At the book-stand of La Manne, 90 Claude Bernard Street
This is an archive until it will cease to be.
Gab.
A little cold under the elbows.
When every failure will be paying for drinks based on
The statistics which will celebrate its run first
To the public opinion,
Will be forming a main power.
The clinging vines of the newsreel enclose us;
My concern a crust
Dunk into the tacit glare of the sun.
The wind blows away a postcard bearing the image
Of a harbor full of loaded mules.
The temporal timespan that turns towards me
Comes up against its defects.
A couple of rants.
The guided imperishability is growling for Pleiades.
The meaning as an unfortunate sense
Is exclusively
Human.
*
Husk poem #19
Often the external part of the words communicates
More efficiently with the misfortunes of existence
And fuel them with marrow.
The adventures which surround us;
Are sacrificed ad infinitum.
One's readers:
Decimate the readers of the other.
Yet the voices that frequently distract you,
Keep you in shape.
Those who can make it
Have done it in rarely visited places.
Translucence /
Is not when you
Uncloak sincerity.
It is sincerity herself who chases the head
Of a cricket
On the wall where truth
Creates a shadow-play with her hands.
Yannis Livadas, My Bones In The Soup Of My Grave, publisher: Ragged Lion Press
in English · Texts · Poetry