Michel Bulteau: an electric poet


If I lean out the window
I’ll see the world turn
see its bark brush my nose
I’ll have a hard time
getting you to believe that history
is just a few pen-drawn
lines on skin
but I’ll try
I’ll add some battles
discoveries catastrophes
spattered bodies
complaining of burns
In cities cars
spew smoke
drivers dine
in Japanese restaurants
eating raw fish
the street is absurd
the rice cooking
is not quite as absurd
walking is absurd
drinking coffee in the sun
is much less absurd
people-watching is absurd

Your Damn Exile

Burning of cold calls
Urn of sand and blood
new rope around
the stormy nights

My prince, I sense you quite lonely
Your friends are sick
Your eyes are tired
You are not sure you are hearing
the rain drops
hitting the air-conditioner
Car horns of the day of the dead
Dark flight of leaves
to hide the serpent of infancy

False silence of Saturday on which to repent
Like an insect the squashed logics
hines on the mirror
The harmony of weepings opens
like wood to fire
It is nearly noon

I enter into a violent collaboration
with the orchids of fatigue
Intimate relation black as coffee
Stones thrown into the reading of the immortals
Thought detests its shape
of slippery meat

The insects thrum in the shadows
questers of oral pleasure
proposing a parking place
Three hats full of popcorn
are filmed in close-up

Your disguised exile
you had to find it again
in the stripes of Hart Crane's T-shirt
You had to conjure
the evil eye of the still lives
You caressed blond hair dry
like the song of the bees
Your damn exile
« Être moderne, c'est refuser d'être inexact, irréel » Michel Bulteau (08.10.1949-)

No comments: