Friday, 23 December 2011

Lettre sur les aveugles à l'usage de ceux qui voient

As in in love for the blind

A change of fortune

Construction by night,

distant tense

Those words you happen upon nevertheless

A wingèd police,

bare trees


Your instance is your existence

Longshoreman on sepia bicycle

People talk upon us and change our names

What is childhood if not infancy,

or the sound of a telephone unanswered in a building inhabited by echoes

Let that be where the text ends

You walk unsteadily because your body is a jug of perfume

What unites these narratives divides your lip,

as in in love for the blind

People get lucky on those machines,

others vanish near the seashore and are only thought of again

In wonder at how bare bulbs are strung in the naked trees,

at how the drizzle tastes of peppermint

Did you write your name on the floor

Sepia bicyclists armed with bow and arrow

Police funeral

Learning numbers by touch and fear,

your unchangeable names and gossips on roller skates

Let that be where the text concludes

It’s warm under my ripped and tangled blankets

I can hear each sound with the acuity of the blindest of


hearing a painting call out to its figures to hurry and escape

It’s a painting of the seashore,

desolate and glimmerlost

... too late to disembark

The ship is on the waves under the scattering clouds under the shattering stars

There was a woman cut her hair by night and by day walked through a city laughing out loud

We will get used to meaninglessness;

the difficulty is that meaninglessness will never get used to us

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