Tous

Angst par Edvard Munch

combien faut-il payer

pour ce blouson de soie

couvert de roses noires

supermarché oriental

splendeur bouddhistique

ce domaine impénétrable

sans visage en avant ou derrière

seulement ces os blanchâtres

combien faut-il payer

dans cet âge sans rives

sans lignes sans territoires

sans blousons africanos

asiatiques americanos indiens

sans demeure au soir

une maison pour appeler le vôtre

pour détendre ici et là

je ne garde pas mes pensées

je pense sans arrêt sorcière

bande son en rond vous savez

les adolescents et

leurs plats du jour

vous en souvenez-vous

je me souviens des miens

dans votre chaise orange

la reine de tout le monde

ou c'est ce que vous avez pensé

je peux vous dessiner un village

mais voyez vous ne l'aimez pas

je vous assure

la marque de tout mal connaissant

mal connaissant

pas d'excès pas d'excuse

pour vos massacres de damas

pas besoin pour le sang

qui coule entre vos doigts

mais nos fleuves coulent de rouge

c'est incroyable parce que

vous me juriez

que rien de sang

ne coulera plus jamais

sur celle notre terre maman

je ne garde pas mes pensées

je pense sans arrêt sorcière

bande son en rond vous savez

nos adolescents et leurs disques

plats du jour

Vous en souvenez-vous

je me souviens des miens

vous nous avez menti

c'était vrai c'était faux

mais c'etait notre ignorance

n'est-pas?

mes pères mes mères

mes sœurs et mes frères

mes militaires

nous sommes tous les meutriers

tous les voyageurs

et chacun seul à jamais

nous sommes ni dieux ni déesses

soyez reveillés

soyez reveillés

soyez reveillés

...tous

ex nilio

“Betsy Mac Call plays with Blythe Somat in the cemetery”. Copyright Alice Odilon 2010 . 

 for Alice

i've watched her create
her flower dolls and cutouts

bosnian brides runaway girls

creeping morning glories

laconic paper lilies

she surveys the landscape
summoning out of the artifice
their primordial gardens

their dark hallways

and ghostly apartments

slowly she composes the sets

simplifies the devices

lowering the chandelier lights

choosing b&w over the
red of their mortal wounds

she encourages them to
think for themselves
and when lacan flower power
meets vestal somataforme
the plot thins and thickens

one has no face to turn to
for she is scarce to herself
thinking of only others
another prefers her weapons
her anorexic angular edges

it is not an easy work
nor is she ever paid for it
but studiously painfully artfully
from their darkest elements
she summons her girls back to life

Calla Lilies by Jiang Tiefeng (permission pending)

wrestling the angel

she feels like she's spending

too much time on facebook

when she should be writing

the tome that will make

her famous.

what's with this fame thing

would all be well if that

mistress came to her door

recognized her genius

graced her forehead?

she read that depression

often stems from the fact

that people want to be famous

of course, she's not like

that at all.

she's a natural poet

she has the sea inside

she's not knocking anybody

although claims it's enough

to blog her own poems.

she can't deny the jealousy

when friends publish (again)

can't help but doubt herself

and wonder why she's still

self publishing.

yet she never submits

never addresses the failure

just lies on the couch

and plans the little volume

that will be priceless.

almost driving

i took an old highway tonight

through evergreen and scotch broom

one of those quaint coastal roads

that weave in and out of little

towns like mist and vernonia

I drove to escape my boredom

and though it never worked before

escape is a heavy metal in my blood

fueled by boxes of guilt

i piled inside the trunk

enough to last the winter

if i could keep myself driving

in florida the back roads 

smell of jasmine and oranges

in oregon it's douglas fir and rain

the sliver of moon didn't light the sky

but it was a sign nonetheless

until it rotated behind me

other signs were rusting in the rain

as i snaked my way through

horny mountains

i took my music player

from a soft denim sack

and played the songlist i made

the day before i left

bashung and bashung again

for i knew he would sing about the pain

that i dared not verbalize
swallowing two pills against its swell

they made me work
the gas pedal and the brake

i was driving toward a new life

a little hideaway

on the side of a cliff

where each day i could decide

whether to jump or to live

where a lamp might be lit

and words added to it

but my little drive was never

about writing poems

there would be no little house

no perfect moon

no ocean lookout

no final requests for

whale crossings or bouillabasse
only split second decisions

it was about turning stoically around

and finding my way home

unloading the guilt boxes (again)

turning on the television

and awaiting a conventional death

like all ghost dolls

i once knew how to drive
i was going places

until malady came and stole my brain

left me bored and in pain

but like a cruel joke

left the car in the driveway

storms of love

muffled and tumbling

i'm still part of it

i lost the bulk of it

shot the shit with it

ruined myself

thrashing fits for it

biting tits for it

throwing myself into

l'orage d'amour

like a hungry animal

ferocious blasphemous
irascible

but with human heart

and human body and

no evolutionary lexicon

to lean upon

gale winds ride at

nightfall in the gulf 'twixt

disaster and love

LOVE capital

no marks or bearings

now sexless lying here

fantasies flying there

l'orage d'amour

not wanting blood now

yet bloodless starved

am i still a moron

saintly apocalypse

idiot moon

full and white

sky of red wine

bread into body

nullifying each dichotomy

with life

briny stinking life

that pulls itself

out of the seabed

hand to mouth

tottering sea urchins

muffled tumbling

still a part of it

swabbed and scrutinized

in the ever changing eye
of the telescopic

l'orage d'amour?