Untied 8

borzois and wedding dresses

babies and mascara

snails and color pencils

sandwiches and Spinoza

tongues and wheels

tears and radiators

bus stops and vanilla

orgasms and clay

staples and foam

planets and mayonnaise

ants and electric bills

pine trees and leather jackets

placenta and fridges

marble and plug adaptors

shovels and muffins

sex and crumbs

passports and dinosaurs

jam and bridges

wallets and gravy

speakers and honey

Untied 7

Shaken certitudes. Blurry winks. Dripping dichotomy. Glistening doubts. Golden ego. Holes. Numb dreams. Flashing screens. Broken seat belt. Cold interactions. Slow violence. Buzzing neon. Solitude. Creeping fears. Chipped plate. Ash stained shoes. Burning edge. Poisonous steps. Loud beat. Confusion. Peppery taste. Tight jaws. Absence. Empty illusion. Heavy mirrors. Crushed bugs. Oil puddles. Wet matches.

[Show French Version][Hide French Version]

Certitudes secouées. Clins d'oeil flous. Dichotomie trempée. Doutes scintillants. Ego doré. Rêves engourdis. Ecrans clignotants. Ceinture de sécurité cassée. Froides interactions. Lente violence. Néons bourdonnants. Solitude. Peurs rampantes. Assiette ébréchée. Chaussures tachées de cendre. Bord brûlant. Marches empoisonnées. Battement bruyant. Confusion. Goût poivré. Machoires serrées. Absence. Illusions vides. Miroirs lourds. Insectes écrasés. Flaque d'huile. Allumettes mouillées.

Untied 6

crickets crickets crickets crickets crickets

crickets crickets crickets crickets crickets

crickets crickets      me    crickets crickets

crickets crickets crickets crickets crickets

crickets crickets crickets crickets crickets

Phobia is a living thing,
As invading as it's irrational.

I should stop playing with it.

My words jump too high.

[Show French Version][Hide French Version]

sauterelles sauterelles sauterelles sauterelles sauterelles

sauterelles sauterelles sauterelles sauterelles sauterelles

sauterelles sauterelles      moi        sauterelles  sauterelles

sauterelles sauterelles sauterelles sauterelles sauterelles

sauterelles sauterelles sauterelles sauterelles sauterelles

La phobie est une chose vivante,
Aussi invasive qu'elle est irrationnelle.

Je devrais arrêter de jouer avec.

Mes mots sautent trop haut.

Untied 5

I take a long dreamless nap on the cracked ground.
Fennec foxes chew on my hair.

Shadows of insects on red rocks.

A snoring toad wakes me up
And follows me for hours.

Old birds on silent branches.

I walk through a cold river.
A slow carp brushes against my ankle twice.

Pale leaves on wet roots.

The ladybugs in my pocket
Fly away at the same time.

Tree sap on my hands.

[Show French Version][Hide French Version]

Je fais une longue sieste sans rêves sur le sol craquelé.
Des fennecs mordillent mes cheveux.

L'ombre d'insectes sur des rochers rouges.

Un crapaud ronfleur me réveille
Et me suit pendant des heures.

De vieux oiseaux sur des branches silencieuses.

Je traverse une rivière fraîche.
Une lente carpe effleure ma cheville par deux fois.

De pâles feuilles sur des racines mouillées.

Les coccinelles dans ma poche
S'envolent en même temps.

De la sève sur mes mains.

Untied 4

I'm reading French poetry again.
Philippe Jaccottet.
I want to write like that.
I want his words' pureness and simplicity and humility and accuracy and perfection.
There's a veil before my eyes.
His poems lift it gently, as if undressing my mind,
And I stare naked at the poetic grace of the words and the images they paint
- the sun on our back again, shining on the table, and the page, and the grapes.
They vibrate with disarming truth and overwhelming beauty.
French doesn't cast its heavy shadow on meaning.
It is used with such measure, wisdom and intelligence.
I can see the age-dappled hands of the old poet, his skin as thin as paper, his soul gathered in his eyes.
Reading him makes me feel dizzy like when I philosophize for a while and reach a state in my thinking where everything falls into place and what I thought was the last door opens to another one and I feel my consciousness going higher than I thought it could and I look down at the premise which started this vertigo-inducing mind ride and contemplate all the things that make me feel vast.
Jaccottet's poetry brings my mind to the last door instantaneously, shows me the wall behind it and crosses it, making me lose all perception of space as when dancing with someone you love and realizing by the end of the song that you're not in the same room anymore.

[Show French Version][Hide French Version]

Je lis de la poésie en Français de nouveau.
Philippe Jaccottet.
Je veux écrire comme cela.
Je veux la pureté, la simplicité, l'humilité, la précision et la perfection de ses mots.
Il y a un voile devant mon regard.
Ses poèmes le soulève gentiment comme s'ils déshabillaient mon esprit,
Et je reste nue à regarder la grâce poétique des mots et des images qu'ils peignent
- le soleil dans notre dos encore, qui éclaire la table, et la page, et les raisins.
Ils résonnent d'une vérité désarmante et d'une beauté bouleversante.
Le Français ne fait pas peser son ombre écrasante sur le sens.
Il est utilisé avec une telle mesure, sagesse et intelligence.
Je voix les mains tachetées du vieux poète, sa peau aussi fine que du papier, son âme rassemblée dans ses yeux.
Le lire me donne le tournis comme lorsque je philosophe un moment et atteins un état où tout trouve sa place et ce que je pensais être la dernière porte ouvre sur une autre, je sens ma conscience s'élever plus haut qu'il me paraissait possible et je regarde en bas, observe le prémisse de cette ascension vertigineuse de l'esprit et contemple tout ce qui me rend vaste.
La poésie de Jaccottet me transporte vers la dernière porte instantanément, me montre le mur derrière elle et le traverse, me faisant perdre toute perception de l'espace comme lorsque l'on danse avec quelqu'un qu'on aime et se rend compte à la fin de la chanson que l'on ne se trouve plus dans la même pièce.

Untied 3

The woman behind the cash register
Is spitting out sootballs every two minutes.
They're all over the counter.
It upsets customers.
She doesn't give the slightest damn.
She smokes cigarettes she keeps in her back pocket
And sits on.
They're bent.
She cuts the filter off with her teeth.
She has a third eye in the back of her head
That allows her to watch reality TV shows
On the small color-saturated television hanging on the wall behind her.
Along with a new sootball, she spits out "stupid Chinese"
When the American guy whose grandparents are Vietnamese
Comes in to buy his model cars magazine
And keeps the fridge door open while picking his beer.
There's a grass-snake living in her hair.
She burns it with her cigarette each time it slides down her neck.
The gossips she reads all day play on repeat in her plastic head like a pop song.
She shakes her head and the ashes off the cigarette butt stuck to her bottom lip.
"Spoiled bitch. Hope he dumps her ass."
A kid comes in,
Five dollars in his pocket and a Nike cap on.
He takes out a fake cowboy gun,
Points it at her.
She looks up at him,
Gives him a badly pink-lipsticked smile
And before he has the chance to say bang,
She forms a finger gun with her tobacco-smelling hand
And shoots herself in the head.

Untied 2

She hits play.
Her ears are open, her pace steady, the air cold.
It's morning.
She listens, waits for the first note, smiles in anticipation.
She's transported instantaneously to a place inside of her that is submerged with so much grace and so much joy.
It's coming out of all her pores.
She's on the jazz bus, the jazz teleporter, the jazz drug, she doesn't know what it is.
Her spirit is lifted so high and so fast that her heart jumps a little.
The place she goes to in her mind makes her feel safe.
The light is dim, wine is at room temperature.
She hears laughter, plates and trumpet.
The first notes of The Jitterbug Waltz. Seconds later, the other jazz monsters' instruments come in and it all just flies out of the speakers and breaks the ceiling open and lets so much light in. That cymbal beat.
She doesn't need anything else. It's so fucking perfect.
"Fucking" isn't the poetic word she's looking for but it pretty much sums up how truly, spontaneously, insanely perfect jazz makes everything.
It captures and distils life's essence, filtering negativity and stupidity and close-mindedness, forcing her awareness to focus on the present moment, to measure its glory and gorgeousness.
Her happiness is complete, immediate, orgasmic and religious.
She wants to laugh out loud, make love on the grass, dance with a dog, talk for hours, draw freely and eat a vegetarian curry, one with seitan, mushrooms and potatoes.

Untied 1

I walk on loud twigs
In a forest
I think I remember.

A sad moon
Shines on a horse
I used to own.

Underwater foxes
Dance in silence.

I wear my velvet soul
Stained with colors
I have never seen before.

I have dinner with
Five hundred ants.
They cook,
I bring vinegar.

Moss is on fire.
I dig a hole,
Burry my necklace.

The moth and the grass snake
Conspire against me.

I step back.