strange that in this moment of revelation about myself it is all sorts of foreign countries or distant places that come back, and this impossibility to step out of myself and merge with the desires of others. Life has been a long harassment for me and death might be a challenge and a change.

Beauty then is the inner dimension of my frustration and the dreamlike appearance of my self-contempt. Poetry is the only way to make peace with my satanic mind and to reach out for a world I imagine more than I apprehend.

We all want to be understood, listened to and maybe liked, a little bit at least. Contact is bliss but it is so hard to go beyond its desire and reach out for the other, the others, the empathy that may be floating around in thin air and that we cannot really feel at the tip of our fingers. We are going on tiptoe in life to avoid any possible stir, and yet the local bully says:

“What are you hiding in your hands, sissy sassy dummy dum-dum dunderhead!”

And in your heart you welcome the contact and say in silence “Nothing, Sir, Mister Master Sir, nothing.”


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
Spidered 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


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