Translated by JenNifer Scappettone



The severe life of the condemned renewed

the discovery of an abyss that was and was

not their disinterestedness but something

far more secure: their constancy, their

inconstancy, their feudal regime

and lackeys kept ensnared. The constancy

of their interested fidelity that

was fidelity tout court, that fidelity

of theirs to hopes so that they’d be

betrayed, that hoping of theirs! so tragic

in identifying themselves with the tragic farce.


One game or another, one famine or

another, one game of circumstances or

another, a global fame or a duty

obeyed — the rest is to be erased

so that the rest doesn't show up any longer in the

lists of the drowned, the persecuted

the mourned and their dolors.


Dear life who has gone astray from me

with you I would have made sparks fly if only

you had not gone astray.












And they have soft mantles, those kids

imprisoned in their substances: dyed

thick tresses. They pour water into that emporium

good for everything: the libido. The libido has

changeful dusky colors and yellows profitably

reduced to an imaginary level of

its private satisfaction.


They’ve sounded all possible sounding lines

& have fortresses of their having chosen

menacing odors colored with spite

and often erroneously appraised.


In the Pearl Harbor that I am self-expression

never had a better fate than a

vainglorious expulsion of remains, & not

for this was the worker distracted

from his mission — which was oligarchical,

and sententious, as he clutched the bouquet of roses

behind the windows. He publicly

desecrated the beast, promoted a

crucifixion of such minor account as to

drastically pollute its environment.


Moved by the wind in small clusters

resurrected by the wrong side to provide

yet with placid little windows you have

bleached heaven itself instead, spread out

in the laundromat of our good souls.


Shut up in a sack the employees began

to rationalize their actions

and those agitating were not scarce.











They have fused the war device with

my fingers overly occupied in helping themselves to

cannibalistic foods and all the world

has run to see.


Shattered penis and cracked conduit are

there to be your guides: experience is

governess of the listless, those impoverished of imagination

who wallowing in the beyond have wished


to jail you all. Wish to do something tempered

by habits that take on rather tremulous

practices — of not knowing where

they have left them.


And it is obligation that shows you the way as if it were

a faded shattered lantern which

illuminates nothing but your foot

that errs.


The airplanes have begun to fire

upon the crowd then have betrayed as

is standard in the rain of every day

and evening as well.


Every day they attempt a snare and every

day purity returns and every night

they call into question what they have done

by day.


By day they dream; by night they keep watch;

afternoons they sleep; mornings they pray.


They pray that life will not take off so soon 

having concealed death for so

long until one day they recovered 

the night laid out like a corpse.

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