Why opening the drawer if the scorpion, whom, from the ceiling,

has just fallen over my table, speaks to me?

"Remember me, I am the extinguiser of the street lights."

"It is heard, I gave up my wooden leg,

in a waste land where the ruins of a factory, are crumbling, since long ago burned down, whose high chimney, still upright, knits sparkling pullovers."

"My wooden leg made its way since then,

beatified by this minister's belly, this Sam Suffy he bears over his head, these ornaments, these....."

But you easily recognized a pope, hiding quickly

in his left hand a monocle, which could well be, a poisoned host, however that, from his right hand, he traces backward, signs of cross in space.

F rom this gesture, the chimney opens up from top to bottom like a mussel,

letting see its sixteen interior stages, where almost naked ballerinas, hardly denser then a swirl of pollen, repeat in the eye of a cat, lascive and complicated steps.

And the scorpion, having stitch itself with its harpoon, plunge itself

in the thickness of my table, decorating it with a stain of ink where I read through the mirror: "torturer Hair".

But it is to your eye to cross the mirror,

with clock's gestures, it sprinlkes my belly with intertwined pollens, like small games of thirsty young girls, you recognized it, and the porcelain's crumbs insert in my skin which your eyes look like if it was the mirror.

Speak to me, like if it was the oracle descended to tell

the dreams which circulate in the universal consciousness, you will teach me what the brains of the world tells, so that the dreams could not be lost, your eye will not speak any more, it will tell.

It is heard, I abandoned my monocle,

tell me of the time, the one which separates us.

It is heard, have you seen the well where your lips dive,

do you remember the birds in the cage of you eyes fly their pupils like monkeys?

There is no more birds, there only is your pupils gone out of the cages

picking your dreams in the night to send them back to the universal consciousness.

Why turning over the glass if the table must give room to you body,

your belly, this volcano groaning all its wounds resembles to my palms turned over their pedestal.

You remember the drawings in space,

made of your finger decorated with garlands like if catching the birds, and which gently close down over the pupil of your eyes, then they spread over, the birds escaped from your pupils, carrying their eyes toward the forgotten dreams of the universal consciousness?

You will teach me all that the birds tells

as far that there are birds, it is over this, that your body has laid down its feet over my hand.

Why opening the memories if the morning must forget your caresses,

if your eyes must close its glance, like the spark of the warrior sprinkles the trenches with his blood.

It is like the scorpion which pricks itself, your eyes which are closed again,

it is also the eye of the cat reflecting its interior.

Marco Polo ou le voyage imaginaire (Mais que dis-je? de Benjamin Peret) 1996 Jean-Pierre Lapointe