... ?

et tout d'abord l'interrogation

la gratitude d'interroger et d'interrompre pour mieux respirer

avant d'embarquer on boit l'inconnu dans les marges des cartes

l'Ame des matelots et le bois des bateaux deviennent interrogatifs
substantiellement interrogatifs
et puis les courants maritimes les oiseaux migratoires
enfin les amours d'outre-mer

pourquoi encore ce silence

et ce silence cyclique arrache tous les paysages de ma peau

si jamais je survis ce passage de feu
je veux pouvoir rien n'oublier et faire de chacun de tes silences une cicatrice sur mon visage jusqu'a l'irreconnaissable
les monstres que je serai m'apprendront l'art du changement et de la derive 'a double tranchant
Sophia sait que l'Impossible aime boire l'acide toujours nouveau de mon angoisse chaque matin Sophia sait aussi que les quais m'appellent 'a une nudite pleine et permanente que personne ne voudra approcher
je medite l'idee de m'eteindre au soleil tout nu au bord d'une mer

si jamais je survis cette tendresse de couteaux
j'espere m'egarer definitivement dans les cotes nocturnes des chants

impossible dancers

"No name names Thee."

this silence raises
the tension
between naming and groping
in the dark

Reasons

Reasons for doing and not doing pass and disagree, as if they were clouds.

To dare make happen or not dare, or not make, or not happen.
I ponder my hands and it rains. The first rains of Spring explain the interiority of all ephemeral flowers and languages. Disclosure and change have future, future only.
Reasonings are cloudy, meanings are rather sunny. But today the weather solves nothing. Maybe tomorrow after some catastrophe.

I imagine my eyes looking retrospectively from a remote nameless future. They look at this undetermined weather but they understand not-why, not-what, not-how.
Something unclear is drawing in, maybe. And I hesitate bodily between various modes and degrees of madness. Unclear remains also the intimate relationship between Being, Self and Sacrifice.

Dear reader

You are reading me.
I am writing you you are reading me. You are writing me I am reading you. This is just the beginning of an extraordinarily proficuous confusion.
I could write I love you but I shall not but I did. This is the last time you read me. You are my last reader. Absolutely. I do not know what this means. But, whatever it may be, I mean it all and I mean also something radically different. Beyond the text. And I appeal to a rebellion among the cells of your body.
You are my last reader. I do mean all possible meanings of 'my', 'last', and 'reader'. Maybe I shall become infinitely illegible and I shall be the first one not knowing how to read my writing. Anyway, I write without aiming at any possible reading. I have been studying some of the most intelligent rivers in my planet and they, too, are writing continuously without without without. Whatsoever.
Even yesterday, it was the same. Exactly the same. The truth is the same, whether from a boat, a bridge or just from my body - cruelly in motion at rest. And you were there, because there is no river that flows without foregrounding You and backgrounding You and ... You.
Yet, you have just repeated a past participle three times, three times, three times. It leads nowhere, whereas all rivers flow somewhere. All their geography is about desiring time-space, charting desire and sailing on it. As long as you keep writing on the margins of the texts, I remain illegible. From the margins to the open chest of the text through the whiteness of drums hidden between the lines... this is the movement of meaningful flowing.
Only then, can the mouth open waves of silence, those rare ones which are the closest to music. Only after that silence, is music the most natural idiom of love.

Manhã de Ressuscitar

Suicidei-me no final do verão. Deixei uma carta psicologicamente obscura, mas com muito interesse literário para os amantes do hermético e do oximórico. No lugar da palavra Adeus, havia uma linha em branco. No lugar da assinatura, outra linha em branco. Nas entrelinhas, lia-se um texto atlântico sobre grandes travessias. Nas entrelinhas, não havia náufragos, apenas naufrágios com barcos vazios a aportar no vazio. Ora, é daí, exactamente do coração das entrelinhas, que vos escrevo e vos escreverei sobre o ilegível.

Hoje, não sei ressuscitar. Estando no sepulcro há dois dias, hoje deveria poder retomar o meu corpo, reconhecer-me nele tocando as minhas feridas abertas, mas exangues. Deveria ser possível ou necessário ressuscitar. Mas eu não sei. Não sei de onde vem o verbo "Salvar" e pressinto a impossibilidade do verbo "salvar-se". Quem salva quem quem? Também não compreendo de que árvore se faz uma cruz e de que carne se faz um crucificado-que-ressuscita. Creio, porém, que o mistério da paixão tem muito interesse literário para quem pratica os caminhos conturbados das entrelinhas e que todos esses caminhos desaguam aqui.
Aqui, onde me descompreendo e me ofereço às árvores.
Primavera ou Nada.

Sur l'angoisse

Qu'est-ce que l'angoisse, l'Infinie, os de mes os et chair de ma chair?

C'est celle qui respire ainsi:
"je pose des questions qui me déposent."

Agony

She goes to bed in agony and in agony she does not fall asleep.
She screams, perspires and drinks - it is called night train.

Now, a woman in agony is entitled to do anything,
even an infanticide or a rebirth, a crucifixion or a resurrection.
(Sophia a connu celle qui coupa les cheveux, déchira les seins, brûla la maison, la forêt et la ville. Après elle, rien que des cendres.)

Resuscitating or reaching the Spring - I cannot.
Poiesis Can (?).

Today: Poiesis

Poiesis: Journey of living beings.

some blood in my hands through a night journey

my hands had touched a bleeding body

I imagine a shared labor of disclosure
a song guiding our delivery
and a word flowing in-between
as the word that binds
within-without
flesh-breathing

meditating under the meaning of my fear
on the temperature of this blood
on the possibility of any sunshine
Poiesis embraces homelessness.

The night and her tunnels might lead elsewhere
for every island promises the nudity of a spring
and every night offers uncharted archipelagoes
through oceans of loss, gift and free forces.

One poem can.

Allegro con fuoco

Il faut toucher l'origine musicale de toutes les choses.
Ce que l'on touche nous aura touché d'abord, sûrement.
Aussi la caresse répond-elle à un silence premier.

Force de frappe

"Ce qui frappe sans tuer, c'est l'amour."

ivre de toi comme de soleil: j'apprends 'a te boire sans te toucher
j'etudie le nom de mes blessures pour t'ecrire un soir sur l'incurable

ivre de toi comme de vins et de dieux: tu m'apprends 'a me boire dans le creux de mes mains qui revent des tambours au coeur de ton corps

je caresse ta force de frappe sur ma poitrine: c'est un mode muet de prier
je touche toujours le fer exact pour faire saigner mon corps mon pianoforte
autant qu'il est possible sans mourir sans rompre les cordes

Concert pour percussion et orchestre: c'est notre tremblement discontinu l'improbable secours portant de l'eau et du pain

je te dirai sur un quais qu'il faudra encore repartir et revenir
pour frapper avec la force exacte l'endroit de nos corps qui ouvrira sur la mer

On two adverbs and a pronoun

Our Being on the brink of burning our bodies
is Being-more-intensely than Being ever is.

Fusion of boundaries in one and same wave of
nameless fire as infinite progression
of a new world of fragile flesh and blood
striving for the most accurate Touch

...We... immensely...

...We... intensely...


(now think of verbs and perform them
toujours tounuits)

On the edge

Aesthetics:
love is Avant-garde Creation
(the begining and end of all orthodoxy)

Politics:
love is Permanent Revolution
(the begining and end of all state)

Physics:
love is Pure Energy
(the begining and end of all matter)

L'art de la fugue

Création et transgression,
c'est la clé de ma peau.

Aimer pour aimer (...)

Chanter pour chanter (...)

Partir pour partir (...)

Gratuitement. Parce que.
C'est moi
Tout entouré de silence et de soleil.

(Le printemps délire mélancolique,
les fleurs transgressent la neige,
la promesse des fruits me dévore.

Je veux transgresser le réel.
Sinon je mangerai des pierres,
pour toujours.)

The Art of Elopement

Life is poetry and lovers are poets surprised by their poems.

The idea of a guitar and the warmth of tears become legible in various places of my body. Inventing a rebirth or an escape from This confinement is what I dream of whenever I dream of anything. You, horizon and home.
There is a garden inside my fears. You, horizon and home.

Amour, poésie, prophétie

L'amour et la poésie peuvent s'éclairer (ou s'obscurcir) mutuellement: l'amour en tant que poésie et la poésie en tant qu'amour. L'attachement amoureux est inventif et l'inventivité se déploie sur le mode de mon-être-à-Toi. Ainsi avance-t-on immédiatement dans l'intelligence de soi, surtout si l'on ne sait pas où l'on va, cette ignorance étant la vitalité même du mouvement. Un amour et un poème me surviennent, me déclenchent, me métamorphosent - maintenant, ici. Jamais je ne déchiffrerai le pourquoi, le comment. Non, parce que non. J'ai décidé de ne plus résister aux événements qui me surprennent à contre-courant, à contre-monde, à contre-tout.
Au coeur de l'amour et de la poésie crie une voix prophétique que j'entends chaque nuit et qui me pose un défi extrême dont je ne sais si la nature est unitive ou divisive, divine ou diabolique. Car en lui répondant je crois me découvrir et me saisir, mais en même temps et sous l'effet du même geste, je me confonds et je me dérobe.
L'amour, la poésie, la prophétie altèrent leur lieu fragile: Je. D'où l'anxiété, l'insomnie, l'agitation, etc. - tout au degré superlatif.
L'amant, le poète et le prophète, tous les trois fondateurs de nouvelles Religions, se perdent. Mieux, ils se précipitent et s'accélèrent vers leur perte pour ne rien perdre, pour ne rien sacrifier de ce qui est leur Propre absolu. Donc, leur ruine s'accomplit par fidélité à une création supérieure à leurs vies.
Au nom d'une sorte de vérité, qui n'est pas encore pleinement mais qui est déjà trop efficace, ils peuvent mourir très jeunes, disons dans la trentaine, condamnés par Tout ce qui est en vigueur dans le monde et dans l'histoire, c'est-à-dire par les dieux les plus vivants et par les hommes les plus puissants. Tout se passe par la force d'un A-venir qui sature le présent. Pourtant, au moment dernier, ils peuvent bien douter d'eux-mêmes et de tout, admettant humblement qu'il n'est pas impossible que leur ivresse soit absurde.
J'espère cependant que chacun rend son esprit en se disant: "je crois avoir obéit à mon Maître Intérieur, Vie de ma vie".

Eloge de la Femme on Woman's Day

I love the very idea of Woman, that Fiction of an abstract and universal essence where Life, Beauty and Care have a unified human shape.

From the nudes of marble goddesses beyond my intelligence, to the abandoned, deformed, mutilated or battered old female bodies on the side-walks of this town, I recognize a unique mode of being body and ground and relation that awakens my subtlest selflessness, the selflessness intrinsic to the experience of being vis-'a-vis that reality, always still missing in myself, and necessary to approach and attain Fulfillment.

What's a woman? An invitation to improve and expand the reasons for living. A cry disclosing the sense of Dying-for-something!

Aiming at self-perfection is the dynamic answer of anyone confronted with a woman, be it the most abstract and unaccessible idea, as for cloistered men. Likewise, all crimes against humanity, that is, against other-centered self-actualization, are forms of sacrificing the possibility of meaning, our womanhood.

Simultaneously, I love the concreteness and singularity of every woman, and here no Idea is illuminating. Therefore, love unfolds surrounded by vast forests of silence. Only proper names and shared narratives can develop this uncertain endless understanding.

"La reconnaissance de la Femme m'implique dans le drame de l'admiration absolue."

Men are so ridiculous and vulnerable and fruitless whenever they do not recognize their female origins and live thereby in complete absurdity - total deprivation of. Thus, all misogyny entails self-hatred and suicidal tendencies.

"C'est toujours une femme qui m'apporte le salut au moment de la chute."

Think of a woman: gratitude and humility, apprenticeship.

La tension de l'attente

Nous nous attendons encore.
Notre rencontre diffère parce que l'on se complique pour mieux se comprendre.

Attendre au bord d'un lac ou d'un océan ou d'un abîme ou d'un feu, c'est le commencement. Et cela se renouvelle en permanence et en urgence. Plutôt le chaos (de T'attendre) que le néant (de ne rien attendre).
L'attente est dense comme la lumière que dégage un corps nu. Il faut fermer les yeux et ouvrir les mains pour toucher un autre langage au fondement des langues et des traductions. Il faut que les langues circulent et ne retournent jamais à leur repos.
A un certain moment l'attente se mue en espérance et en prière et en chant et en danse: O les voyelles de Ton Nom Absolu sous ma peau bouillonnante!

Love as Purpose

My sole purpose in Life is to kiss you everywhere and die mouth-to-mouth.
Kiss you everywhere or die trying (given your infinity I must die trying).

Love knows no conclusions, only introductions and developments.

Love is Jazz and naked dance. Besides this, nothing, nothing, nothing.

(When the body is not immersed in actual dance, is either "recovering" from it or ''preparing" for it. Besides this, 0,0,0.)

Looking for a Liberating Mantra

(I have been looking for a mantra that I could repeat seven times a day and find thereby the Certainty of Being. I need the Word that saves me from complete darkness. I think of the Name beyond all possible names as the Spring of myself, the unstable. But I cannot pronounce it without a body that comprehends mine.)

Love is Being. Non-love is not.
Love is With. Non-love is without.

Love is Where and When You are.
Non-love is Me in me.

Love is Beyond-Why.
Non-love is under-because.

You are my Truth.
I am the Abyss of absurdity and desire.
We are the Open Possibility.

"Amora" = Amor no Feminino

...ainda não é hora de compreender...
...necessidade de mais e maiores insónias...

L'Hirondelle de l'Amour

Le printemps nous apprendra à voler.
Je vois des ailes futures au centre de mon corps.
Elles m'emmèneront au-delà de toute extase imaginable.
Je T'y trouverai. Je sais que Tu m'y attends déjà.

Ton appel traverse chaque jour, chaque nuit,
pas à pas perçant mon labyrinthe, mon silence.

Merci d'Etre.

Love as Insomnia

Love cannot sleep.