Rhizomes100

[English version below] Reflets d’octobre Paisibles, les couleurs d’automne infusent dans l’eau du lac, l’or Du soir et l’air frais et calme des prémices de la nuit. Et Tandis que le couchant se consume aux cimes des peupliers, Les cygnes immobiles entonnent leur doux chant des remords. Je me promène au bord du firmament d’eau. Pas de brume, pas De flots. Seuls les pas des passants semblent faire frémir ce plat Ciel d’ondes. Et dans son regard, j’y noie ma clarté, et l’aplat Vertigineux de ses pensées. L’heure décline sous mes pas. Peu à pe

Sous une pluie d'étoiles Hier soir fût une nuit splendide où dans un ciel Calme et immaculé pleuvaient les Perséides. L’air était si doux sous le fin croissant de miel, Que l’on pouvait s’allonger dans l’éther limpide. Des parfums chatoyants dansaient sur la colline Aride et plantaient dans la fraîcheur de la nuit Noire, le décor torride du Midi. Puis, Naissaient aux yeux des nébuleuses opalines. On voyageait du regard parmi les étoiles, A la rencontre des constellations, de leurs Légendes fabuleuses ! Ainsi passait l’heure. Quand soudain, 

[English version below] C'est n'est que le soir - couché sur le toit après une longue après-midi à renouveler les tuiles - que l'on se rend compte à quel point le ciel de Provence est criblé d'étoiles. Il suffit de parcourir du regard ce firmament ténébreux pour se sentir là où la multitude d'astres semble dessiner des archipels et où les oiseaux lointains naviguent sur les dernières lueurs du couchant. It is only at dusk – lying on the roof after a long afternoon to renew the tiles – that you can realize how much the Provence sky is studded with stars. Just browse

À la tombée de la nuit Sur une terrasse à la tombée de la nuit, Je contemple le jour en flamme qui s'enfuit. Alors, en repensant le verre à la main, aux mille Milliers d’âmes tombées dans l’oubli de la ville, Je prends pour tableau cette étrange mort tranquille. Ici, tout semble beau à l’ombre de l’ennui, Dans les jupes mondaines, la coupe, le bruit,   Les bulles aussi fines que les filles graciles, Les paroles vaines et les gestes subtils. Ici, tout est beau dans le son faux des vinyles. Mais sur la terrasse calme où tombe la nuit, L’horizon roux parle

come and save me from the little west germany of the mind. one night only, on demand thereafter, we watch rocks fall like rain and nothing do we do – piled shape of worn-down cowardice bright lights, big half-shell in which we see enacted our little city dope peninsula of skinny wealth, anon to bohemia on a train. do not be afraid, this is the work of private industry, yet begun in the supple lithe torso of noah, who while young had bad dreams hauntological tests reveal little about him but status symbols, archetypes that get less and less important and thus muddy the issue streams of gore will likely recur, as acts of god and powerplan

 summer in the city i’m fine here          but you’re dull tonight let’s live          there’s shade somestreet swim against the brook          then this’ll break: streetlights come on          but the sky’s still burnt the road is hobbling          dirt-drawn footpads maybe i’ll be cold          if we walk until one this studied trunk          can’t get up to turn out the light or pee         i am my own hero           of the leather sofa,          a scrubtable kitchen           and oodles of peel          try, try it out           on the fire escape          i arrive blind allãhu akbar  

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they found some sky trapped in a vessel denying that it changes anything is to say each piece of blue recrosses and is identical nothing is further off the lap of baywater shining songs of economics even still a reason to pretend a world not in the manual go mother may i the discoverable baby life there for the asking the pavement is stairs high above the bay at this distance we imagine ourselves in destined copses or ringing out like the new bells a set is railroaded into this city like a fantastic joke wish for wider firmer support but any like is air on the brain panic a missed chance and an alphabet havocs cities capital or no under

after René Char we (so suddenly it seemed) were coming up on something that before had been at a distance. now some toothy enzyme of days, and nights, has eaten that distance through. (i dreamed i was making a bomb out of a giant marshmallow and woke up to find my pillow was gone.) it feels hardly human to be so powerless in standing for a kind of beauty that other people have let die in their useless hands; that heart pounding is ghostly in our heads. if what i show to you, and give to you, seems something less than what i've stashed away, the balance i strike with myself lets on its debt, my harvest of the world its artlessn

we are all come to see the transparent tomb of one of the great opponents of realism. the funeral parade spirals through the streets, overpasses are closed, and it is corralled by lonely cars, the worshipful company of cranes who seem even in their sunday stillness to bob like desk-toys, and the ghosty joker broken windows, replicated by thousands, dolour covering droll. eminent rhetors will speak at the service in the musty thorax of the cathedral, their overgrown remarks made even more tangled by the acoustical pergola laid on by the bishopric. however, there was nothing to say after some displays of typical loss and gazeturnings ad