pablo neruda

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep

- Pablo Neruda

let this be

knowing what of sweet and sugar
knowing nothing of such a concept
feeling through blindly
to a source once known as childish

sweeping through the boroughs of Stanley
letting go of that which is frightening
wondering of that story yet
a key worth opening

in these words
let there be a remedy
in your fears
leave the enemy
let this be a remedy

chris garneau.

provoke

say it,
before we reach that seventh plane of energy
or that 11th stage of expressive anatomy
say it,
before we reach that seventh plane of energy
or that 11th stage of expressive anatomy

provoke some imagery
provoke some mystery
provoke some energy

a message to be sent to the sky
from me

say it,
feed upon it
yet , i am hungry

i don't mind.
i don't bother worrying now
this is how it shall be

but

say it, before we reach that eternal nothing.

the gnostic in me.

the gnostic in me

is

ascending
dethroning

some kind of angel

slightly

shifting
diluting

the gnostic in me

a

fleeting
feeling
flailing
failing
forcing

the gnostic in me

an ancestoring synergy

that tastes and fades
into those flavours
more becoming.

the gnostic in me.

brillo boxes.

a little pilgrim is a wholesome gift

a dash of glitter sooths that which does not last

a soft speckle from that which does not shine

a little pilgrim is a wholesome gift

a kinder suprise for those on time

a little pilgrim is a wholesome gift

with a weathered pleat, and a diamond's kitsch.

a bruised peach.

a bruised peach and the scar of human frailty

does not thou speak with envy?

such identity

in bleak misery

there in which one's sinister sheath

endows thou with advice from our beloved ministry

on how to bleed.

Sopphe.

Thou liest dead, and there will be no memory left behind
Of thee or thine in all the earth, for never didst thou bind
The roses of Pierian streams upon thy brow; thy doom
Is now to flit with unknown ghosts in cold and nameless gloom.

rémi, 2007.

cher marcine,

she writes to me in the night
in the midst of his arm touching his head
gently, and quietly
whispering these thoughts to me

she describes a crime so complex
a heart beating without rest
as if it was meant to be

his caress was once so sensitive
his heart was once to tenderly
placed between the arms of wisdom
crossing the bridge to safety

her words speak of satisfaction
as he lies to me
and lyes with another

whispering to me
rest you do not find on the sea
sleep, i will awake from you
alone and trembling.

his hopes lay underneath his love
now lost and emptied
forgotten and abandoned at sea

in the night she whispers to me
with a knife at my neck
I tell you boy, this is reality
a future?
unlikely.

she writes to me in the sky tonight
warning me of what i already know
of whom has replaced me
his breath is peaceful and steady


his energy drained
his heart taken
frequently by the fragile type

she whispers to me this night
warning of what he shall take from me
and replace with another
over and over
leaving behind the scars of his psychosis


leaving me
unhealed
untouchable
incapable
and
incomplete

she writes to me in the night
to inform me of this void
that from the heavens she sees
as he feeds on another
while i wait for the return
of what belongs to me.

ma mémoire sale, chansons d'amour 2007

Lave
Ma mémoire sale dans son fleuve de boue
Du bout de ta langue nettoie moi partout
Et ne laisse pas la moindre trace
De tout ce qui me lie et qui me lasse
Hélas

Chasse
Traque-la en moi, ce n'est qu'en moi qu'elle vit
Et lorsque tu la tiendras au bout de ton fusil
N'écoute pas si elle t'implore
Tu sais qu'elle doit mourir d'une deuxième mort
Alors... tue-la

Pleure
Je l'ai fait avant toi et ça ne sert à rien
A quoi bon les sanglots, inonder les coussins
J'ai essayé, j'ai essayé
Mais j'ai le coeur sec et les yeux gonflés
Mais j'ai le coeur sec et les yeux gonflés

Alors brûle
Brûle quand tu t'enlises dans mon grand lit de glace
Mon lit comme une banquise qui fond quand tu m'enlaces
Plus rien n'est triste, plus rien n'est grave
Si j'ai ton corps comme un torrent de lave

Ma mémoire sale dans son fleuve de boue
Lave
Lave
Ma mémoire sa dans son fleuve de boue
Lave (lave)

La voix, Charles Baudelaire

Mon berceau s'adossait à la bibliothèque,
Babel sombre, où roman, science, fabliau,
Tout, la cendre latine et la poussière grecque,
Se mêlaient. J'était haut comme un in-folio.
Deux voix me parlaient. L'une, insidieuse et ferme,
Disait: "La Terre est un gâteau plein de douceur;
Je puis (et ton plaisir serait alors sans terme!)
Te faire un appétit d'une égale grosseur."
Et l'autre: "Viens! oh! viens voyager dans les rêves,
Au delà du possible, au delà du connu!"
Et celle-là chantait comme le vent des grèves,
Fantôme vagissant, on ne sait d'où venu,
Qui caresse l'oreille et cependant l'effraie.
Je te répondis: "Oui! douce voix!" C'est d'alors
Que date ce qu'on peut, hélas! nommer ma plaie
Et ma fatalité. Derrière les décors
De l'existence immense, au plus noir de l'abîme,
Je vois distinctement des mondes singuliers,
Et, de ma clairvoyance extatique victime,
Je traîne des serpents qui mordent mes souliers.
Et c'est depuis ce temps que, pareil aux prophètes,
J'aime si tendrement le désert et la mer;
Que je ris dans les deuils et pleure dans les fêtes,
Et trouve un goût suave au vin le plus amer;
Que je prends très souvent les faits pour des mensonges,
Et que, les yeux au ciel, je tombe dans des trous.
Mais la voix me console et dit: "Garde tes songes:
Les sages n'en ont pas d'aussi beaux que les fous!"

La voix, Charles Baudelaire.

divide by Jean Inglow

We two walk on in our grassy places
On either marge of the moonlit flood,
With the moon's own sadness in our faces,
Where joy is withered, blossom and bud.

part V , Divided by Jean Inglow.