The doors of Hell
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CHOICE OF PORTS
Stopover in the hell of the Gehenne:
That I did not kill this memory!
Promised ground.............................. The beyond of here
Ding ding dong........................................................................The night
The open door.........................................Past
RETURN TO THE CHOICE OF ITINERARIES
That I did not kill this memory!
My phantoms awake Among the night dreams, My phantoms of formerly Are sadder than ever.
They carry my lives Far from happinesses, In their moist whiteness, Under the dark night one.
Corpses of my flesh Ballasted here by there Close of the huts dirtied In the dark districtsShrouds of my nights Slept in the hays wet Among the grotesque cockroaches And the dirtying kisses
Love and perfidious happiness the beauty pecheress That I did not kill this memory In the phantasmagoric parade My phantoms which will set out again Under the cloud of my lives In the raised dust Of my frequent falls...
RETURN TO THE CHOICE OF POETIC STOPOVER
Promised ground
ground promised to the disappointed men ground of tiredness collapsed with the feet of the bellies of thirsts I am on this ground the furrow of my ruffled eye you will return under the roof a fist on the sky of yesterday I will await there you the cord with the neck hung with the gray cloud the language in my sweat of living I will have the heart left half-timberings the tooth on the centre of a thrown into a panic virgin I will have the fingers twisted with the strap hinges of the ears you will begin again in direction reverses the rout the bottom with the bag of morbid stars you will overlap these cities faded a regret in the hand the other on the eye of God the satin morning plums in the bag au nightmare of the dream good-bye in my hole I am submerged friends and girls I have some in the armpit taken under my bracket good-bye friends and girls in my hole laugh the mouth open on my sadness good-bye sadness faded towards the appointment of the nozzles of scapulas. I will not speak any more with the wall of the friends nor will tell floweret of whom unstitched girl I will be alone in my hole far from the centers of imperfections
RETURN TO THE CHOICE OF POETIC STOPOVER
Ding, ding, dong
Under the gray cloud, the unobtrusive past Happy to finish Without reminded; Pressed in ash, the muddy mud Of burst and the fâts; A burial, a cutting-up of craniums; Craniums And phobias of demented person;
My encensements, the red cassock And the surplis angelica, the candles extinct Which gild my short trousers, the coppered small bell, Ding, deng, dong, the gong of the beautiful child Sage and pious, the childbirth. Under the gray cloud, first love, the discrete kiss, And the heat of the hand; The matinals interlacings Wearied and passed; Plays prohibited With lights shivers repus Of prohibited childhood;
Insane races, small white skin And prohibited past; Under the gray cloud, All this trampling With the distorsions of my toes, All these flicks With the shrinkled centre of the moons; On my belly smoothes, the sarcophagi of time, the navel widened Of pestilencies.
RETURN TO THE CHOICE OF POETIC STOPOVER
The open door
the open door scents of their feet discharge in puddle pools fingers soiled the open door fume of ashes ashes bright burning coal fingers in their langes the open door draughts on their naked buttocks fingers in-through the open door lying complaints too strong squeezings slipping molluscs the open door skin faded on tired cloths the tanned argument the open door the eye almost closed the hand which releases the tired impotence the open door the door which closes the closed door.
RETURN TO THE CHOICE OF POETIC STOPOVER
The behond of here
Beyond here Beyond Here, It is sad the life from here; quite sad also, in beyond; It is sad that of over there. People from here demolish themselves some; well quickly they go in beyond;
People of over there also are tired. It speaks little, the life of those, those which dream little, that of beyond; It speaks little that about over there. When will we leave from here, here the almost infinite one, for beyond, Which will not finish? I weary myself from here, it beyond here, and will go from that, In beyond over there.
RETURN TO THE CHOICE OF POETIC STOPOVER
Past.
Passed. Passed. I passed by there. This corridor strewn with debris, This sad path, painted shades; And stripped trees. I passed by there. The dull wood path, With the sound of the brooks aged, Under the shrouds of cold sands, And these songs of birds, finished. It is by this path. Cruel this tomb without sleep, break towards the sun; It is by this trodden path, This feels without exit, That one saw me passing. Passed. Finished the past well. Without hope of reentering, Only rememoranced, And that reminded. I will not pass any more by there.
RETURN TO THE CHOICE OF POETIC STOPOVER
The night
The night The night almost the extinct life in the silence of stars the monotonous statements of the tombs towards the infinite ones of shades the solitary night disappeared sadness frightened in the dream of the dubious inattentive noises harms cold in sad shivers of shades to the paddle unsoundable poetry major than a vacuum in fertile and nervous imagination thrown into a panic stray poetry.
Marco Polo ou le voyage imaginaire (poésie 1955: les portes de l'enfer) © 2006 Jean-Pierre Lapointe
TO LEAVE THE GEHENNE AND ENTER INTO THE ACHERON QUITTER
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