Simulacrum

Michel Leiris (1925)

...Of one place in another, without interval.

Raymond Lulle

Ash of agony

a man bursts forth

bestial lamp

Swirls the ingenious mystery riot

Mirror of eclipse upon the face.

Summit of centuries emanating from high walls

flows over the confines of liminal plants
white break, some layer of cruelty

Unheard of slag fields embraces the balances round,

fermenting, difficult course, to the storm's circle.
The clock of leaves stammers
(intoxicated solitude),
invoking the fixed unfolding of appearances,
binding crumbling death, lacerated by the knife

Beyond the outlines of plague

arise
the phosphorescent brambles of my limbs:
supreme stratification of the birds tumult.

IMMOBILE SORCERY

Source of flavors
infiltrates spatial domains,
across the foam gust,
thoughtless flagstone.
The deaf trace diminishes,
springs forth from clever myths (new pupils),
the calm roams around the original fogs,

lucid vault where the role of shedding statues

floats in stone armor:
sign of vegetal meanderings and of eternal masts.

Wheel of provisional gestures,

dominated by the obscure power of partitions,
eliminates the derisory game,
deathly dial of entrails.

The wheel of writing winds the landscape delirium

(harvest-battles).
The subterranean images coupled with echoes
break the chains of morning:

ultimate vestige of temporal rumors

with valleys of creatures,
tranquil husk in haymaking.

FEINT

The fringes of wind launch their revolt

beneath ancient grasslands,
transpiercing the target without obstacle,
collecting the shroud of voices.
The cursed wake of rough sand,
center blackened, ripostes,
discharges anonymous filth.

Dry out the exhalation of ecstasy over impetuous tongues,

to the desert of annihilated similitude
which broods the gaping insult of rivers
and of constellations.

Tranquil nerves of the scepter

heavily involve themselves
with a network of seminal sources.
Imaginary cavity, the cloister sums up
the cross of the beating hemispheres,
concealed seal.
Morning shipwreck of falls,
ice-floe of unruffled anxieties
which inscribe the expanse of aerial faults,
quickly corroded by the monotonous pulps of forms,
wound warped by the sepulcher,
blossoming of figures,
the rosary of figures nourishes the woof of textures,
in the black book of shadow (mortal fluid)
crushing the lightning of substance.

EXILED INTERVALS

Enduring sleep of reflection

escapees of the living curve,

outside of linguistic perspectives

the reign of frames is abbreviated
by mute nests of enigma.

Arches of storm-surge,
mouths defined by the mirage
incorporate themselves to ridges of birth

Repose of dazzled breaches,

the clotted scraps of the void are moved,
dispersing the dilemma.

Base of number,
inflates the incense of lava,
fecund, the stem of bitterness
and the whiteness of lakes of flesh and of dementia.

SOVEREIGN FLIGHT

Awakening of secret hands

to replies of rapid courage,
uplifts the corporal trajectory of urns,
direction curved over abysses.

The evidence of retreats

agitates the vagabond throne,

vast threshold of crowns closely passing by the naked universal.

Jacques Dupin, L'Embrasure

Repetition

That which scintillates and remains silent in speech

The night turns round on its axis,

Singularly presence
And the distance of that which we clench

To its indifferent fraudulent effigy

And, exasperated in the flowers

Far from pillars and waterspouts...

To labor on a reading of obscure things

Provisions of ashes
And its dissipation

Trembling

These columns of savage odors

Hoist me right up to you
Stone language revealed
Beneath the transparency of a crater lake

Rival revolt, wandering bonds

An anterior life
Impatient as storm surge,
Pressing and growing against me

And, drip by drip, injecting its venom

With pages of a book which grows dark
For being better read by light of flame

From the collection of destroyed words

Between the wall boards of impregnable death
Is born the vulnerable plant

And the entangled wind beyond.

AGGRANDIZED NIGHT

To return among you

the storehouse which I have guarded
is it visible in its vortex

Among you and subservient to nothing

than to disorder
than to seeds

Inflicted with his

adoption of an other source
– and of an other connective –,
he wounds himself, the fatality of return the wounding
cut off,
but the exultation of those whom he betrayed
resounds in his wound,
second source,
or again some grafting
contributes to the night

As though to hasten the fall of the day

my heart's dislocation is polished

I exult with the obelisk

whose obscure face is itself there
when the sun has struck the last

late-coming but the base of the night

of lips ill-closed, which persist and resist
devouring light, or its absence of limits,
a space poorly overcome

if I founder, I founder with them

the dual word at the edge of lips
giving form to silence
like a flute, inclined

the same strident erudition

detaches itself from the inner wall

and paves an unaccustomed route.

Open in so few words
as by an unrest, within some walls,
an embrasure, as opposed to a window
to maintain at the end of arms
this country of night where the road gets lost
at the end of forces, a naked speech

Flowers, when they are no more

their freshness ascends
other airy mountains

and the voluptuousness of breathing matures

between the fingers which delay their closing

on an imponderable implement

There below, it is he who disappears

rapid route to the dawn before their wound
for which they to other bonds
flowers, unto obscurity

he comes from cold and is turned toward the cold

like every route which arises...

As long as my speech is obscure he breathes

his arms plunged into the icy water
between the algae, toward other prey
frozen like lamps in the day

So little reality pervades this living

that it makes for violence, or that it spreads
audaciously over stones and waters

the skies hold the scansion of hammers

some ones among us are entering, interceding,
to produce new clouds

He is oblivious where the door breathes

or has hands, mine, and it is the price
of our false accord
of our effacement unto the branching point
where light is unified

Indescribable landscapes
where the wind arises and dismembers
He shines, I see it
we absorb each interval

each retreating step shimmers

suspending and murdering the imminence of meaning

Better shards of a wall than dead water

reflecting the stars

[50]

Night plunges in the chamber

a fresh and powerful blade
like the tooth of a shark

Night separated from constellations

During that the mountain slips

the roots of fire
carried to incandescence
The ash of the base
and the blood
come to pass by the iron

[52]

In spite of the freshly murdered star

which bifurcates
– it is its sole cruelty,
the breathing of my phrase
which obscures and
reveals itself –,

it is again able to sustain him

the closeness of the murmur

[54]

The indeterminacy of chalk and the whiteness of wind

cross the sleeper's breast
whose inundated nerves vibrate most deeply
sustaining gardens in stages
separating thorns and prolonging
the agreement of nocturnal instruments
toward the comprehension of light
– and of its breaking
its bifurcated passion on the anvil
it breaths
like thunder
without living and without venom
among the junipers
of the incline and the ravine he breathes
an obscure air
to compensate for the violence of bonds

I would cast myself outside

if it were me alone, this compact love,
we held and deadened
in the medium of the world
arrested,
all its force is down in front
and the twisted ram's horn
who charges – as if it were me
its prison, not the wandering limit and the thirst
of the ravine into which I would cast myself

So its blood, its black wool

is ruffled by confused winds, it is mixed up
by the waters of a sudden downpour

[57]
MORAINES

To write, is it a more mobile sleep which encompasses uncountable conspirators? Or the excessive
movement of a vigil which pulverizes that which supports it, in us thrown to the immensely open center
of its envenomed pupil? Of this frightened eye where all places of the unwritten Law are concentrated,
we submit to the mastery and the seismic disruption atop the sea. Its visceral eternity, its embalming in
the letter, and time recommences in the silent assassination that we differentiate (also for a long time)
from the writing that traverses us and renders us invisible. An unexpected star crosses the wall. We are
the suffering-sadness of its perverse matriarchy. Our breathing in accordance with its, we remain
prisoners of the odor of the froth in the fissures of its reign.

The rhythmic figure of your conjunction: my death. Its trace crossed within the wall of common
anxiety: my breath. My ramifications within the context of equilibrium: the exhaustion of your thirst.
The paradox of noon.
Roger Gilbert-Lecomte – Poèmes Retrouvés

Anti-Sun

O sun, heart of the heavens whose blood of light

Infuses the vigor which transmutes to azure
The black ice strangler of great space obscure
I hate you, mask of gold, mist and fire, circular
Blind monster blinding all the prey around
You who veil the impure dazzling phantasm
To the loving vertigo of my avid gazes
The vision of the colorless abyss of the void
Reversed hollow truth-mask of the other world.

Old Precepts of the Dead World

Immobile and mute

Suspend your breath and your guard
A silence of death
To conjure up the dead

And give name to the ineffable

Wink of the Eye

He closes the eyes

It is the end of the world
He opens the eyes
It is an other world

And when all was consumed

Everything again dwelt in place
Only the lighting had changed
Pierre Drieu la Rochelle – Interrogations

SILENCE

Silence, is it a silence.
We are at the time of a beginning, when the spirit of God flies over the chaos of our times.
In spite of the cataracts of grave thunder which eternally reverberate throughout time and the reign of
cutting cries when steel separates its atoms, beyond I perceive a silence.

The earth is abandoned

Behold the conquests of desolation
Vast abstract spaces
Determination to break up the excavation of iron
All the parcels of soil are braced and sifted by successive explosions so that all that begins should die
The terror is remains and the fragments persist over its carcass
Beneath frenetic flagellation, total sterility is obtained.

Silence. It is not silence.

Perfect silence is not, because all parts of life are vigilant and audible. A blade of grass emits an
enormous and menacing sound like a 420 which rises toward the heavens.
But there is peace
when familial sons are concerned. Their accord is heard no more and one extends an unheard of
sweetness.
Everything it values is empty like a provincial street which lacks my despair of life.
A short little main with a wooden coin.
The earth boils beside him. Culbute. Tacit envelopment.

A silence falls. Gaping hiatus between sonorous lines which close off the horizon.
One comes to hear the fall of a stone in the pits of terror.
Is there an enemy?
A profuse death is there, a place one does not know where
Suspension.
The fist of God is suspended over the drums of war: his skin is the heavens held over the edge of the
horizon, and it resounds of all the depths of the world over the terror of men.
In the cross, I find thirty men who were thirty little children gathered by terror.
I am gone in search of glory.

The Augmentation of History

And if we have no more history

and if for territory we no longer throw ourselves into
hatred
in which there is so much love, powerful love which protects
and if no man no more raises his colors of pride
above the others and if motley injustice no more
unfurls itself
and if one cuts off desire?
And if around the surface of the globe ruminating peoples have no
more history?
But see here that which once again makes the men of today
We are of histories passé
We have not renounced our age for times known badly
We have rejected the shameful nostalgia of accomplished times
We have killed the dead a second time
so that they should not be more numerous than the living
Our war has shattered cemeteries. We have no taste for life upon an ossuary.
We have made history. It is another thing that we read.
Editing augments the weight of the epic horizontal lines of our song.
Presently, our wildlife inhales the vertigo, we have gone round
the drowned; being in scattered times
we are returned, and we are amidst radiant becomings.
We have retrieved the solemn sense
and we have enjoyed our time in an excitement.
Thus, within a silent desert, suddenly, immensely,
swollen with organs, one sees
a civilization beyond-history pass by,
tacitly
and camouflaged by an enigmatic smile
Alain Jouffroy – from Vies and C'est, Partout, Ici

THE SWORD IN THE WATER

To Lucio Fontana

Liberty is the guarantee of citizenship

by agreement to the application of laws
Saint-Just

Laws are horrified at the void.

Liberty fashions the void.
The void is the birthplace of liberty.
The void is in humanity.
Humanity is a lover of the void.
Humanity is an enemy of laws.
Laws are horrified at humanity.
Liberty assists humanity in the destruction of laws.
All laws can be changed.
This is liberty
This is the void which is in humanity
in which it sovereignly decides.
Only the inner void of humanity is sovereign.
All laws are slaves to humanity.

Humanity reinvents its liberty at every instant.

The week of humanity has seven days:

Manyday
Martyrday
Wetnessday
Theuthwsday
Frangelday
Separateday and Sunsunday.
While the poet takes one back every day by means of his amnesia
For him, the time of Tomorrow's Instant has begun

The Earth is not, once again a Man...

but it goes, it begins to go, it leaks:
it is fascinating, the birth out of nothing.
It is the bizarre zig-zag of spermatazoa
and other meteorites.
It is the backyard of the paradise of Thinkers.
A beautiful backyard triumphant, megalomaniacal
A backyard impeccable and without equal
The most beautiful backyard of the world on a fetal Quasimodo.

Zero is not so high as one thinks it is

Zero hates the Hight
TO BELOW, BELOW!
Therefore: Conflict between the beautiful and the below,
The Right and the Reaper, the Senile and Father.
There where there is a conflict, zero is not a wheel.
Zero disappears, and takes place of the Oasis:
Under the marquee, one has no faith, but the whip!
Whosoever crosses another like a street.
Sees it here: a man held as a road.
An amoeba-man! Finally whomever, regardless of whom.
But finally: such a one across such a one
is passed on the other side without either crying for aid or being enclosed,
as if one and one does not make gogo and gaga
but all that which one would like.
Behold a truth: 1 + 1 = regardless of whom.
Calculate: it is everyday that the world swindles us.

The Monseieur said to me such things.

I know not what he called himself:
Homo qualunque or such a scrap so cross-eyed.
But this man spoke to me, or spoke nonsense:
and yet it is not a stammering.
It is a Professor or a International Novelist,
such an important, decorated one, a serious man,
but his face slackened in the void like a fat grand paper on the plants of breakfast.
And his wrinkles are not christian
although they are certainly those of an upstart.
But so? You don't recognize him?
This man, he is Francis Picabia or Lucio Fontana, laughing at his place.
He is dead, he is alive, but he finds you to be complete cretins,
Life is not glory, is not serious, is not Dada,
Life escapes with the cross.

Death is the Wall and we are its missiles.

No pity for the soldiers!
 The immutable and necessary truths which one has made the glory of nations and which
skepticism has triumphed over, are not born with man. They are the things with which he always uses
to attack. Those which made literature into anarchy, those which made painting into a revolt against art,
under the pretext of novelty, discover a meaning to that which has none. One has dared to attack God,
Lautréamont better than Nietzsche, but one has not again dared to attack just as violently the
immortality of the soul. The immortality of the soul is an doddering idea in Europe. No other thought
replaced it, because it should not be replaced, but rather scuttled.

One talks and one does not understand,

Conversations never serve that ignorance.
Why are we not the signs, eh?
Why? Can you not speak?
For what good these uninterrupted waves of speech?
For what good these true poems about false problems?
For what good the Declaration of Independence in the prison?
For what good these false positions? The Nazis roasting the intelligence.
But each of us is Jewish
And the Apocalypse itself becomes Nazism.
One must leave their orbit
And cry BLACK! BLACK OVER THE WORLD!
BLACK DRAPERY OVER ALL
Long live Anarchy and Shit to God!
Good evening Capitol! Good night Capital!
RICH MAN CAPITULATES.

When one thought offers itself to us as a truth which reveals itself in the intimacy of a bedroom
and that we take pain to imprison it there – the bitch – we find that it is a common place, and we drive
it out into the street.
The void which follows is new.
Heidegger non stop

H! Power of Arthur, of his Harar and of the Holzwege

Of the Black Forest! H of mustaches!
H of Husserl! Third H of Arthur
Schopenhauer! All, the hatchet at hand?

For cutting which ways in their branches,

eh? But “H” wanted to say neither Heil!
Nor War. - So Heraclitus, Helios, Hegel
or Hölderlin (Friedrich)? - Yes, no doubt,
without hesitation! I am passed beneath these forks,
in my obsessions of Hyperion, thanks to Char
and Axelos, after the slaughter of holocausts.

Even there I have, you figure, exposed my Opening:

a Chamade, a prophetic gazelle, of shocks,
numerous Lampadophores, a man among men
and the same, my horizon, the Autobiography
of Outside, each day, each night, without crying
of horrid jerk-offs, and entirely without shame,
hewed of “oh!”, hewed of “ah!” (unique),
up to touching the secret (haunted) of Pierre Herreyre,
H. aspired, fixed orchids of ex-salt-merchants,

Of Shanghai Gesture with genuflections of the tiger -

In addition to acts of dogs, of jackals, on the Trojan
Horse, in the air of one chance without Ophelia

There I go everyday, like each knows

And I assure you: it is always gay.
First Point

The first words, always,

True first gestures:
A distance,
An established hostility,
More virulent than before,
An offensive Anti-Nothingness,
The dams, the ditches
Beyond the primitive igloos.

But –, but:
Narcotic air reigns there –
In the ineradicable exterior,
At the hour of incomplete hours.

I see, hopefully,
These pre-crimes,
This pre-speech of the hue and cry.
The self-forgetting fast exit, again faster,
But I remember it.
I open the case with nails, and
I ignite – with the first blow –
The boiler, where I persist and indicate,
But is that all?
A building site: a first courage.
You are always there?
Which is forgotten?
The isolate individual
or the exasperated song?

Let us claim to correspond

To this persistent temptation,
The positive.

God (X) (Y) (Z)

I have crossed over to the reverse of my blindness.

Everything pushed me to blind myself:
TO SINK WITHIN ALL THE WALLS,
And everything pushes – IN ME – to commit suicide
with all.
(Internalized Third World War)

I have betrayed, shamelessly, this PUSH.

Alone (without what praises it)
Alone, because
EVERY THRESHOLD IS ALONE.
And am repeated to me
(“You, the eyes, which see nothing,
go astray”)
Go astray of me – exceed me
– unshroud –
No sacrifice – no cross –
No fixed point – without border you-me.
Without Cross; Without Christ; Without Right.

But God, everywhere, reigns around the me

– as of all. All.
God without eyes, pretenCious,
God out of play, dominating all the games –
In all the “Is”:
Like that: going to all that,
Dead God resuscitated God
In the absolute me of atheists.
But me – of my side –
I have begun to state
That:
The theology, the logic of the Tractatus, a-
theological
Were, quickly, very quickly, an equal combat;
Low blow,
Below the shaken-low of Barabbas (Barrablow).

At the same time, like all men,

I have begun, as if I were cast,
to confuse, to fuse my eyes
with God (x), the Greek I of Isis' sex,
And I have become – of course – odious;
Road without code.

THEREFORE, ABSOLUTELY ALONE: O-

MEGALOMANIA, CIMMERIA!

SO, I'VE BURST OUT. FROM LAUGHTER, IN

THE SILENCE OF THE HEIGHTS.
AND THE PLEASURE OF THINKING, ALONE, HAS
DELIGHTED ME:

More friends – More enemies

Not the milieu! Nor the quarters:
I am become nothing – link of the location
with ARIADNE, her THREAD, the life of X, Y, Z.
The gate of God has liberated me from all series.

For the first time, I have seen the

gates. For the first time, while moving,
I have re-guarded, guarded in the regard RRR,
the landscapes of all lands, errant,

Yes. Each tree: beech, plantain,

poplar, lime, pine, pine-parasol, ash, red beech,
oak, likewise the ebony, of Benin.

In each thing, I have recognized a cause

and am bowed down before them, x y z, with
Great respect.
Each thing, such that they are,
replaces, divinely, all the gods –

What follows?

Paris, 19 June 1999

Jean Lescure – The Prediction of Time

The beautiful times return

Tomorrow, not again

The beauty in your body

gives birth to my hands

Tear up, the winter

it is a partition
the beautiful times intoxicate

Yesterday goes to come

tomorrow remembers in it
beautiful days of the past
to pass the time

When fire sings

your belly opens
to sift what it creates
to that which is sacred

The beautiful times return

The fire, it is outside

The wind is within.