lundi 29 novembre 2010


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
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

samedi 20 novembre 2010

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)

vendredi 19 novembre 2010

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.

dimanche 14 novembre 2010

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

mercredi 3 novembre 2010

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

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?