воскресенье, мая 21, 2006

pour l'ami

You thought that it could never happen
to all the people that you became,
your body lost in legend, the beast so very tame.
But here, right here,
between the birthmark and the stain,
between the ocean and your open vein,
between the snowman and the rain,
once again, once again,
love calls you by your name.

The women in your scrapbook
whom you still praise and blame,
you say they chained you to your fingernails
and you climb the halls of fame.
Oh but here, right here,
between the peanuts and the cage,
between the darkness and the stage,
between the hour and the age,
once again, once again,
love calls you by your name.

Shouldering your loneliness
like a gun that you will not learn to aim,
you stumble into this movie house,
then you climb, you climb into the frame.
Yes, and here, right here
between the moonlight and the lane,
between the tunnel and the train,
between the victim and his stain,
once again, once again,
love calls you by your name.

I leave the lady meditating
on the very love which I, I do not wish to claim,
I journey down the hundred steps,
but the street is still the very same.
And here, right here,
between the dancer and his cane,
between the sailboat and the drain,
between the newsreel and your tiny pain,
once again, once again,
love calls you by your name.

Where are you, Judy, where are you, Anne?
Where are the paths your heroes came?
Wondering out loud as the bandage pulls away,
was I, was I only limping, was I really lame?
Oh here, come over here,
between the windmill and the grain,
between the sundial and the chain,
between the traitor and her pain,
once again, once again,
love calls you by your name.

среда, мая 17, 2006

two cats

Two Cats
One up a tree
One under the tree
The cat up a tree is he
The cat under the tree is she
The tree is witch elm, just incidentally.
He takes no notice of she, she takes no notice of he.
He stares at the woolly clouds passing, she stares at the tree.
There's been a lot written about cats, by Old Possum, Yeats and Company
But not Alfred de Musset or Lord Tennyson or Poe or anybody
Wrote about one cat under, and one cat up, a tree.
God knows why this should be left for me
Except I like cats as cats be
Especially one cat up
And one cat under
A witch elm
Tree.

четверг, мая 04, 2006

Orbit White

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среда, мая 03, 2006

a cigarette in a japanese's garden (pour le m.)

if i tell you about science will you let me in on the little things you hide from everyone up your silky sleeves? or if science is outside your interest could i interest you in some grammar? would you like to hear about particles lost in time and phrasal verbs with no meaning?
'a cigarette,' she says like a tiger dancing on a stage with no audience.
'i mean... how? arent you worried about the smell it will make? arent you concerned for the gentle balance youve found here in your -japanese garden?'
'the time has passed,' she says, 'to think about balances and accounts and what we do or do not want - youve never listened before, why would you listen now? oh no,' she says, like a fireman going to a window that has no fire, 'no the time has passed, and whats more - i say to you: ask yourself what you want, and do the opposite; ask yourself what is right, and run for your life as far as you can from the answer. do this - you already have anyway.'

вторник, мая 02, 2006

Black Sea

Dans le jardin japonais, en sus des lions plaqués or chevauchés par de courtes jeunes femmes aux lèvres corralines, il y avait le soleil à son zenith qui cramait et tannait les cuirs monstrueux, des milliers de vaches mortes effectuant moults cabrioles comme dans un cirque morbide, où les ossements servaient de confettis, les applaudissement venant des gradins roulaient vers le centre concave d'une batisse en verre qui se démollissait et se reconstruisait, en gros, le bordel, un acharnement démoniaque et quand la femme sur le roi des animaux a ouvert la bouche ce n'est pas une langue que je pus voir mais des bourgeons de camélias qui explosait dans tous les sens. Je voulais prendre une photo mais l'appareil grippé ne faisait que photographier l'intérieur du sol.

Il y avait aussi plus loin, juchés sur la montagne, ces routes serpenteuses qui vomissaient leurs capsules de fer lancées à toute berzingue vers des destinations bizarres; la foire aux acacias, le cirque couvert du bord de mer. Quand mon nez a pris feu, les flammes carressant mes sourcils, la servante a apporté sur d'immenses plateaux de coque de porte-conteneurs des tonneaux d'or remplis de vodka et j'ai pu me resaisir, tenant compte de la distance entre ici et la voie ouverte par les luisances de la lune grandissante, j'ai crié sans que personne m'entende, mes allitérations débiles se lovant vainement dans le creux d'un chapeau habité par une féérie de chair et de sang que j'embrassais sans discontinuer.