the hand once nailed
on the wall
was riding on the wound
the corpse has been left there
the belly vaguely open
it is a toothless old man
the scar of Death
my temporary madness that has turned permanent
and all the words screaming loud
that didn't say nothing
the sex cut off
there is no measure
the raped woman
under the dark sun
in the center
shaped itself like a navel
the circle can no longer closes
you go back
at your starting point
hollowed out
and headless
into the nullified night
the finger moving
a scream breaks out
and shatters the window
its glass inside the room
filling up the ashtray
but despite all the words
he was utterly lost
following his own steps
that couldn't lead him
nowhere
like some weary fire
--------
la main clouée
au mur
à cheval sur la plaie
le cadavre laissé là
le ventre vaguement ouvert
c'est un vieillard sans dents
cicatrice de la mort
ma folie passagère devenue définitive
et puis les mots qui hurlent
mais qui ne veulent rien dire
le sexe coupé
il n'y a pas de mesure
la femme violée
sous le soleil obscur
au centre
en forme de nombril
le cercle ne ferme plus
tu reviens en arrière
à ton point de départ
évidé
et sans tête
dans la nuit qui s'annule
le doigt bouge
un cri éclate
et brise la fenêtre
et le verre dans la pièce
remplit le cendrier
mais malgré la parole
il n'avait rien compris
et ses pas se suivaient
sans le mener
nulle part
comme un las incendie
`
Ivan de Monbrison is a person affected by strong psychic disorders that prevent him from having a "normal" life. He has found in writing an exit to this prison. Or maybe it is a simple window from which like an inmate he can see a small square of blue sky above his head. His writing often reflects the never ending chaos within him, but at contrario to this mental chaos, the paper and the pen give him the opportunity to materlize this in a concrete and visible form. Writing is probably a slow death, but it's probably also better than mere suicide in the end.
Kommentarer