◀ Edito

No, not this, not that

On June 6, 2023

No, not this, not that
The poetic burden, here it is
Of millions of words…
Keep…
A hundred.
And what about the others?
Throw them in the trash

Poetry is the almost contradictory art of wealth that constantly deprives itself of its (master)pieces

Make everything into poetry. Take these bastard words, waiting, buzzing with excitement for a verse or a verbosity, like a deflowering. Take them, in your words, and let them take, in turn, their sex in the intimacy of an analogy.

That’s how images are born

Certainly, these children will not be as Beautiful as the models of romanticism blushing from a blazing cloud set aflame by a spring sun; laughing out loud, splashing in the currents; singing among the trees the thousand notes of the wind. They will even be ugly, and they will make you want to vomit, to die from this ugliness. They will inspire misery, and behind the defecation of a verse, it will slither like a miserable being, it’s your child, it’s your image.

And that’s how I will love it, as hideous and pestilent as it may be.

I carried it like the others, in the aorta cave, these thousand impressions of this cave and its emotive facade. I carried it for so long until I birthed it from the orifice of an ink cartridge, and I tenderly wrapped it in paper, praying to the goddesses of music with all my soul: may this poetry live as much as my heart opens, I finally feel alive in the fleeting breath of these liberated words.