LXXXIII. L’HÉAUTONTIMOROUMÉNOS AND HOW IT IS

 

                                                                               

LXXXIII. L’HÉAUTONTIMOROUMÉNOS

 

À J. G. F.  

 

 

Je te frapperai sans colère

Et sans haine, comme un boucher,

Comme Moïse le rocher!

Et je ferai de ta paupière,

 

Pour abreuver mon Sahara,

Jaillir les eaux de la suffrance.

Mon désir gonflé d’espérence

Sur tes pleurs salés nagera

 

Comme un vaissaeu qui prend le large,

Et dans mon cœur qu’ils soûleront

Tes chers sanglots retentiront

Comme un tambour qui bat le charge!

 

Ne suis-je pas un faux accord

Dans la divine symphonie,

Grâce à la vorace Ironie

Qui me secoue et qui me mord?

 

Elle est dans ma voix, la criarde!

C’est tout mon sang, ce poison noir!

Je suis le sinister miroir

Où la mégère se regarde.

 

Je suis la plaie et le couteau!

Je suis le soufflet et la joue!

Je suis les members et la roue,

Et la victim et le bourreau!

 

Je suis de mon cœur le vampire,

-          Un de ces grands abandonnés

Au rire éternel condamnés,

Et qui ne peuvent plus sourire!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 LXXXIII. The Masochist

Á J. G. F.

 

 

I will strike you without anger or hate, 

I will strike you like a butcher,

Or like Moses hitting the rock!

And I will give you a blackeye,

 

 To water my Sahara,

Weather the waters of sufferance.

My desire balloons on hope

But upon your salty tears it will glide

 

Like a sailing ship whose sails expand,

And in my heart will lift

The cherished tears which sound

Like a snare drum drilling a charge!

 

Am I not bound in some false treaty

With the divine symphony,

Graced with this voracious irony

Which binds and which gnaws?

 

 

 

 

 

The shrill cry is in my voice !

My blood is contaminated with it!

I am the sinister mirror

Where the shrew is reflected back.

 

I am the knife and the wound!

I am the bellows and the notes!

I am the wheel and the spokes,

Both victim and Torturer.

 

I am my own heart’s Vampire,

-          One of those eternally abandoned

Condemned to hear the almost mocking eternal laughter

And yet who is himself incapable of even a smile.

 

 

HOW IT IS

 

 

The struggle has got to be Heroic!

Not necessarily military, as Life itself is War.

 Everyday Be-ing a struggle, battling through the Days,

So that soldiering or conflict is analogous with Living.

 

Wine is the colour of Blood, tasting of haemoglobin – Iron!

The oxygen rises up through the pulse in the veins.

The Macerated grape disseminates through the blood

Stream, intoxicating the mind!

 

Sex then Be-ing the Copula, strung out

On the Verb, and the Event which has comes to define You;

The Multiple in the One.

 

Such is your ontological station.

You will never forget Him-Her playing out in the REAL.

Living eternally in your head with Everyone!