Prag

Dear XXX. I think of you when I think hap­pi­ness, sweet­ness, affa­bi­li­ty. Recently I’ve had some sto­ries in me, like people who tra­vel or eat varied­ly, and I’d tell you about them with a tea, sparkles in the eyes, being the eloquent chi­cken you know, if you were not somew­here else and me in Berlin, clea­ning up my gun, poli­shing my rope or rather some­thing as tra­gic but without mas­tur­bic innuen­do. This mor­ning I’m fee­ling pret­ty good, and I don’t accept that, I want to unboard the plane of suc­cess. And moreo­ver, I want to unders­tand what people say to me. This is not a war­ning, this is not (exact­ly) me grip­ping your skirt for atten­tion and diag­no­sis. But you know, in my head we love each other and care for each other and in my head we have open ears for each other and look for­ward to tou­ching each other again in my head, with bene­vo­lence and to shuf­fling to each other some­times in my head because there is some­thing mashed stuf­fing life bet­ween two inmy­heads that feels cushier than life. Here is a pic­ture of me and Sam in Prague, last month, in which you can see people mis­sing their lives cove­red with ichy blan­kets – name­ly the bed­sheets of the hos­tel we were staying at and about which we got very emo­tio­nal after having eaten « cho­co­lates in the shape of sea­fruits ». Why not. There is also a pot­plant on the table, which I am sure makes sense. And here is one of the texts we read, in which we wan­ted to wave, to faire cou­cou, at the good old sel­fies of post­ro­man­ti­cism by simu­la­ting an I’s fight ; and so this sel­fie-let­ter to you now is a com­pen­sa­tion for the fol­lo­wing text, and your exis­tence as well might be com­pen­sa­to­ry, but this shouldn’t offend you, because I don’t know yet what exact­ly it com­pen­sates. I’m going to Marseille on Monday and I’m not sure we’ll see each other soon, so may life spoil, indulge, treat. A pow­de­ry cloud of kisses given by me accom­pa­nies you whe­re­ver you go.

I pass over spring 92
(wal­king on shores and beaches
une averse légère a fait des cendres un tuf sans niquer les empreintes
paumes indu­rées, Géologiques,

dépôt, ‑toire, luxe lacustre,
vicus ; fibules pour mes toges

well, fuck the coas­tal areas).

BRACE BRACE

No one will give you the prize for
anhe­do­nia during a time of disaster.
So go out, & buy
« killers » and « desire » ―
real
albums ! In a shop where you can get
real album!! « Yeah, have a good day »
doesn’t mean
« the truth will set you freer
later. » It’s
a molehill
under the nose hairs.

I’m the Mick Jagger of Alsace Lorraine
com­pli­men­ting people about their dogs
wri­ting greek poems desi­gned for shielding
COURAGE (BRACE BRACE)
But in fact let me guess : I don’t give a shit about shit

I’m not a poet, I’m a potplant.
a light salad compenetrans
NOT WITHOUT THE REGULATORY
two glasses of Château As Of
A Proud Nothing Man, & these to be fol­lo­wed by
a quick slide down super­man wires to the Tomb
Of The Unknown Urinal Factory Worker’s poi­gnant
bou­quet, head
hand face
at once
back to the man with the answers,
Rémy Nascent :

My life is a sort of hor­se­back rugby
in which the ball is a dead sheep
and whose best player ever is a man
who once for­got to name his cows
and got stuck with an unva­rious cat­tle for the rest of his life
for the rest of his life !
un indi­vi­sible cat­tle sur la gueule.

Perfect for the black armband
nut­case in your household :
a neo­co­lo­nial moustache
the shape of a ploughshare
bru­shed n shi­ning, through
the bot­tom of an 18
dol­lar pale ale.

Losing cows, one wins what rolls
RAD FÜR ALLE !
Me & my high-whee­ler rushing through loud towns
shou­ting insanely
or more pla­cid like Jean-François Bory posing,
black glasses on,
in front of the Loch Ness
near a mas­sive shield DO NOT FEED THE MONSTER

IT DOESN’T END THERE THOUGH !
One sham­bo­lic dissident
to appear on warm cowmilk
scrying­pool. Concentrate
and then ask again.
LIKE bur­ned memo­ries but,
in this case, within
the tree, invisible
to parents.
some of these kids must be
inside me as when i try
swit­ching off their heat
it becomes rain and sulphur
divi­ded by a switch

crap twice on the same ice
i don’t remem­ber how that ends

Creeks ?
Roll more juice
down ’em.

BRACE BRACE

or even like Ginsberg
bliss­ful Kraj Majales
King of Prag’s spring­time in 1965
TOTAL SCHLASS
repel­led by the autho­ri­ties for less than that
less than that ? sprea­ding sexual theo­ries, they said
(the poor guy had lost his notebook).

Such a foul gas was
in the hall when i arose today,
cryp­tic wee­ping formed,
there is no social content only roughage
under ichy blan­kets making context pillow fight
I’m wri­ting my memoirs on a side of ham
the pork is still oin­king that’s how fresh they are !

You need only extract the ham­me­red remains to see
just how these wolf-hooks cove­red in solar panels
will rescue our worlds of pig­flesh from the thoughts
that roast it to tar the stuf­fed real memoir
col­lu­ding with end­less / nar­co­lep­tic / jolt / corridors

The rest is literature
greetings
rid­ged caps
prac­ti­cal ope­ra­tions bille­ted in the lab
accor­ding to the police
blo­cked up ears
open
say the organizers
towards a big ovoid square
remember
of eve­ry pro­ces­sion the head and the tail say
the dream of not being tailed
any­more is ahead.