fissure vs fusion

we need to

break the i

why should there be

a capital letter

i is no better

than you

words are br

oken

duct-taped together

and to the line

so they don't shift too much

nothing as more irritating

as a definition that

veers, realigns

auto-corrects

they don't mean nothing

unless you really need them

unless you sort the you out first

clear out the imprecisions

so we can understand one another

why should there be a form

norms are made to be br

oken

noone is made of straight lines

they converge or diverge

run parallel if only for a while

but choices change

they don't last

in the wake of headlines

full of eyes and alter echoes

it's a battle of words

while we struggle for words

to say we love

to say we understand

or that we care

you and i

should see eye to eye

not turn a blind i

when we err

in the i of the storm

for there is beauty in the i

when it means something

to you

 

Arctos Rhododactylos

– Le froid, insupportable, avec pour seul remède

une vinasse chaude, épaisse et aussi laide

que sa maigre cuisine sans espoir ni chauffage –

Oui, il est fini le temps où elle avait un âge.

Ces sons qu'elle n'entend plus – l'eau qui bout,

la faïence qu'on ébrèche sur l'évier –

et d'autres qu'elle n'aura jamais entendu –

ceux d'une vie dont elle a sans le savoir déviée.

Elle grelotte sur ce lit où jamais le repos

ne l'a trouvée, apaisée, aux côtés d'un tâte-au-pot.

Le soir tombe et ses nuages comme un laguis

referment leurs doigts sur son corps alangui.

Voilà que ce Christ étendu en miroir en face

lui rappelle des choses qu'elle voudrait qu'on efface.

D'un geste tendre et machinal, elle caresse sa poitrine :

la boursouflure en son sein qui la démange et la chagrine

ne lui concède que le seul réconfort, tout en pensant à Lui,

de la certitude charnelle de l'orage durant la nuit.

 

Memories

Whatever memories you have of me, they're now yours, and yours only. I have made myself forget them, forever obliterated from my mind. I am no longer interested in your friendship, in your company. Keep your social networks and teeming-crowds revelries, amuse yourself in empty halls, break all the oaths of presence when hardships strike down one who was one of yours.

Vain promises of vain people, and empty words.

You are living in and fostering an illusion which is propped up on your lack of knowledge in an age where absolute connaissance is possible. Be dumb, be scared, and alone with hundreds of friends who will never surround you, never prop you up, never be anywhere near your deathbed.

You foolishly think you have the power in your hands whilst you're holding onto thin air – your breath really – and you don't count the instant between this breath and the next.

Focus on your petty absolute necessities, and leave me alone now. I am tired of chasing after ghosts, of reaching out to your silhouettes in the dark, of looking for hope in you. Yes, I am tired of you, and your posts, your meaningless prattle and your technological whatnots.

I cut myself off of your world, and retreat, and shall come out only when duty calls, and only then, and commend you to a thousand devils until I forget about you altogether, and start living in peace, for the first time in decades.

Yes, I have given up on what people call life, without having so much as a clue about what it means. So what? Not a single one of you have professed any allegience to it, nor any wish to uphold its most basic standards. None has done anything to embellish it. I have done my share, tried my best, and I've seen you mar the work and my strengths are now spent.

Leave me alone, forever.

 

Aleppo

“Aleppo won't be there anymore,” i heard say,

“if we don't do anything to save it.”

terrifying thought, come to think of it,

that the alabaster city will be gone, any day.

in december, so this person said,

everything and everyone

will be gone or dead –

in quiet terror –

the battle neither

lost nor won.

for thirteen thousand years,

the copper city has stood

and withstood

the fears.

for thirteen thousand years,

it slowly gave birth to nations,

those that now bring it tears,

that wipe its generations.

today it lies blasted,

its wide-open rib cage,

licked clean, bloodied,

bathed in pure rage,

dehumanized,

pillaged,

shelled out of its shell,

pelted in,

buried

its language, its culture,

its buildings, its sculptures,

its ruins,

deconstructed

the city's whiteness marred,

washed in mire –

yet Aleppo has already disappeared –

when the first bullet was fired

when the first chunk of ground was delved

on july the nineteenth twenty twelve –

Aleppo was scratched off our memories

before we even dreamt of its demise

unthought

long afore its pines were seen dancing in the breeze

long afore its children were heard barrelling through the streets

Aleppo and its people were lost to us

Aleppo and its people are lost to us

Aleppo and its people were

Aleppo

Alep

 

The night buried in your lap

the night was buried in your lap

and your apron modestly covered it

the light from the oil lamp

amplified the waves of the fabric

it was decided that you would

encompass all that was made

from the sun to the woods

and the sea, you poor maid

sadness was made yours too

by some dark chain of events

and the waves of your dress

you shyly hid from the light

so that none would perish

in its ebbing threads

nor lose sight in the buried night

that night buried in your lap

 

Lucky

He is being told that he is lucky,
Lucky to be alive, lucky to be healthy,
Lucky to have a job, lucky to have friends,
Lucky to have money in case he needs meds,
Lucky to have a roof over his head –
So he is also lucky to be able to see red,
Also lucky to have both his legs
And the full usage of his ten fingers.
He's lucky not to see the leper that begs
Or the maimed that slowly dying lingers.
He is also lucky his ex doesn't kick him out
Or that his family doesn't blame him for the breakup.
He is lucky to be able to pout
Or in the event of tea to have a saucer and cup.
He is lucky that no one dismantled the sun,
Lucky that the world doesn't spin the other way
Or he'd have to live again the pain at a slow run,
And go through the irrelevant – for some – dismay.
He is a lucky little bastard,
Yeah, that's what he thinks he is,
If he doesn't turn drunkard
Or if he can find peace.
 

Intertexts

“ “ “ “ “ “What?” he exclaimed, as the turtle tipped the truck over, as his friend asked him something he didn't quite catch,” she narrated, and continued narrating her story to her voice-recorder, pacing to and fro in her sweltering flat, stark naked,” he told to an assembly of drooling, drunk spies,” he finished, concluding a night of heavy story-telling,” she said, not sure where she had lead her audience...”

 

Tea, Spices and Milk

And I was sitting at the Starbucks

on that busy Parisian boulevard

full of honks and delivery trucks

when nothing but the roads is barred,

my chai tea latte steaming my glasses up

'Cuthbert' warily scribbled on the cup.

And I watched that student

through the window

rushing across the street,

and that old widow

overly prudent,

and that ragged beat

limping his way unashamed

to his morning flagon of red,

amid the wet morning crowd

and suddenly thought how

we're supposed to be all

genetically identical,

and how quantum physics state

that all actions reverberate

into different frames of space and time.

And I thought that we might be

the echoes of a single, one-time

action sparked a long time ago,

and that all the possibilities

contained therein did grow,

fractaled in us in fulfilled probabilities

and which, detail after detail,

changed in each individual's tale

to give one complete set of turbulences,

yet one coherent whole,

all paralleled universes

crushed flat into one huge cinnamon roll.

And the thought made me heave such a sigh

that my napkin just flew over the tray

and off the table down on the ground to lie.

The pretty girl went her way,

the old widow cautiously hers,

amid the habitual city-wonders

and the old sot went with the flux

and I was sat at the Starbucks.

What Really Irritates Me In Men, Women and Poodles, and Other Sartorial Considerations Very Late at Night - Part 5

It's been a long while. Not long enough I can hear some say. Well, sure right you are, I haven't missed you either. Yet for all I know, you might very well have been craving my refractory, longitudinal diatribes for longer than you'd care to admit. So without further ado, here it comes, Ladies, Gentlemen and Poodles...

What Really Irritates Me In Men, Women and Poodles, and Other Sartorial Considerations Very Late at Night - Part 5

I know for a fact that many of you have wondered, in this festive period, if you could push your depravity to the point of asking for a pair of crutches for Christmas. In the school I'm in, Oh boy they've become trendy, like the latest, must-have accessory in any respectable fashionista garderobe.

So, to my cross-grained mind comes a question: How to casually use a pair of crutches, and why? Perhaps, say, to attract pathos, eyes, attention? Mayhap you want people to open up doors for you? Here's some of the postures I've witnessed, which might be of some help to the newbies (because obviously owning the crutches isn't enough, you've got to have style). Step on your heavily-bandaged foot, your elbows akimbo on your crutches, back slightly bent over and crooked. Or, you can roll skull-printed bandanas around the handles, with matching handbag and tee-shirt. You can also remain the kind, helpful person who you've always been and point to a direction to someone while still holding a crutch. Or hold them diagonally so that people have to avoid any potential shin-breaking crutch in a 4-metre radius. But I'm being sarcastic there, for next to no reason, really. One warning, though, in all this merriment: do not get too confident that nobody is there to see you when you walk without as much as a limp without the said crutches...there's always somebody, somewhere, to see you (much-revered Murphy's Law) walking straight. And as much as it pains me to admit it, I have seen this ridiculous tendency in women only. We men have yet to find the crutch in us.

These postures will enable your foot to take twice as long to mend, and it will actually mend twice as bad, leaving you more than ample time to attract more pathos...or boredom. And let me tell you this as straight as I can: people don't care a straw, for they won't open up doors for you and even though they may ask what in the world happened to you, it's only because the weather's been the same for weeks now and because it might be a great opportunity to snicker. Crutches trigger pathos in sensible people for about as long as a blind poodle would. Interesting, for about two and a half minutes. Right about the time it takes to realise that at some point you'll have to lug the dratted thing about (and for once, believe it or not, I'm not speaking about the poodle).

Speaking of which, where on Earth did all the poodles go? It's been a while since I last saw one alive. As if someone had decided to put them out of their misery, or as if their wanting genetic pool had finally hit them back in the end, as some late-coming retaliation. Perhaps they deserve a place of mention alongside the dodo now they're gone. IF they're gone. If you see one, can you please send a picture my way? That's for the obituary, thanks – or Part 6 of this series.

The other day, the leaves were falling hectic orange and frantic yellow all over the place, for Autumn had come. I like this season a lot, for the bright colours, the fantastic sceneries they show or evoke. It's also a tad dreary, by the same token, for you can now see the bare branches, the knots and scars on the bark, the general sorriness of the leafless tree. Slightly less majestuous without their shiny robe...somewhat like everyone else on this planet. We can also note the equally drab birds perching in there. All of this makes you less reluctant to park your car under trees during this season. No fruit, no bird dropping on your windscreen. So I parked confidently...and come evening I damned those birds who could still find fruits in them scrawny trees. Droppings of orange and red all over my car. And the ones parked on either side of mine. Luckily, it rained quite hard that night so my car was laved of their evil-doings. The next day I paid especial attention and chose a treeless spot. No tree, no bird; no bird, no dropping. When I saw what had happened to my car in the evening, I knew the world was making me pay for something. Bad karma attracts birds. For only my car had been Pearl-Harboured. And the consistency (I'm passing over the details) of these droppings excluded everything but fruits, or berries. How on Earth could they find fruits in November so far up north? For Pete's sake, even elderberries had been gone by then. Some mystery I'm still paying for as we speak...there's no avoiding trees in this world. Someone must pay.

And someone will pay, someday, for their bungling up a McFlurry (jumping from pillar to post, I know). Why is it that in McDonald's they always serve you a McFlurry which is never flurried, the hollowed spoon sticking out right from the centre, erect, ready to fit onto the flurrying machine? Perhaps it's just a French language thing where they don't care to see WHY it's called a McFlurry. In any case, this defies any structural and gustatory sense: you can't remove the spoon without actually taking half of the ice-cream out with it, along with half the M&Ms (my all-time favourite) and the caramel topping. While everything should be blended into one great flurry (hence the name) of flavours, everything is stacked into one one-taste-at-a-time, uninviting heap.

You feminists are waiting for me now to spit my venom at men, a vulture-like look about you, malice in your eyes. And while you could just look at us to find enough fuel for your warmongering, I'm going to disclose what happens in the Men's room. That should fuel it for a few days at least. While few of us know for certain what happens in the Ladies', you mightn't know either the delicacies that the observant can find in this hellish place. Graphic details ensueing (so if you've leaving us now, fare thee well dear reader, and may you find a safe path through this nightmarish jungle of poodles, pigeons and crutches!).

The smell. First thing to greet you. Ranging from ''just acrid'' to ''astounding blocked-due-to-cold nose opener''. Sticky feet. Usually around the wall urinals, but if you get lucky around, on or across the regular bogs. The walls themselves, the doors, handles and partition walls can be sticky too, so mind your fingers. Absolute absence of toilet paper, at all times. Don't count on a forgotten newspaper, or on that last leaf of drying paper – we've got airblades now.

There's many a different style to roam the johns, but I particularly like the blokes who come for the number one and either: 1- leave the johns altogether without washing their hands 2- re-arrange their hair in front of the mirror and then leave 3- don't wash their hands but still dry them in the airblade (to avoid a potential case of sticky fingers, while I think they're actually creating it) 4- start drying their hands but realise they don't have time to do so – so use the back of their jeans to wipe them clean. All before grabbing that door handle.

Differently, but not any less efficiently, the blokes who come for a number two and 1- leave the johns altogether without washing their hands (yeah, I know) 2- have to wash their hands but prefer to dry them in the airblades (remember my theory on sticky fingers?) 3- start drying their hands but realise they don't have time to do so – so use the back of their jeans to wipe them clean. I have also witnessed 4- the necessitous who had to come here for a bossy number two, knowing full well there'd be no TP and a faulty airblades, perhaps even no water at all. I can't tell you the rest of that story, I still wake up at night because of it.

I hope you had your fill of filth (and I carefully avoided the subject of pubes smudging the sink). As for me, I avoid public urinals like the plague.

 I'm about to hit the hay, and content though I be to have poured my bile over those and that which irritate me, I'll still hold an intractable grudge against poodles for not showing me the way to complete spleen. Godspeed.

picrate

La vieille fille aux litrons de picrate

traîne ses guêtres sans trop de hâte

vers ce dîner sans viande ni encens

où parce qu'elle aura un peu trop bu

racontera sa vie terne à ses enfants

ceux qu'elle n'aura jamais eu.

D'un large regard elle balaie sa cuisine

et de sa douceur porcine

lave lentement l'assiette de son repas

puis d'un sobre et triste pas

rejoint son lit de mousseline.

Le dernier litron nonchalamment en main

la bouteille posée sur ses flasques seins

elle fixe son plafond usé des regards

de cinquante années dénuées d'espoir.

Puis d'un geste inattendu de puissance

les yeux plongés dans le crucifix sur le mur en face

elle brise le fût du litron sur son chevet et lasse

Mais d'un mouvement plein d'innocence

Saturé de regrets mais sans haine ni rancoeur

Elle s'en va fourailler ses chairs à la recherche de son coeur.