Sébastien Smirou the falcon hunt

Translated from the French by Andrew Zawacki

MON LAURENT (Paris: P.O.L., 2003) MY LORENZO forthcoming from Burning Deck Press

one can mewl into his handkerchief the shrill wail of one it’s me lorenzo or a friend of his falcon or even you to feign his voice inside an echo let us be clear sputter a nylon ee! in the middle fair of the visage keening long long but uh-uh

mirrored as the tricknicked nose of a tot one tucks away in the other fist clenched one can hold the heart of a one cuddles his falcon with a milky mutton of the bird we sense he senses he won’t find there the kid he doubts the hot air

in the bosom of a holymoly sum of thingys holymolyesque or green or animal the prey from here get scared besides at the least aroma ergo if he slips the scatterbrain lurking breathes out betrays himself his prey sniffs a hunter’s here

‘here cutie cutie’ ain’t the cry of a hunter a hen peckpushes who stalks the whoops of men are not a whole lot better than sweat for lulling the game those from branches one crunches are so loud one already dreams of choking them

the falcon my master instructs notes lorenzo will drink oil of almond soft from a spoon to the max at the talons’ web he injures in the long run apply a touch of ash of rosemary of grease of hen of rosewater with words enwrapture him

if he’s cut his body snip a ring of gauze and soak it in mulled wine wash the wound and talc it with powder of tree bark of courgette and with courage do talk to him as if he were your friend and your lone (exactly like when you’re alone)

(the phrase falcon hunt doesn’t avow its bowered victim is not a hunt for falcon in the forest the hare is the quarry and the bird with little dangling bells is an arrow goes o’er the coppices from our knuckles it’s us it transports pierces

thus abuses too the possessive ‘my master’ of the language is master indeed the master of whom i speak of his falcons alone and of the rest of lorenzo he avers his master is he in this triangular game is it possible the falcon be our own?)

lorenzo is so fond of (his brother (rushes by a thrush) covets him in this love) his falcon (she’s gonna die) that he calls him apple of my eye his sibling is bemused (the falcon lifts aloft) finds this prettier than a picture perfect even (and she dies)

thrush grouse flying or pheasant fantasize dreams of prey as we say of our belovedest ones to take a thrush for us off guard is never possible save when soaring always ever higher than an apple of my eye at risk of vaporing to cloud

as a picture perfect even is not the right word pretty no better that lorenzo enjoys the falcon at his fist touches him but touches brush him sees him saddled sans even turning his head sings him a song without singing (solo in his head)

this muted melody renders me us deaf to the entreaties of others or other airs it oozes into the groove of a brain he’s suddenly got of a bird when the bird seems to seize his and listen to (marry with) the tune as if it were in him

what in our hunt for example pleases and pours rain also but less in love less it be the genie of lips we murmur about the lamp whereas it’s really a question of capture the genie that fills fulfilling our babyboo heads with ecstasy

one begs for him fondling one’s falcon with a pinkie neck feathers preserve the traces (and in the folds the brilliance) without any doubt replies he without any limit after three four times sometimes superstition yet we do not overdo it

let us touch wood touché lorenzo said my genius touches the eyes closed and writ are the courses the veins of wind split and the whole shebang shivers (at the flap of a wing) at seeing so very aero my falcon divebomb so dynamically

if my hour or ere my luck should turn the eyeball i bear down on things will change the raptor carved in hazel bark within the palace guest rooms would fetch a bad exchange (if everything escapes us he and i we hie to the heavens)