141 Fair ladies! False horses in your fiery tresses.
142 Say the trances of confusion, not the contusions of France.
143 From what plain will the platinum Reginas rise to our retinas?
144 Fear is a pure femur under ingrate granite.
145 Man Ray’s gaze unsleeves the mayhem-ranters, romancers orating in the harsh breeze.
146 Lover, if you suffer pain, never fear the river Seine.
147 (À cœur paisible, rien ne vaut tant: To a heart at peace, nothing is worth the same.) To a heart that pays, nothing is worth its aim.
148 (Plus fait douceur que violence: Gentleness does more than violence.) Vile force does more than gentle sense.
149 Wordplay, wet spray.
150 Soft, sunlit, bland, oft built on sand.
151 Robert Delaunay: Rowboat Water-born! Beware the barb.
152 My fear in the mirror appears as a marine vapour.
153 DEFINITION OF ART BY RROSE SÉLAVY: The merciless cow with tuberculosis loses in one month half an udder.
154 Desnos does not pale as he deals with desires on his pole.
155 Scale the ladder, Drieu la Rochelle, to shock the Lord.
156 Will Rrose Sélavy discover the alcohol river quaffed by choleric llamas in America?
157 Praying in pews with bibles is like spraying the eclipse with pebbles.
158 In an abbess’s cranium, a crab grapples an ass.
159 Rrose Sélavy has learnt that nobility’s noble title is no buttock’s notable tackle.
160 Poor pawns in art pare as their share the lion’s part.
161 Why are life’s ifs and buts the problem prey of pale bolts and nuts?
162 On the anti-artistic ice-pack, Rrose Sélavy starts an
Antarctic savings bank.
163 Rrose Sélavy tarts up the fates and her dart starts the feasts.
164 The period of debauches pips the stupor of poor wretches.
165 Mankind’s thoughts take kindly to a schoolkid’s impots.
166 What’s the fatal dogma of Christ, after all, but the crystal of fops and fags?
167 Assassin of psalteries, have you slaughtered the salvation of saints?
168 Max Ernst’s cavernous eyes assess the caves of statues’ amusement, carved with his Muse’s maxims: Ernestine.
169 Is a predilection for the female the dilemma of fiction and the numeral?
170 The human brood is a phantom squad with a squirt of blood.
171 Female phantoms perched on elephants scriven on heavens the mysterious omega that fits planetary equations.
172 The self-regard of Rrose Sélavy forges clear as the circle closes like a shroud.
17 The gross legate from the cloister has all the éclat of a goitre.
174 Swells don’t respect tolling knells when looking-glasses won’t reflect their longing glances.
175 At the astral gala this name is written in astragals: Gala.
176 Does the knife in severing the souls’ affliction unveil to pals affection’s fiction?
177 Without rage in agony, place against blank pages’ irony the silence worse than mirth.
178 The hurricanes that occlude Orion don’t obtrude on our vision.
179 This wall is so fragile! Waves, field-mice so agile, seeking your fate by night.
180 Gastronomers! Will astronomers’ dreaming snores drown you on marine sea-shores?
181 DEFINITION OF POETRY FOR: Paul Éluard: Love’s throes, in
what late hours did I browse your sloes?
182 André Breton: And no better matter than to drop the mitred nutters (whoops!) into a hopper.
183 Robert Desnos: Love’s limbs, how soon shall I limber love’s noose?
184 Jacques Baron: Female torsos just like cameos tough male torsos like female cameos.
185 Simone Breton: Daniel Defoe, devise a daffy simoon for Simone.
186 123 calls up at once the number 1234 for spirits smitten with lucidity. Esau died for lack of water.
187 It’s far handier than to look at the chest, horned with breasts clairvoyant in cornea, of stars not yet born here.
188 Bemused apple-peels of abbeys, your boo-hoos bamboozle bees.
189 Where La Parysi’s is, there is paralysis.
190 Enamelled rails, you sail like untrammelled royals above our travails.
191 What is secreted by the Andean or Pyrenean eagle’s secret perineal gland?
192 Rrose Sélavy’s miracles are vows mauve as éclairs.
193 O Telemachus, tell me cameos.
194 To our birds at rest on reeds, what good is the dormant dormouse whose eyes are as gold?
195 When Man Ray is coming away, we’ll see a Far West war-fest.
196 In a sub-zero cattle-stall, Tristan Tzara rattles his last.
197 Love in the fingers of foes, what rogue rifled the wafers?
198 Does the public fate of a community affect the pubic heat of common property?
199 Love! Lobster in frozen fjords.
de L’AUMONYME
21 heures le 26-11-22
EN ATTENDANT
en nattant l’attente
Sous quelle tente?
mes tantes
ont-elles engendré
les neveux silencieux
que nul ne veut sous les cieux
appeler ses cousins
en nattant les cheveux du silence
six lances
percent mes pensées en attendant
LES MOULES des mers
aux moules des mères
empruntent leur forme d’œil,
Homme – houle d’aimer.
AIL de ton œil,
je t’aime à cause de cela.
NOS TCHES tachent
les tours
d’alentours.
PLUTÔT se pendre aux pins,
s’éprendre des yeux peints,
que de gagner son pain
où les fleuves vont s’épandre.
MORDS le mors de la mort Maure silencieux.
cils! aux cieux
dérobez nos yeux.
Non, nous n’avons pas de nom.
PLUS QUE la nuit nue
la femme vient hanter
nos rêves, pareils à Antée
antes des désirs renaissants.
Nos pères! C’est parce que vous n’aviez pas les yeux pers.
Changez vos cœurs au pair avec les dollars
Change ton cœur, opère sans douleur.
MES CHANTS sont si peu méchants
Ils ne vont pas jusqu’à Longchamp
Ils meurent avant d’atteindre les champs
où les bœufs s’en vont léchant
des astres
désastres
L’AN est si lent.
Abandonnons nos ancres dans l’encre,
mes amis.
TANT d’or.
Passez les patries à l’épreuve du tan
et du temps
et encore du taon.
L’ART est le dieu lare
des mangeurs de lard
et les phares dévoilent le fard
des courtisans du Far-West qui s’effarent.
LES CHATS hauts sur les châteaux
d’espoir
Croquent des poires d’angoisse
la nuit
l’ennui
l’âme nuit.
Et puis il y a le puits
qui s’enfonce dans la terre
où s’atterrent
les faibles
que brise la brise.
Poète venu de Lorient
que dis-tu de l’orient?
l’or riant
LES MÛRES sont mûres le long des murs
et des bouches bouchent nos yeux.
Les porcs débarquent dans les ports
d’Amérique
et de nos pores
s’enfuient les désirs.
VOS BOUCHES mentent,
vos mensonges sentent la menthe,
Amantes!
Cristaux où meurt le Christ
reflétez la froide beauté
de Kristiana.
nos traditions?
notre addition!
LES PONTS s’effondrent tous
au cri du paon qui pond
et les pans des ponts
transforment les riviêres.
aux lacs des lacs
meurent les paons
enlisés dans la gomme laque
from ALMS AND THE PUN
9 pm, 26-11-22
WAITING
plaiting the waiting
attendant on it
Into what tent
my aunts went
to engender those noiseless nephews
that none of us under the heavens
wants to call our cousins?
Plaiting the braids of silence
six lances pierce my pensées? my pansies
waiting
A MARINER’S mussels
acquire ocular form from
a mother’s moulds,
man – tumorous amorous.
GARLICQUOR-Eyes,
I love you for that.
OUR TOIL spoils
turn turn about
the towers
all round about.
GO HANG in pain from a pine to die,
dangle and pine for a painted eye,
better than earning our bread
where running waters spread.
BITE the bitter bit, it’s mortal, Moor of silence.
eyelids! filch our eyes
from the skies.
No, we’ve no name, none.
MORE THAN nude night, woman haunts
our dreams, as giant Antaeus
haunted by yearnings reborn.
Our paren’ts! Seeing your eyes aren’t seagreen.
Change your hearts at par rate with our dollars,
Change of heart, operate without dolours.
MY DITTIES are not a bit naughty nor dirty
Non-runners non-starters at Ascot
they perish far short of the pastures
where ox-tongues are tickling
galactic
disasters
THE YEAR D-R-ags, wordless. My D-R friends,
let’s D-R-own our anchors in the D-R-ink.
POTS of gold.
Put patriotism to the test of tan
of time
and of ticks.
ART: dear little god
of eaters of lard
while headlights of cars
unmask the mascaras
of scared wild west tarts.
CATS up on castles,
high hopers,
sup pear suppers of agonies
night
nuisance
heart-hurt
Then, well, the well,
deep thrust down where
the weak touch down,
the breeze-bruised
suffer zephyrs.
Poet of Lorient,
what of the orient?
laughter of gold
BLACKBERRIES burgeon on bulwarks,
our eyes are gagged by gabs.
Porkers pour into ports
of America
out of our pores
ooze desires.
YOUR LIPS lie,
your lies stink of mint,
minxes!
Crystals where Christ dies,
Reflect the cold beauty
of Kristiania.
We’ve the patrimony?
We’ve to pay the money!
THE BRIDGES all go under
at the peahen’s pang,
the bridges’ panels
transform the channels.
in snares of meres
in gumlac shellac
the peahens flounder
and founder
P’OASIS
Nous sommes les pensées arborescentes qui fleurissent sur les chemins des jardins cérébraux.
– Sœur Anne, ma Sainte Anne, ne vois-tu rien venir… vers Sainte-Anne?
– Je vois les pensées odorer les mots.
– Nous sommes les mots arborescents qui fleurissent sur les chemins des jardins cérébraux.
De nous naissent les pensées.
– Nous sommes les pensées arborescentes qui fleurissent sur les chemins des jardins cérébraux.
Les mots sont nos esclaves.
– Nous sommes
– Nous sommes
– Nous sommes les lettres arborescentes qui fleurissent sur les chemins des jardins cérébraux.
Nous n’avons pas d’esclaves.
– Sœur Anne, ma sœur Anne, que vois-tu venir vers Sainte-Anne?
– Je vois les Pan C
– Je vois les crânes KC
– Je vois les mains DCD
– Je les M
– Je vois les pensées B C et les femmes M E
et les poumons qui en ont AC de l’R L O
poumons noyés des ponts NMI.
Mais la minute précédente est déjà trop AG.
– Nous sommes les arborescences qui fleurissent sur les déserts des jardins cérébraux.
POESY’S P’OASIS
We are the poet-tree pansies, the pensées that flower on the paths in gardens of the brain.
– Sister Anne, my St Anne, do you see nothing coming towards St Anne’s?
– I see pensées giving their scent to words.
– We are the poet-tree words that flower on the paths of gardens of the brain,
we give birth to pensées.
– We are the poet-tree pensées that flower on the paths of gardens of the brain.
Words are our slaves.
– We are
– We are
– We are the poet-tree letters that flower on the paths of gardens of the brain.
We have no slaves.
– Sister Anne, sister Anne, what do U C coming… towards St Anne’s?
I C Pan CCCCC
I C skulls after N N G O R E S assault
I C hands that passed A O A
I love ’M
I C L O pensée and A D R D R L A D
I C lungs that have had more than N F F A R N C
lungs drowned on N M E bridges
But the P R E V S minute is already 2 O E R E
– We are the poet-trees that flower in the deserts of gardens of the brain.
pensées = thoughts, also pansies
DIALOGUE
– Rien ne m’intéresse.
– Rie, en aimant, Thérèse.
DIALOGUE
‘Lo, I’ve nothing to interest my little soul.’
‘Laugh, now think to win, Terry, smile at hell’s hole.’
de LANGAGE CUIT
ÉLÉGANT CANTIQUE DE SALOMÉ SALOMON
Mon mal meurt mais mes mains miment
Nœuds, nerfs non anneaux. Nul nord
Même amour mol? mames, mord
Nus nénés nonne ni Nine.
Où est Ninive sur la mammemonde?
Ma mer, m’amis, me murmure:
«nos nils noient nos nuits nées neiges»
Meurt momie! môme: âme au mur.
&n
bsp; Néant nié nom ni nerf n’ai-je!
Aime haine
Et n’aime
haine aime
aimai ne
MN
NM
NM
MN
LITERAL VERSION
My pain dies but my hands mime
Knots nerves not rings. No north
Even/same love soft breasts? bites
Naked breast nun nor Ninus.
from COOKED LANGUAGE
ELEGANT CANTICLE OF SALOMÉ SALOMON
My members’ mess maimed, my mitts may mime
Nerves knots not nicknacks. Nor, north, gnaw
My mellow marrow’s amorous mammaries?
No naked knocker nun nor Ninny no.