Rehabilitation of the Inferno

If Yellow 

(Extracts)
an odour of cut grass

she who walks falters

land of deceiving linearity

like creases in a pillow

black and white slumber

one foot in a dream the other harried

bust opening its closet

of emotions closet turned display case

where butterflies sleep

structure of the void that inhabits us

odour of blanched grass

shadow of the elder tree adds moistness

flash of salt pans

butterflies disrupting contours

vertigo yet again

she who walks the we

takes us here and there

unpetals poppies

behind her orchard limbs of the absolute

paralyse slowly O ending of the body

at the end of the dream frame of us

tangible of some hidden path where to rest

then colza seemingly green-yellow

yellow! Then odour with no colza no orchard

no shade neutralised world


broom on the side of the roads

what being is held deep down?

Neither fauna nor flora nor mineral nor human

this and that such brilliant designations

so bright that the dark cave preceding

has paled that genera gyrate

that yellow gets louder and louder!

Ah! Superb and crowned are the living

marching from no longer marching

this from shade that from light

luminous voice crossing borders

rhythm of bushes this-that

thick as stars

death-their slowly falling to…

What well masks the asphalt?

What sieve collects yellow after yellow?

Gobble-beauty broom wings cut out

in blue too blue beam of lines

silence-chronicle bend and…

swan-roads-their blacks

sailing towards the fire

lied-shape lied-shape

landscape compression

capital letters under anvil

bottles cans clinking


under the marquee that dances?

That stopped dancing?

Big wind Thing

creeps in abstractions

sometimes thereby amplified

sometimes spreading a veil of dust

or catching fire or unmasking a human

shape its leg arm leg arm

diurnal elasticity night tension

love Thing too

jackets thrown onto embers

gyre or eclipse Thing

when will you engage with that which dances?

Faces pierce the dark

hanging like festive lanterns

light footed monsters are born

time is black as a wood stove

odour is a beautiful labyrinth

men women writhing like forests

it—other of Thing—pours stillness into jars

glasses and dishes frost shatter

the acrobat steps into fear

in the city everything is still

trees show off their fake growths


belly bared for the dance

as round as a mirror

O ballerina-dancer!

bellies turn into face spaces

ready for absorption

as if these were wings to hide in

and hands how strange

butterfly-beige cross your destinies

the marquee is that instant

when things slip or float

man held man with strings

with little flags

with gnarled branches

by the horns

through the monkey on his back

and in the end—they say—man got extinct

the Thing came back

from between foliage nights roofs

perhaps it fell

from one of those curvaceous thighs

Ah! Look at it go!

How it threatens to trip them!

How hard it is!

Enormous and shapeless

islet in the mist


peace-fright

does one know of any other kinship branching off

mute face with one eye always shut tighter

from dark to light patio with hydrangeas

huge flowers bit by bit transformed

into these anthropomorphic suns

these stern faces of grace

hankering after sublime hatchings

stems reaching out for the affrighted

face—how quickly they grow

to hide it! Streams course through it

from times immemorial—how old!

Centre piece of the garden like a white statue

bird song wings night out of the night

long so called supple papyri modulation

time of buzzards train coursing through fields

redolent face sagging face herb basket

train chug-chugging ever more slowly through each

contorting body—the infinite is near—hisses train

drops man in a field with mountains

in the background—see you—says the man

and the train chugs on through the valley pondering

the death by landscape of the humanoid.

At last! A sigh. Lighter, it brushes through the lavender

that used to fill fabrics and places with its fragrance