EN / FR
I couldn’t remember my name,
Flesh, my flesh,
I went to throw up,
I was vomiting the wear and tear of nameless things,
fragments of injured flesh, feelings of lies, circles of end.
I was still breathing, slower than usual, but breathing.
My bed wasn't white anymore
I was like a mistake,
A wild animal without feathers and with various lifespans.
At night when the sky leaves I wrote bits of stories
With that memory of impressions, reason aside
There was chaos in the Sacred.
There were these words,
Nothing but words I hadn’t said,
Stains of sullied lives,
And waiting just to wait.
Withered clouds were going round in circles,
Preparing for their departure.
I didn't want to be here anymore
With that feeling of spending my life in this bed.
I closed my eyes to watch the rain wakes up
Fistfuls of earth to keep oblivion in
Women were dragging their shopping carts to be the first ones,
the first to say with their mediocrity-soiled mouths:
“I was there.”
I was watching them pass by like meat carts, their spit of life clinging onto them.
They no longer felt anything.
I turned my back;
I was waiting for the noise of things to go away.
I went to pick flowers to clean life,
Horizons of stray flowers to cover the wounded river,
Icy waters that can’t dream anymore.
The rain was seeping into my body; it was invisible, but it was there,
Like a necessary process.
Water drops of time, lost specks of dust,
A shadow I connected to my memory,
A dream set apart so it isn’t soiled.
Order and disorder is a balance with which I dance.
Dogs dug tunnels,
Pockets of silence they brought back up to the surface.
They held chaos in their maws – something confused that didn’t belong anywhere.
A high wall of skulls heated by the sun bore witness to our digestive duties.
Rotting away in a tepid bed because it’s forbidden to be cannibal,
it isn’t done.
So stay lying down.
You need to rot a little more.
EN / FR Poem translated from French by Aoi Kotsuhiroi, corrected by Alice Verney