Étiquette : citaddict

A vision of you at the counter

I saw you like ten years younger
In a flashing vision at the counter
With that same shy enigmatic smile
You used to give me back then
Always dimmed by sorryness

« Hey honey, it’s me again…
And I wish you hadn’t noticed me
I wish you never noticed me at all
In the first place »

« And I know you recognise me
Though not the same person,
But the same look
So familiar »

« How typical of you,
Not only typical of men, should I say,
Yet precisely you,
Who will search for the same gaze upon his destiny
Every five or ten years
The look that reminds you of someone else of course
Yet mostly, the look that makes you recognise yourself…

This is who you are,
Through my eyes
Who you were
And who you’ll remain »

I saw you like we’d always known each other…
It’s a lightning shot
I get those every day :
I recognise you in every corner
Of every street
Then I breathe deeper, shake my head
And know how easily confused I am again
I don’t need a scientific notion over this trouble
You say it’s more typical of me
Than most men
Well, good for them,
Good for them all.

It’s in the shadows of her face
The way these lights fall back on her nose
Much like yours under the same beams
Not the mouth though
And while she’s covered by two of her friends
It becomes even more puzzling,
As if the covering is intentional
Just to drive me increasingly nervous
I know she’s not you,
But I don’t want that pretense to be so finally revealed

Come on, let me see again
Just a glimpse,
Half of her profile
Oh, that pout she wears,
The tension in her cheeks
Like when the lips too long restrained
Push forward in the wait for speaking…

That’s you.
That used to be you.
And you’re crazy beautiful
Younger
Older
Taller
Smaller
I never really cared…
It’s the look
Always the look

(Painting by Egon Schiele)

A twin version of me (to keep you company)

  
People that I might frustrate or disappoint :
I wish I had a twin version of me,
Or even a whole serie
So you could find me available anytime,
In any of my usual spots
And I would always be open to conversation
Or just to hear you discharge your emotions,
All you had to conceal through a day’s work
And I would even consider beer as an option,
Whatever helps to make the connection.

People that I might avoid,
Or never seem to rejoin ;
I wish I had more extra-time or energy
Who doesn’t of course,
But there are those whom you don’t expect much from,
And those who make you seek their attention,
For they showed you once a little concern.

It’s out of respect for your assumption
That I pass up the chance of a discussion
You don’t want this tiny portion of my understanding,
You don’t want this micro dose of my empathy,
Or that I just pretend you have my sympathy.

And furthermore,
You wouldn’t want me to say it :
How much I don’t want your company
Not right now
If at all
Not every day, for sure
As for that clone version of mine,
It’s the same :
If I saw him once in a month, it’d be fine.

People that I might neglect
Or I seem perhaps to disdain ;
You’re allowed to condemn my failings
There are too many signals I cannot see
Or choose not to see
And it pains me when I realize
I could’ve only said one word,
Only spared one look,
Just to make you feel better.

But if you come to me as yet another prick,
Too drunk to calmly speak
Or to listen to your opposite,
Then you know the reason of your frustration,
And accept you deserve it.

Oh, and forget about this twin version of me,
He would neither answer your questions, really.

(Painting by Egon Schiele)

Life is a wound.

Life is a wound
But you can make it bearable
Make it feel enjoyable

All life is bearable
It only came out from a wound
So purely craving to exist
It tunnelled through the matter’s skin

Most life has to rip the surface
Of the matrix it was held inside…
It shoots out from the water
Breaches from the stone
It tears the shell apart,
Pulls out from the wombs

Most life has to rip the surface
To receive the light
Most life has to pierce in its race
To deceive the night

Within its nature itself,
Life is an open sore
It’s breathing in bleeds
Out through any pore

And you can see it tragical
Or you can sense a miracle
How we all came out from a wound

How we all came out from a wound

Which never scars, nor is immured
It is alive, it is injured.

(Painting by Pierre Soulages)

Not in the same boat

We’re not in the same boat
But don’t worry
Mine is sinking faster

I may look snobbish to you
High-educated, higher in values
And we’re not in the same boat, it’s true
But you don’t have to get upset
Mine is downing deeper, I bet

You know, I hear drunks every night
And I don’t judge them
But I won’t join them either

I hear those French clichés
On white southern America
As the barmaid loudly plays
Some redneck blues singer…

I hear them frogs laughing at the kettle of culture
That’s been cooking them since Marshall plan
Yet still unable to line up a decent phrase in English

Oh boy, must I look snobbish…

Some musician fella told me sooner
How we were the last units of our species…
He asked me if I intended to write a novel,
Which came out of the blue :
« You’re still young for a writer’s career… »
I agreed, only hoping it didn’t mean I was too old
For any proper job

We’re not in the same boat however
And I still don’t reflect that much on my aging days
On my chances to become a well-known author along the way
It is such a daily struggle just to keep afloat
That is why I’m telling you :
This is not your boat
And I mostly don’t welcome any captain
Nor any passenger on board
That’s a solitude not many could afford.

(Painting : Egon Schiele « Trieste fishing boat »)

Hobo

What makes a man seem more like a hobo ?
What first impression of him who you don’t know ?

Is it the clothing, the hair, the face,
Or his backpack ?
When you may not see him beg,
What tells you of his lacks ;
If he’s using both his legs
And isn’t truly marked… ?

Is it the walking, the look, the pace,
Or his manners ?
When you may not see him stand,
As we mostly pass him by,
And not waving up his hand
At one with a suit and tie…

What makes a man seem more like a hobo,
What observation, clear, that will lead you to know ?

He was sitting on the terrasse yesterday,
Sunburned in a too obvious way
Still you’re never quite sure he’s a vagrant

Now he’s staying on a bench, at a length away
Is that how he looks a little more astray ?
But you’re never that sure he’s so errant

What makes a man seem more like a hobo ?

I realize he’s not talking over his phone
Yet his expression tells you so
He has that conversation all alone
At least the sign of a life weirdo
Or only what it seems from my window…
And who’s the guy, I wish I’ll never know.

(Painting : Edvard Munch « The night wanderer »)

First-degree murder in poetry

—

The only shock is that you’re still not dead
The only shame is how you keep your head

For what you did, you should take more than threats
For what you said, your blood it must be shed
The only shock is that you’re not dead yet
The only shame is you’re not full of dread

You keep insulting whom you never met
You keep injuring those who need respect
How can it be that you’re not dead right yet,
When there’s so many of us you neglect ?

You keep agressing whom your laws affect
You keep arousing who your throne rejects
The only shock is that you’re still not dead
Oh what a shame, if you’d conserve your head

I wish I didn’t have to write these words
I wish I didn’t have to rhyme these terms
I wish I didn’t want you getting killed
I wish I didn’t pray you lose your shield

You made a surly person out of me
You made the citizen your enemy
I wait for one who’s even more angry
To give you murder in the first degree

Let’s keep it second as a poetry.

Faisons diversion.

Faisons diversion
Au nom de ta dispersion

Nous ne parlerons pas des temps
Nous ne parlerons pas du ciel
Offre à nous autres, ci restant,
D’une accalmie cérémonielle

Faisons digression
En frein à nos crispations

Nous tairons le présent
Nous feindrons la concorde
Et l’urne déversant
Qu’un faible émoi déborde

Assumons dérision
D’essaimer là notre affection

Nous aurons l’âme aux rires
En ce commun d’histoire
Insultons notre avenir
Ayons beau vœu d’y croire

Prétendre à contrition
D’avoir en vue ta compression

Nous ne ferons que passer
Humains, pays, peuples, frontières…
Un cœur aimant le sait,
Au plus il bat, plus s’éloigne poussière

Feignons diversion
Fenêtre à nos dissensions

Nous ne ferons que passer
En rangs, puis dispersés

Et que nausée passe…

J’attends que la nausée passe,
J’attends la marée basse.

Les mêmes symptômes que la nuit précédente,
Au réveil cette fois
Au moins là j’ai pu dormir.
Douleur abdominale et lombaire suraiguë,
L’eau chaude n’y fait rien,
Je ne sais pas comment j’ai réussi à prendre cette douche et m’habiller
Avec des crampes pareilles…

J’en parlais hier à une amie :
Comment la douleur est cette courbe à front ascendant
Qui vient plafonner ensuite, avant déclin, puis soulagement
Et il nous faut seulement tenir bon au plus haut du seuil,
Celui qui peut rendre fou.
Constater l’impermanence des choses,
Ça vaut aussi pour la douleur, du moins physique.

J’arrive enfin à sortir pour respirer un peu
Marcher, que faire d’autre ?
À peine en sur-place, on redevient cible
Lorsque je m’arrête, c’est pour chercher un mot,
Pour trépigner
Alors je trouve, ou continue un peu plus loin
J’ai des réponses à beaucoup de choses,
Et puis survient un nouveau mal,
Ou dont m’échappe le souvenir :
Historiens de ma santé, ai-je aussi bien occulté ?

Ça peut n’être rien bien sûr,
Mais « rien » c’est très frustrant comme diagnostic.
Ça peut être tout alors :
Stress urbain, mal-être occidental, éco-anxiété,
La guerre en Europe, la remontée du fascisme…

Trouver quelques raisons collectives à son mal aux tripes,
Au fond je n’ai jamais essayé.
Le personnel a toujours supplanté le sociétal :
Entre souffrir d’un manque de considération,
Ou par voie de licenciement,
Et souffrir d’avoir perdu, tel un bras, l’être aimé,
Il n’y a même pas l’ombre d’un duel à mon sens.
Peut-être que des millions de gens ressassent une mauvaise rupture,
Et ça leur remue les tripes jusque dans l’isoloir.
Jusqu’au déni du commun,
Ou dans sa pure exaltation précisément.
Une porte se ferme, il faut bien casser un mur
Sinon en construire un, très haut, très solide
Qui sait par quel trou de souris le réel peut ressurgir…

Alors je joue cette carte,
Pour m’offrir deux heures d’épiphanie :
Le problème ce n’est pas moi,
Ça vient des autres.
Si je n’étais pas abordé trois fois par rue
Pour me rappeler agressivement qu’il y a plus nécessiteux,
Si l’air était un peu moins particulo-finé,
Le ciel un peu moins grisé, les mines un peu moins déchues…
Alors cette pâtisserie du dimanche au coin achetée,
N’aurait plus tant ce goût de piètre consolation,
Elle s’élèverait peut-être alors jusqu’à délectation.

Mais je n’en demande pas tant à cette époque.
Au moins de rester valide
Et sans douleur insupportable.
J’ai toujours cet écho de 1984,
Quand dans la dernière partie
Le personnage hurle sous la torture :
« Faîtes-le à elle, pas à moi ! »
Voilà, c’est ce que je demande à cette époque :
Qu’elle m’épargne de souhaiter la souffrance directe d’un.e autre
Afin d’éviter la mienne.
Le tort, on en cause de toute façon
C’est structurel, systémique.
Un seuil est franchi lorsqu’on voue le pire à son voisin de torture.
Et si l’image apparaît outrancière,
Alors disons voisins du même malheur, voisins de galère.

Fin de ma trêve opportuniste.
Non, le problème ce n’est pas l’autre,
Mais il peut grandement y contribuer.
Et cette poire-frangipane est tout à fait correcte
Médecin mardi par précaution.
La douleur n’est pas revenue pour l’instant
Que passe la nausée à présent.

—

(Painting by Egon Schiele)

A rainy Sunday at the morgue (It’s Ok, you’re just dying #11)

A rainy Sunday at the hospital morgue
Is the reason for dark humour to exist

I wasn’t required to stay the whole morning and afternoon here
It was only a question of maintaining a presence for any visiting mourner,
Except no one came.
There was supposed to be a bunch of people showing at 4pm,
But they neved did
And the morgue would close at 5.00 anyway.

No coffees and cakes in here.
It felt more like an east-german recruiting office,
Where the applicants are the grieving families
And I sat in the waiting room for too long over my cell phone,
Dealing with the announcement of your death,
Anticipating the following procedures
And having only slept four hours in three days,
While you gently rested in your death chamber…

We had to take a little break from each other, I’d say
I was your first visitor anyway after they moved you here
And you didn’t seem to have more conversation today,
So I left when I realized I’d spent almost an hour
In such a cold and grim space,
_ Looking more like an autopsy room,
And I was gonna start making calls in a funeral home…

Forgive the humour too.
Seemed like the only available drug in a morgue
I asked the intern at the reception
If there was any place to eat over the whole site.
Not on Sundays alas,
And even for the morgue’s medical staff,
Direction told’em :
« The dead don’t eat,
Why should we deliver food ? »

Forgive my hunger as well. Privilege of the living.
By the way, and for what it’s worth,
You look alright as a dead man, really.
A little stern maybe,
But surely not scary or like you suffered a lot

That being specified,
I’m gonna go home now. I’m so exhausted.
I just wanted to see you for five minutes more.
But this is not farewell
Two group visits confirmed this monday,
We’ll have to talk funerals and other post-mortem issues
Of course you never took a moment
To properly write your will down.
If only you hadn’t been so quick to let yourself go…
But that suits you perfectly well, I guess
To make a last mess of your death

Excuse me again for not crying
Maybe later… Maybe never.
Doesn’t mean I love you any less

You were not much of a weeper yourself,
So I presume you understand

Take care of your soul now.
And we’ll take care of the rest