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Poetry

Poetry

; you may live

Vêtue

grand soleil             d’intuitions fulgurantes

                                    de prairies ondoyantes

; under the mouth of the wind

you lived invisible

, among the fireflies

roadsides

your face reflected

; the wonders of the track Milky

you did not have enough sky

among the people lost

seeking a savior

between pages of the Book

; you lived

like a pearl

; the seabed

; with gestures elliptic

Your réglais in silence

choreography sumptuous

; octopus from fish hippocampus

Starfish and algae fluorescent

you were the wings of the mountains

; the source of cloud

while you took root

; to come off soon

as flakes Snow

the eyelashes of a child

; you did bloom

; charred seeds

the warriors strewed

with fire and death

you lived then

fountain or fire

; as a gift from gods

Andre Chenet (Unpublished)

Dear Readers and Friends of Danger Poetry

We will continue to live poetry with passion so that it does not Dead Letter or sanitized in literature anthologies heavy as tombs. It clarifies and extends our beautiful brief passage on this earth if it is abused and the ferment of our fraternal aspirations not imagine a better future but to create it with courage and generosity,

I wish you a very happy new revolution in poetry,

Andre Chenet

Letter to Olivier Viscont :

Viscont Dear Olivier,

Thank you for your good review of Danger poetry, especially in this time of return to formal poetry, narrative (after all, very literary) you are able to discern an acute one of the reasons to me brought to the creation of this online journal: in a time of great global upheaval (both locational, environmental and political) poetry, through those who claim it does not remain benign.

We are at the critical point where human beings, people will be completely deprived of their collective responsibilities. Insidious propaganda undermines what Paul Eluard called "immediate life" where is our freedom to be. One to think, wonder, love, to fraternize.

there is now a kind of suffering which will inform subtracted from a privileged minority, protected by tax havens and their purchasing power.

I'm not saying that the poet must necessarily deliver a political message through watchwords provocative but in these times of increasing human misery and loss of freedoms, that he engages in the fields of collective consciousness is his responsibility to confuse the legitimate refusal of the die-hungry, the marginalized, the repressed victims of an economic system without qualms that form, if the Looked at closely, the vast majority of world population.

The songs of the poets, whatever the time, have never been neutral. They are recovered progressively by an elite carefully handpicked not alter the case.

My traveling companions (André Laude, Tristan Cabral, Emma K, Jean-Marc Lafreniere, Erwin Christian Andersen, Dom Corrias, Ghyslaine Leloup, Cristina Castello ... and others with whom I communicate fairly regularly and that I could not even publish ...), were not content to write poetry gesture for beauty alone. They feed on all legitimate rebellion in the near future, should lead to highly creative acts of unprecedented situations.

They are processed, so to speak, through the very real and dangerous situations in which their consciences bear lit up voices, dreams and aspirations that belonged to them more: their speech is releasing restrictions and personal injury led to the increasingly counting of themselves, of questionings painful and tragic.

As

love breaks all our certitudes and shakes our foundations intimate poetry proceeds by lightning tearing the fabric protectors of our comfort and our habits. Much it stirs our rejection of a dehumanized world, as it leads us to the heights of vision.

Ultimately, I hope at least be worthy of the poets I publish a constantly renewed fervor.

You had an expression could not be more specific about Mr. Darwish and A. Laude "the carvers of the cry" which, undoubtedly, gives me the full measure of your sincerity.

Through you, I salute all the "frogs " as well as our distant ancestors "frogs". And especially Serge Mathurin, who I was talking on the phone last night. Sincerely,

Andre Chenet

Read the article by Olivier Viscont to: @ rt- chignaned

How Do A Business License Look

body "after" The body

Can fearless cliché evoking the metaphor of "ruins" to describe the body "after"?
child leaves behind a body through an open body. This opening becomes irritated and sometimes become infected. Sex is a wound - which is never just another form of opening ... Pending healing, childbirth is experienced like a wound, there exists another physiological process that injures the body at this point? Another bodily function so traumatic?
traumatic as aesthetically speaking, of course: the body is left soft, empty, flaccid. The roundness of the breasts replaces gelatinous belly, there is always a projection, but as misplaced. The hormonal upheaval also causes hair loss, loss of blood and various fluids, incontinence due to the decay of muscle tissue. The body is moved, he loses, he escapes.
The mother herself has changed his identity thanks to this debacle, since is actually increased from 1 to 2. We can probably consider that the transformation of the body is as somatization early schizophrenic crisis facing it. The violence prompted the process to think his body "before" as a paradise lost.
It must then engage in a relearning of herself, at the exact moment when the child, in turn, explores and discovers the potential of this new body out of the maternal matrix. Relearning of urination, defecation, sexuality. Alternative Learning
of breastfeeding: the flow of milk, handling the baby's body, care of nipples. Do mourning for certain functions, master new.
More importantly, the rediscovery of blood flow, which had disappeared during the long months of gestation. And soon, awaiting rediscovery of rules. Cyclical time resumes running after the linearity of the pregnancy.

I Masterbated My Father

"during"

Pregnancy is an invasion granted.
How was the experience she lived in the absence of any contraception? But this is a false question: there was always contraception - ie the desire to preserve freedom, the enjoyment of the intimate private body.
Pregnancy is alienation, loss of self ; The loss of his own limitations, loss of power to act. It is punctuated by "I can not" I can not until "after" quite hypothetical. Quite quickly the "I can not" becomes "can I still?" Will there a "before"? For the experience leaves its mark for some irreversible. There will be an "after", but will not be like the "before".
What man would accept?
Yet the ease with which one engages in it!
Unconsciousness? Appeal of this case? Or mental structure steeped in devotion?
Or perhaps it would he earn more than what we are preparing to lose ?

Paint Microwave Exterior

Birthing?

Pregnancy and childbirth have never been invested so far as objects of reflection by philosophers. They are, at best, integrated into broader issues, policies, mostly at worst melted in the darkness of a purely private experience, impossible to universalize - thus deprived of all dignity concept. Thus, these moments yet so common in the lives of nearly half of our species, when (rarely) envisioned by the thinker, are reduced to what they are supposed to be signs - disposal social, the stranglehold of patriarchy as the traditional universalist feminism, or correspondence of irreducible woman with nature to some essentialist rhetoric - when they are not neglected in favor of bioethical questions concerning the status of the embryo ...
But to my knowledge there is no attempt to think, understand, conceptualize these events for themselves, as they are realities to understand and examine the first degree, depending on the point of view the person who lives in the flesh - the pregnant woman and the woman who gives birth.
course, there is the Socratic - But this is not a reflection of the rather brilliant use of an image, itself considered well known, transparent. But what image can make us understand what it's like giving birth to a child? Once past the dizzying time of copulation itself very well described and analyzed since ancient times, we are facing an ocean totally blank mind, which extends roughly from the implantation of egg in the uterus to breastfeeding newborn.
Metaphysics of parturition remains to be built. This terrible gaping
several reasons. We can consider it is just another example of repression of women outside the space of rational power - space traditionally occupied by men of thought. This is so true that some women philosophers to date entries in the Pantheon of the Logos were carefully excluded the possibility of existence of childbirth. One can also find a reason "category" for this absence. Pregnancy and birth are unique experiences - and by definition the singular is not easily accessible to the philosopher. It does not submit to scrutiny of the concept without resistance. There are other similar cases : The experience of desire, that of pain or death. But these have not been so ignored. Probably because men live, all, desire, pain, and death. It was therefore with the pregnancy the problem of a singular experience that is not suitable for all humanity - but only part of the package. The problem is intensified since the party itself may, through prog contraception, shirk this experience, avoid it. Every woman does not give birth, a woman will not give birth.

I am woman, I am modestly profession philosophizing - and I gave birth.
As a woman, I had this unbelievable experience that I'm still not returned.
As a philosopher, I was stunned by this terrible silence, the opacity of any share held in front of what seemed to think so rich, so important to say - something that seemed likely to illuminate an unusual way the human condition - the condition of mankind in general, beyond that of my peers, primiparous, multiparous or nulliparous. Any woman will not give birth - but every woman is affected by birth.
Birth is a business woman - but it is the responsibility of every man, because it also tells us what it means to be human. The role of philosophical thinking has always been, in my view, to clarify the human experience, to clarify the meaning. Why should I be forbidden to enter under the beam of the concept that time of my life?

Zinc Oxide Versicolor

Appétit

She loves men. Since their bodies
always magnetize the irresistibly provided they have the soft eyes and beautiful hands.
It is not very demanding as regards what is called "beauty". The intelligence, the subtlety of attracting more. Most importantly, the perception a crack in electrifies.
She is sensual. She likes to feel, touch, taste. A glance is enough to awaken her senses. A touch trigger, if subtle, the heat wave, recognizable, which radiates from the palm of her hips on top of her chest and makes it capable of any folly.
His affections do not yet spread so easily. Most of the time, just the desire, silent, clandestine. It is rare to take the risk of showing the turmoil that banned the wave to the person who has caused.

Hydroment Groutsmarietta Ga

Poetry Combat (2) Poetry

" The revolt, insubordination to the dogmas, the outrage at injustice are more than ever necessary values. Find pieces worn by this spirit, this breath, which have also an undeniable poetic value is sometimes a headache. But I am rewarded by the nuggets I discovered then known authors or totally unknown / unknown ... "Pascal Perrot

The subject fugitive




1

The Boeing to follow the runway
a purple curtain rises on the terminals
decor aisles empty layer where the cabins and
side of jinn haunting sarouels of diesel.
Behind New York is a fence red spark. So in
diagonal thrust to fly off the weight without considering here the tarmac
our biology fragile tight in the fuselage which decreases his crazy speed
one goes up in clouds of cells was worried formulas spiritualists
Muhammad the odds are high altitude
called a Christ Puerto Rican landed on a shelf where tremble
a cup of orange and potato chips but it
Whitman to you I ask for the grace of two lines
"Crowds of Men and Women attired in The Usual costumes, how curious you are
to me! "Sixteen words
talismans to understand this country where furious
Bible Society for the Prevention of Weapons has 100 million followers and where
refuseniks smuggle icons severe
to win paradise taxi drivers

/ /
At 13,000 feet
book illuminates the bottom. Page night. On
opalescent jellyfish drifting in a quiet old pink glow.
is the scenario of America with its dark
quadrilaterals and roads with a cutter for the films of the prosecution
movies revolvers and murderers early films mills where the camera is an eye spy films of the "Nothing ne va plus! "And" Game Over! "- Long tracking shot
an ambulance takes the score of an encephalogram
jump where the half-sighs sighs and pauses
but the letters of the word end are not written
although the pockets are really their Turret name, lower
even if one makes Edens servile lowest
although Wako, Texas and Huntsville, Texas
and language throughout dive into bags of quicklime
the coil is a geodesic which connects all
I fly at the altitude of metamorphosis
and God himself is a tree at the bottom of a crevasse
it is this shadow that moves in a beech forest and the cloud
lost in a public park that the police catch the drift net.
I see him which I do not see the world stands on the retina of a Cyclops
requesting that shed light

/ /

edge of a sun widower with eight light-minutes
stall slices of sky hung in canyons livid
my head is a crystal service after a rope crane operator
utopia where pitching
undiscovered continents I see the book that shines in the blue drawer
future grenade without pin - it will deploy
I read the message expected sleepless night in a net signal
oxygen fire - it will deploy
attacks winged hands prepare in the vocal lines sprung a ventilator
alphabet drum dances already connects scarlet never even danced
philosophy unborn stands in the navel of a nymph which zigzags in roller
it loosens its hair and lightning tumbles like a rope ladder
four teenagers consider it in terms of an objective phenomenon
one says it is a galaxy, one is a knife, they fall in agreement:
pleasure is the way of the Northern pubic, they disappear in the love they
decryption the dictionary of a tiger

/ /

One night I saw Lester Young get into a smoke ring and since I try
ascents intimate in all the rings of smoke I saw Bob Kaufman
slip into a
cool shade and cool shades from fomenting poems eruptive
I am the broken window of the poem started to fly I'm angry juvenile
the blackout that plunged the city, so in awe and I am
shine drift of the tanker that will shine alone in the harbor like an atom
freedom
disconcerting at first second era imaginary
where I live already for thirty-nine years
(Americas)

Renaud Ego ,
; In " Reality has nothing to do ", Editions du Castor Astral

- http://terresdefemmes.blogs.com/mon_weblog/2007/04/renaud_egoles_m.html




From the city and river (excerpt)


And maybe tomorrow

grenade still in his voice called saltpeter
torn by

plates to our bodies
Attentive
Exact
Complices

The clocks dynamite
faces
fake teeth
codes
languages cross

And maybe
still be the front of the barbed wire at night
windows
poppies into cries
rolled on their bouquets

And maybe
salt and belts
sheet for drinking
bullets rows like the vertebrae

below
s tooth and the hole of hatred
mouth

And maybe
bivouac above the city with our vines

Is it work in the underground
scarves Recognition

Then the assault armor
pale
words copper

Every Season
each dog in
horde
Against

Serge Pey
(Excerpt from "Poetry public poetry illegal" (Le Castor Astral)

- http://www.espritsnomades.com/sitelitterature/pey/peyserge.html




me explain


You ask: Where are the lilacs?
And metaphysics covered with poppies?
And the rain In the words
screened gaps and birds ?

Here:

I lived in a neighborhood
De Madrid with bells,
With clocks, with trees.
From there we saw off
face dry Castile
Like a vast ocean of leather!

My house was called the house of flowers. On all sides sprang
geraniums;
was a beautiful house
with dogs and children

Raoul, do you remember?
you remember Raphael?
Frederico, do you remember?

You who sleep underground,
you remember my house with balconies
Where the light of June choking flowers in your mouth.

And one morning all caught fire braziers
One morning out of land

Devouring men
And since the fire powder since
And since the blood.

Bandits with planes, with Moors
Bandits with
rings and duchesses Bandits with black monks and prayers
came from the sky to kill children

Through the streets the blood of children
Blood ran just as a child.
Jackals that the jackals would repel the Stones
dry thistle would bite on and spit
Vipers that the vipers would hate!
front of you I saw blood
From Spain to lift
To drown under a wave
Of pride and knives.

You ask why my poetry
Do not speak of dreams and leaves and the great volcanoes of
my homeland?

Come see the blood in the streets,
Come see the blood in the streets,
Come see the blood in the streets
.

Pablo Neruda
In "Spain in the heart ", 1938.

- http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pablo_Neruda






Liberals


Brigade repair the fabric of the citizens subject
Liberals
grease the machine to break the men with lard brain
They huilent the gate that leads to increased
With their insipid juice future, every day
They ravaudent society torn
But in the evening, they Provide
In this work listening to my songs
Even in the mouth of a liar, the bread does not turn into stone
In the glass of hypocrites, the wine does not turn into vinegar
Those who illuminated their noses wrinkle
Hidden under the frock stained with the revolution
Those who utter harsh words and pure
In bed, under the cover
Those with the pear is soft, wormy
And fallen: Liberals, these fruits Pourtales
From history, the Liberals
puff hum my cry my sadness
make croquettes My hope

What, comrades? I need it on the field
put stones in the oven? Squeezing
vinegar?
Or on the field
keep quiet?

Wolf Biermann
(from " so be it and it'll " Bourgeois-Christian-)

- http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wolf_Biermann
- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rhszn6tucjA






leisure revolutions


And I was a tourist of revolution
a dilettante revolutions
I was the little white
no revolution at home (at least the thought- I)
People are starving people die
I had to join the Third World revolutions
I was Castro in 59 in 89
Sandinista
I'm one of them
(and perhaps the was I)
They called me companero
Publish my poems
revolutionary in their leaves
In "Lunes de la Revolucion" poeta

they called me (which means a lot there)
Mondays of the Revolution was the poet
gringo aligns with their line
People are starving people die
other days of the week
home or anywhere else I could be
another
who knows what a hawker
a painter of poetic
poor small-time businessman
mafioso's son to lack
At the Havana Libre
I Gases Stretched Fidel
in a cafeteria of the people I went to the bar
Hemingway
I looked around me without saying anything
I never asked why Dad coughed and stammered Hem

without ever talking to Fidel
( Instead he went fishing)
I never turned my head
was a tourist and a good day tomorrow also

People are starving people die
And when I die without And
fuss when I die I will go without fuss
join for sure I will be joining certainly the Underground
Standing

Lawrence Ferlinghetti
(excerpt from "Blind Poet - Maelstrom and The Watchman-)

- http://www.citylights.com/ferlinghetti/
- http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lawrence_Ferlinghetti






; You will be the last herd

You will be the last of herd
weak and soft,
sides pierced by the horn blind history.
your knees! Down!
Heaven
disfigured by you in your sleep you choke slaves. That
room where you hunted
instinct is your ultimate tomb.
It will flow into the marrow of your bones,
cold and ruthless, feared
Tonight, Tonight Snow
that will dull your senses
the distant shadow of the prophet.
Who, when chaos flakes
grisea your eyes, you hear screaming?

Jean-Luc Aribaud
(from " Prophecies"-Le Castor Astral-)

- http://jean-luc-aribaud.intexte.net/site/index.php/all/2007/12/18/ouverture





Art miracle

in piles of mud and blood drive;
in the crypt where songs,
complaints or cries of anger,
make the coffin of singers from all walks
I remember
terrified eyes of those who love;
I cross their pale light
and dungeons in the heart of black
the morning star I am back on!

In the country where each blade
the hands of the Gunners, who fall
hands of so many fresh green gardens
in the country where no other plant can grow
imaginary;

I distributed in the aisles secret
Seed sources and light I
registry on its groundwater,
and eyes on the sun of another orbit.

Yes!
Me, by striking the flint on the night
the wounded heart of love I
sparks.
Yes!
Me, I'm learning the art of gardening


learn the art of miracle.

Parviz Khazri
(from "
"-editions L'Harmattan-)

- http://lettresperses.free.fr/LP/spip.php?article39





Filled with cold innocence

Cree buds, Whether swaddled
talquent expert hands
No distrusts you

You climb from the bottom of the wells
You know
thousand tricks you can learn a thousand other

To thwart software
In our memories and atrophied
fragment our vertebrae

When in full growth
You wash over us
Filled with cold implacable innocence

derision
And giddy joys
We nailed an inch ground

Cree hidden, muffled
tomorrow crack
The Who partitions to be

Pascal Perrot



- http://www.brouillons-de-culture.fr/
- http://insurrectionpoetique.mabulle.com/

Illustration: Roland Topor

How To Break Into A Honeywell Safe

Other metamorphosis

An early morning Mr X realized that nobody knew. And it seemed intolerable. He decided on the field - and this was indeed the first decision he took in his life - to end, by any means, at any price, this deplorable state of affairs. For his idea, he was truly unjust - and not just uncomfortable - no one knew of its existence.
It was not for his talents that he wanted to be known, and indeed, they were rare, weak, and frankly uncertain. Its capabilities had barely hoisted with an obscure post of accountant in a small company that manufactured forgotten cardboard packaging for mark cheese portions. Down a dusty corridor in an office whose windows looked out on a suburban dead, Mr. X all day sharpening pencils and laboriously checked relentless correspondence columns of income and expenditure. It was not even one of these model employees who are the pride of the small entrepreneur, these docile will try that put their pride to draw straight lines or make additions to the exact decimal point, his job bored him and he n 'it took no pleasure. Mistakes regularly peppered his records, not enough to put his job in jeopardy, but too much for him to be awarded the blue ribbon for best book of the department. This blue ribbon had even won a few years earlier his office mate, which earned him his picture in the local newspapers, and consideration of its baking.
For Mr. X, no picture, no consideration, no knowing glances and smiles whispering in his way: "It's him! this is it! but if, finally, everyone talks about him! yes, him there ... He ... "
His physique was as any. Medium size, brown hair and dull hazel eyes without luster, tight-lipped, thin up without wasting, classic elegance without, regular features, but without charm. No one turned on him, like his friend Z., sporty and full of pace, as Japanese tourists had ever tried to photograph as they strolled both under the arcades of the Rue de Rivoli. Had he
great moral qualities? Often things that fortune does not have externally proved extraordinarily rich in terms of emotions, was there a huge generosity, courage of a lion hidden beneath its innocuous? Or goodness of Samaritan, collecting the lost kitten, picking up the packages fell on the sidewalk, cross old women being terrified children or careless? None of that. Mr. X's heart was as narrow as his overcoat, soul petty and short ideas. He loved what everybody loves, took his vacation in August, had a childhood friend whom he had long been nothing more to say, and voted in every election for the majority. He paid his taxes by third parties to give nothing to the Treasury, took two euro each Sunday in the quest because it is a round, saw her parents once a month and still took over Leg. He had married, with a former classmate, who had left after a few years to join a photographer, and Mr. X was very well aware his departure. To be honest, he was even relieved because she was not working, and he hoped through his divorce make significant savings. It was not, strictly speaking, greed, no, just an occupational hazard. Mr. X considered personal expenses with the same objectivity that he adopted to verify that they sold well as cardboard packaging that we manufactured. For this book, expenditure was always a cash outflow, and the fact that money used to pay a bill plumber or a restaurant bill did not change the loss.
Divorce inaugurated by Mr X and a period of financial prosperity based on a greater sense of economy and value. He did more shopping in supermarkets offering the best prices, periods of promotion if possible, his hair was cut by an apprentice hairdressers, driving its output in preference to the free concerts that provide music lovers penniless Parisian churches , costumes were reduced in number four - one for each season, maintained with scrupulous care. His bank account grows at a rate which even emptied her closets.
Such a system certainly aggravated the anonymity of a few MX Her knowledge grew tired of the organ of St. Eustache, and when émirent repeatedly the desire to eat in any brewery, MX decided to slow the course of his galloping social life. He went so quickly that the cheapest brand, whatever the product is always the one that chooses the largest number of people, and that nothing strange contrast of any of its neighbors. At that point came to doubt a single person in the world knows her name. How many people know me, "he said one day? Who has, somewhere, my phone number? This is a very interesting question, and for Mr. X was as infallible criterion for assessing the "social impact" of a person. Who has my phone number? Or better yet: who wants to have it? He decided that parents and families in general do not count, his mother herself had a very full address book, but most of the details collected in this valuable instrument were by chance, and concerned people she knew nothing, and she cared absolutely no knowledge. His friends no longer existed, they had followed the call of the belly, disdaining the only charm of her conversation. In his work, he had no subordinate who might feel the need to join, as his boss, he was quite certain that he'd much rather call him in his office rather than to make a phone call. Mr. X then came to this harsh conclusion: there was no chance that his phone rings in the near future.
This conclusion was devoured several days, until that famous morning when he decided he needed all costs out of anonymity. Whatever the cost ... but without spending money - at least as far as possible. The problem was very difficult. But Mr X does not abandon his idea, and every day, every hour, he turned eagerly in his mind, waiting .. What? The idea that lightning would strike like lightning and would open the gates of glory. But nothing happened for a long time.
Finally one day he bought a newspaper. Some say they do not see this as buying a newspaper so extraordinary. But Mr. X, since the arrival of free newspapers in town, had arranged the press and all that were insured in the expense column totally unnecessary. So it was indeed a providential coincidence - or divine inspiration, depending upon whether believer or atheist, that I leave here the choice of agnosticism - another morning, which followed three months of the the fatal decision, Mr X had wanted to read a newspaper a little thicker than usual. As he did not know the exact price of the thing, he took precautions, and armed himself with a ten euro note and another twenty. This choice led him into a series of lavish spending and unexpected, because to get the money that he demanded the incorruptible tobacconist, he needed to buy a baguette and a croissant from a bakery inflexible. He went home grumbling, made a little coffee with a croissant and toast, unfolded the newspaper and then he saw her. An announcement
, huge, spread out on the second page, the police stood out bright red gray usual characters, and the letters had a height of at least five centimeters:

YOU DREAM TO BE FAMOUS? ANONYMITY YOU WEIGHED? YOU WANT YOUR NAME IN THIS JOURNAL? CALL THE FAST: 09 00 00 00 09

With a boldness that surprised himself, Mr. X took his phone and dialed the number. Almost immediately, a soft female voice sounded in his ear:
"Hello, yes, hello? Company Everything to please you, what can I do for you?
Hello, hello, yes, it's about the ad in the newspaper.
's announcement? Yes sir, do not leave, I beg you ... "
After a few seconds, he heard again the sweet voice:
"Are you available today? Yes, around 13 pm? That's fine, sir, go 12 rue de Charenton and ask Madame Simone. Thank you, goodbye. "

Mr. X could not swallow anything that morning. At 12 h 30 it was before the 12 rue de Charenton. He was a tall modern building, all glass and concrete. The company logo "All for you please," huge, stretched on the facade at the 7th floor.

Simone was a large hag, a frightening vulgarity. She stared at Mr. X with a disdainful air, and reluctantly, offered him a chair. Mr. X sat a bit disappointed by the shabby appearance of his vis-à-vis. He doubted that this matron ragged, garish makeup, could help in his quest for glory.

"So you read the ad? asked, her voice unpleasant.
Yes.
And here you are ... We have not had many answers.
must say that this is not very explicit.
You came, though.
I'm not curious by nature ... "This answer pleased

Ms. Simone. She went out of his pocket a packet of cigarettes and a lighter.

"You smoke?
No. I suspected it would
me ... "
She smiled
by sending to the ceiling with thick swirls smelly.

"This is something unusual. Are you ready for what exactly? At any
, provided it is effective.
Oh, it will be. No doubt about it. Tomorrow, everyone you know ...
So I'm your man. Wait
still want me to explain what it is about ... "As

as the project took shape under the lisping voice inflections of Simone, the eyes of Mr. X s'écarquillaient. A grave silence followed the end of the long monologue of the Gorgon, that broke a cough MX

"Obviously it's a bit ...
You have nothing signed, you can say no. But in this case do it quickly, I have other candidates to meet and I have no time to lose. "He thought

, had a thought for his poor existence, for the emptiness that surrounded him, for the endless boredom which he seemed destined. And slowly, he shook his head.

The next day, a dense crowd stormed the headquarters of the company "Everything to please you," listen to the speech by Aldo Tanizi at the opening of his exhibition. The artist thanked, movingly and warm, the dedication of Ms. Simone generous patron through which "The man keeps," a masterpiece of daring and virtuosity plastic, had finally been born.

Best Vacuum For Acorns

Telling or not

all began the day she would not tell him she loved him.
The words refused to cross the barrier of his lips. It seemed that in making these soft syllables - jeetttèèèmmmmm - it would disturb a fragile order and precious, the sound of his confession would sound like an indecency, an easy excuse for a compromise to sentimentality room.
Certainly, it did not say a thing. "I love you" ; As it sounded bad! Small, petty, narrow, opposite the maelstrom that seemed real live!
She could not yet explain the reasons for his refusal - and were they not obvious? Why explain what is obvious? Why report what appears to oneself?
He dived into his eyes pint white, he was troubled by his refusal? She was not certain at the time. He smiled vaguely, and they parted as usual with a long wet kiss and a little sticky.

She later blamed himself for a brief moment it appeared to him now as a whim and a little wave of remorse came to occupy his mind, quickly chased away by the prospect of a long afternoon working in sweltering heat. The words were just words.

The same evening, she realized that something had changed. The look he wore on her, ironically, a little surprised too, seemed to discover for the first time. They dined in silence, worked, went to bed. He did not, when to turn off the light, the familiar gesture of him to discover the buttocks to stroke and she dared not ask, and slept a little difficulty.

The next day he left it earlier. At 7 o'clock he came kiss her fingertips, and awoke, she feigned to go to sleep, to better enjoy the soft, warm kisses that ran over his skin like light insect, she half opened my eyes to see, but not enough for that he realized his little trick and it still had the same look as the day before, and she closed her eyes, a little worried.

Days followed days and resembled one another, strangely. In the morning, a few light kisses in a half-sleep. In the evening, they met, exchanged a few commonplaces, worked, slept. After one week, she realized they were no longer love. It

it opened to him, was irritated a little. He said nothing, always with the same smile a bit bitter, a bit distant. She cried, screamed, ranted.

Then, slowly, in a voice so hushed it was straining to grasp the inflections, he asked him to utter those same three words. A

vertigo seized. He looked so close, so strange, so terrible now, and she felt invaded by insurmountable weakness. It was so easy, it was enough to spread her lips and articulate.

She opened her mouth, closed it. No sound came. She held out her arms, pitiful, imploring. She remained well, open hands, tears streaming down her cheeks, long after he had closed the door behind him.

Free Toy Box Blueprints

can not live on words.
You can not always wait.
You can not breathe when there is no air.
You can not feed on wind.

Yet you ask me to sleep on words.
But you hope that I will wait without hope.
Yet you close one by one all our windows.
Yet you do not serve me that plate of water.

I'm dying but I want to live.
I extinguish me but I want to burn.
I'm fast but I want to devour.
I m'assécher but I want to nourish myself.

The hardening is not drought.
Deprivation is not the frustration.
Anger is not hate.
Love is not desire.
Envy is not needed.
The need is not a foul.
Death is not an issue.
The leak is not cowardice.
The rest is not death.
Life is not agitation.
Happiness is not the fullness.
The bitterness can be a pleasure.
Melancholy is not a destiny.
Sadness is not tragic.

Casehard Combination Locks How To Open

Regain Love and after?

Love ... This idea we have of his own necessity. This selfishness absolute, which projects into the eyes of another's being. Who asks that other to justify ourselves.
Since we are not able to will ourselves, we ask them to bring our existence. We impose to endorse our desire to live. All love and work.
But then, it's love, the worst cruelties.

What's The Difference Between Emu Bronte And S

Combat (1) Shadow

Selected Poems of Andre Chenet According to the anthology "Poetry Combat " Pascal Perrot that constitutes the last few months on the pages of the group of the same name that runs on the social network Facebook .

Pascal Perrot, fearless defender of poetry in all its forms and instigator of the movement "Uprising poetic" and " Uppercut" (visual and audio) is also a connoisseur slam, spoken word and rap as well as new music trends supported by strong poems. His interventions on stage, his power of improvisation in the cut and thrust have earned at other times the nickname of "Poetic Gladiator." Poet, performer, novelist, this "pedestrian Paris" constantly attentive to his time and alert to shifts of reality, has recently posted " Drafts Cultures ", a" web magazine "(arts, literature, music, cinema, theater ...) where, excellently accompanied by his wife Gracia Bejjani-Perrot (chronic, layout, graphics) , it is carried out with skill and lucidity in the art of creative criticism: "Give see, to dream, to think in a spirit of sharing ... This site is written for four hands is not meant not detached from the cultural news, but remain subject to all . "From an article to another, the multidimensional universe proves Pascal Perrot a richness that is confusing by the splendor of the unexpected trajectory of a sentence or rocket by delicate tangle of twists and turns of reasoning in sham.
ago the philosopher in him, or rather a philosopher poet writing aloud, standing in the emergency pre-means "the present, while circumscribing, not without humor, the outrageous excesses of our civilization gargling from bankruptcy. In this, the selection of poems below reflects the spirit of rebellion slaying the rigid codes and layouts, use bulky partition talkative an insatiable modernity always demanding more new and original, until congestion ensues.

To read his biography and read a selection of his poems, visit:
- http://poesiedanger.blogspot.com/search/label/Pascal% 20Perrot

Démesure of poetry

The poem is that which has neither name nor rest, nor place, nor remains: to crack the work is moving. Needless to identify out of some famous landscapes in the area forbidden thoughts, antinature horizon and then completed after his passing. It haunts our space because it is our time. Elusive in each of his figures which arises only to link its emerging tendency to unpredictable inheritance, the poem secretes its own history as the plane spirals its tracer irreducible linear in nature that was in this blue-white . Building on the starry explosion of language, mulling over the beginnings of the fledgling event, leaving the gesture of its functional uses, the cutting of its thematic intent, the poem that after he struck the man pages to request shelter and rest for a story, the perfect model glimpse of the blue stone on a face, not the key. Without remission.

Jacques Garelli
(from "Build " Mercure de France--)

Link: - http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jacques_Garelli







From the state court

That one who said our king
That one that comes with war
That one fact that all our goods
That war kills those who he wants
That one everyone who deut
That one who brings sizes
In the great fire of hell Devil take
If he will have peace after death. Who has money

war
Who maintains money becomes
gentleman who makes money every honor
Who is lord
money he keeps the ladies Who has any money
good sound it happens
Who ac'est money in the world's heart is the flower

On all alive is he who can and is
But the bad guys always have their money

Who has money for man is wise Who keeps
money to everyone who
it contains money has always noise in force
Without rigor

Who has money as he pleases
Who has money for all he
C ' happiness is
To have money when default never
But the wicked always their money necessary. Who

aa money back and all
Who likes money each his possession just
Who has money on it has no error
From misfortune
Who has no money right not deal
Who wants money to a if all subvient
Who has money he is a cleric and doctor prior

And if everyone has property exalt the wicked
But still they need money.

Money is everything, as an affront to all law judge
he twists become
Money makes everything as it should be maintained Rumors
lose debates city and castles
Money is everything when it does hold
Between lazy traitors to heaps.

For money people are hanged
For money castles are sold
For all evil money is money committed by
rights are rendered honors
For money are lost by
money is sold by his friends money was once dismissed
P ar the good money comes worse
For money is the man subjected to severe pain
and martyrdom.

John's Bridge-Espine Alletz (1490? -1500?)

-



Proclamation

It is done, gentlemen! Already

wax mannequins invade libraries
women walk like wet flags
Fools distribute the image of their mind
the doors of abandoned churches

Laugh
I forbid you to laugh or cringe
I forbid you to sell your love songs
Sow your tinsel
Eat flowers and rockets
Minding your food to those animals
And give them all the heart and the rest of

no longer driving your kids to school
Teach them use the word SECRET
From

We have already reversed the multiplication tables
We go back over to the house of crime
We are tireless even in sleep
Stay for the said


Today's Around the World In

TOUR
of
WORLD

ELT Mesens

- http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/E._L._T._Mesens









Creed I believe in man, this shit
I believe in man, this manure,
This quicksand, this dead water.

I believe in the man, twisted,
This bladder vanity.
I believe in man, this ointment
This bell, this feather in the wind,
This firebrand, this search-shit.
I believe in man, blood-licking.

Despite everything he could do
In fatal and irreparable. I believe in him

For the safety of his hand,
For his taste of freedom,
For the game of fantasy.

For his vertigo before the star, I believe in him

For the salt of his friendship,
For water from his eyes, for his laughter,
For momentum and weaknesses.

I think forever For
him a hand that was stretched.
For a look that was offered.
And first and foremost
For the simple home of a shepherd.


Lucien Jacques (from "Poetic Anthology "-Editions Les Cahiers de l'Artisan)

- http://amislucienjacques.monsite-orange.fr/







On the night survivor


learn very slowly to live open
bury the human face as gangrene gold
and I dropped shards of flesh in the sun
forgotten men unnecessary

the night surviving men are contagious
ago guns heavier than shoulders
I saw snow falling gray moths
excised and the mother's body under the trees

but finally when the bark will have mercy Tree
blind when the birds sing still
waves reach to homes burning

then we will go alone in our clothes
stone naked women under their skin
dawn light up and go among you as a crime which amounts

Tristan Cabral


- http://poesiedanger.blogspot.com/search/label/Tristan% 20Cabral
- http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x4n4ui_tristan-cabral_creation





Property division

thieves watch the continents


booty but beware we keep the rest the rest

the star of the shepherd's song from

Lane and silence all primers

all beds nap
and the printed page and the dahlia flowered
portraits guitar
wind loaded with thorns where roses are gearing
the source in the pre
wing
to scatter throughout the water glass to that memory

bare sand geography
our forests
where
lose your commandments and the public and our joint projects
many palaces built from the shadows of our
not against you
you false acrobats
the real bosses of banks
wrestlers showmen of metaphysics
you and your world where swagger
where trime
where we bullied
your world backwards to reverse
to pour in through the
will
as the exploitation of man by man

Roger Bordier

- http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roger_Bordier








therefore
freedom means freedom
Afghan pain means pain
Jewish freedom means
pain pain near East
Argentine Chilean Polish Korean
pain pain black
I mean: freedom
means instead of pain

but I would rather
freedom means need to say
necessary rights and human liberty
stress
states rights just make
verifiable: it will mean
calving of killing
setting fire to the machine which

escort and changes in the warm terror declaration
rights

I mean freedom to found yet


; Jean-Pierre Faye

- http://www.cipmarseille.com/auteur_fiche.php?id=1549








TOMB FOR NEW YORK (excerpt)

Spray you, statues of liberties, nails driven into the breast with a wisdom that mimics the wisdom of roses. From the East wind blows again, tears tents and skyscrapers. Write two wings: an alphabet

second rises on the slopes of the West and the sun is the son of a tree planted in the garden of Al-Quds. Thus j'attise my flame. I begin, shapes and defined:

New York woman whose straw bed is rocking the vacuum in vacuum.

And now the ceiling is disintegrating: every word is a sign of falling, movement is shovel or hoe. Right and left, bodies that would change the love, the look, sound, smell, touch and change itself, opens a time portal, improvise and break the remaining hours, pleasure, poetry, morals, thirst, say, silence, and cancel the locks.

I seduce Beirut and its sisters, the capital.

They jump out of bed and shut the doors behind them from memory. They approach and hang with my poems, swaying gently. The pick for the bar, flowers for the window, and flames, history of bolts!

I said I seduced Beirut.
"Seeking the action, the floor is dead," say others.

call because your dead languages have waived the usual verb for that of mimicry. Speech? Do you see the flame? Then write. I say "write" I'm not "act out" or "copy it". Write. Ocean to the Gulf, I hear no tongue, I do not read a word. I hear that noise. I see no flame thrower.

call the lighter things. Everything is contained in it. The action is instant and direction, the floor is all directions, the whole time. I call hand and the hand is a dream.

I find you, O fire, my capital
I find you, poetry!

I seduce Beirut. She is and I clothe. As we wander the shelves and ask who reads, who sees? The Phantom for Dayan, and oil runs to his destination. God was right and Mao was right: "The weapons are a factor of great importance in the war, but not the decisive factor. It is man, not weapons, that is the decisive factor "and there is neither victory nor defeat final.

I repeated these sentences and maxims, as do the Arabs, wandering in Wall Street, where flowing rivers of gold of all shades from their remote sources. And I saw among them the rivers Arab carting millions of corpses, victims and offerings to the idol, and among the victims of the sailors who were laughing as they raced along the Chrysler Building to go back to basics then. Thus

j'attise my flame.

We live in the din black so that our lungs fill with air of history. We climb into eyes as black barricaded cemeteries to overcome the eclipse. We travel in black head to escort the sun future.

Adonis
(excerpt from "Tomb for New York " - translated by Anne Wade Minkowski - Sindbad Publishing)

- http://fr.wikipedia.org / wiki / Adonis_ (poet)






Dreams torn

to those St. Bernard


Those who are exiled to the confines
what did they do with their lives
what have they done with their memory
what have they done with the hope
that burned in the path of their veins?

What despair, what injury
the men have enrolled in their flesh
so they are silent and
and be silent in too obscurely
the endless echo of their dreams torn

; Bernard Mazo
(extract of "In Cold deadly exile " Rougerie-Publishing-)


- Spring poets









SUCH TO RATS, COCKROACHES ...


like rats, cockroaches
We reproduce at infinite speed
Hardly do you have the time
To kill a poet than a hundred others arise

The first five will be tens
consensual. Nothing to fear from them They sing
birds
flowers, landscapes and even poetry

The forty following will
Armed with rhymes and poor image in tatters
Their childish annonas Do
will shake your lofty pedestals

Of the ten who remain
one, maybe two left their mark
Those who cross their path
Your punishment is that you did not know which

A month or maybe a century
successor to his death a revolutionary
You will open heart
shooting at its
rhymes and anger

If you came to mind
From burning on the public square all poets

A new generation had already emerged before the first flame

Who knows some spoilsport
Might even exhume the words of your victims
And their abrasive power
Staying alive despite the weather and dust

I am alone and yet
I tell you that you are surrounded by my words Your power
I limited myself
est while carrying the germ toutes les cosmogonies! Pascal Perrot



- http://www.brouillons-de-culture.fr/
- http://insurrectionpoetique.mabulle.com/

South Park Ipod Online

Alborada

Goodbye - said the barefoot voice
pain Tired of having your crying baby herbs
to bury his memories
And sudden resurrection
has no face but not an oil canvas stalking. Love music theory
unexplored body magnolias
And your skin is a goldfinch.
pain is invincible love, it is no longer torment
melody but renamed
love the world.

-------------------------------

Point du jour

Adieu - douleur dit d'une voix the
déchaussée Fatiguée of souffre, elle ses Boit Pleurs
Ensevelit parmi ses souvenirs et les herbes
, Soudaine résurrection, elle n'a pas de face
guette N'est qu'un qui l'huile toile . L'amour
solf his body undiscovered
And Magnolias of her skin are goldfinches.
Pain is invincible love,
It is no longer torment but melody
Love renames the world.

In " 0rage (Ed. BOD, 2010)

***

Meeting with poetic Cristina Castello , Argentine poet, on the occasion of the publication of his art book Shadow / Sombra
On Monday, December 6, 2010 at 18:30

Shadow / Sombra is published by Editions frames, designed to from two poems by Cristina Castello, enhanced three original prints of the poet, engraver and printmaker Gerard Truilhas.
The evening will be hosted by Pascal Perrot (Poet, writer, performer and art critic).
At this meeting, Cristina Castello will read poems Shadow / Sombra, book translated from English-Argentina by Pedro Vianna . Poets and comedians who will accompany his poems say appeared in various poetry magazines ( Passage ink , Other Voice, The Citadels , As poetry , Women of the Earth , The Notebooks Eucharis ...)

at the House of Latin America
217, boulevard Saint-Germain PARIS VII
Metro: Solferino / Rue Bac
RER: Musée d'Orsay
BUS: 63, 68, 69, 73, 83, 84, 94

Shadow / Sombra

Cristina CASTELLO - Gerard Truilhas

41 copies on Arches, signed and numbered with 3 engravings by Gerard Truilhas (size: 25 x 18.5 cm at -32 pages in Italian sheets) .- Frames Publishing, 2010

Order: HERE

At the end of the evening, the poet André Chenet present the poetry journal " Other Voice" which he founded in 2004. Cristina Castello read his poems published in the latest issue.

Links:
- http://www.cristinacastello.com/
- http://dfpagesperso-orange.fr/trames1.html (Editions Frames)
- http://www.brouillons-de-culture
- http://les-risques-du-journalisme.over-blog.com/article-ombre-livre-d-art-cristina-castello-l- console-Love-perhaps-of-both-of-shadow-60879267.html

Biorad Gradient Temperature Calculator

Resist the night (2)

From "The language is my country," the latest book Jean-Marc Lafreniere :


Language is my country

Language is my country. I die and I saw each phrase.
Dead wood in the fireplace brings to life the flame. Just one word to open a door. Just a poem to cheer. Just a pattern in the filings of the magnet and the snow crystals to find his way. Just a kiss to erase the hate. Just an insect in the desert to find the oasis. Just a look in the middle of the night find the light. The sky is emerging on a feather, the ocean on a wave. Just a stone the size of a fingernail to bring the River.

Language is my country. Just a flute from the sounds of strings to find hope. Color slide under the crepe of mourning. Just smile at the pariah of the street. His heart beats faster as its share of rags. Just a simple flapping wings to reach the sky, a look, a word, a simple piece of bread, a glass of water on the table. Just a corner chair for hapiness. Alternately you the dowser, the shepherd, the orchard. Just a bee to find the apple. Just a crack to cross the wall, dress for rain weather the storm.

Language is my country. I have no use for a name, role, status. I mixed the blood of animals, dew days, the desert sand, the wings of birds, the bark of trees, the sunshine. It only takes one punch to contain his rage, a flower to laugh. Just a look to see the light on the paintings of painters. I seek goodness, beauty, modesty. I am mixed with leaves beset with weeds and laughter of children. Half the time I'm like the wave of the sea, the ebb tide, the undertow of words. Just a hug to complete the hand.

Language is my country. I do not care about boundaries, codes, a costume. The heart of blue cloth dress my word. I do not need a code, a salary, a goal. I sign the path name of my steps. Lost in the world I found my way among the vowels. I found the kernel in the hull of the words, the source of the page. When the light flickers, I rekindled a sentence. I open the door to the task of love to the beats of the heart, the garden pictures. Just one flower to find pollen.

Language is my country. Words can laugh and cry. They do not retain the lessons of the school but the wounds of time, large and small joys, the caress of fingers, the bite of flowers. They can not count but sometimes sing. They pick up the sun on the edge of the trees. They throw on the world a hint of justice, a spark, fire, pieces of life that are lacking. They look for the trees we picked fruit. The urge to write comes to me without knowing why.

Language is my country. I pick up the pencil something that glitters, pearl, crystal shard, a little bit of rain. What distinguishes sentences, vowels are the laundry, the jingling syllables. When I say infinity, I have only six letters to define the space. In the kitchen of the words, there is always a chair where nobody sits. That's where I write. When the mouth is more than a poorly extinguished cigarette butt, just a poem into a volcano. When the world is limited to the horizon of the eyes, the mouth enlarges infinite paths. The language of saliva glues together the broken floor.

***

I love you always already

Your smile is like water on sand too hot. In the churches of my dream, your breasts have replaced the saints. There are words that mix with the air, your pictures pollinate my eyes. You arrive in the heart of me, in this target explodes in me when the abyss. The wind rises and the sea caressing rain heightens the foliage. My hand is no longer blind. His lifeline to sprout again. Once, long before being born, I loved you already. I offer prayers to the infinite world.

It's always a miracle when two bodies are mixed and along the absolute. The arms are shelter which protects the heart. Behind every word, every step, every word I speak to you. The lower image is a small plant that I water for you. If my arms are too short, j'enlacerai words either side of you. If time is too long, pluck day on the calendar. Where the waves stop, I'll sand. I'd hill at the end of the valley. I would cloud the horizon beyond. I undress in my sentences to sleep with you.

I've never tasted my flavor before you. You taste my word. My two hands salute you. They cover each finger a bundle of hugs. My you extend both arms. Your eyes open for me new pictures. Your name is for me the meaning of life. I love you always have.

(Ed. THREE-PISTOLES, 2010)

Jean-Marc Lafreniere & Andre Chenet

in Nice October 21, 2010

(Photo: Cristina Castello )

3 poems Jean-Marc Lafreniere expressed by the author at the bookstore Draft Culture "Wilson place in Nice, France, October 23, 2010:

- http://www.youtube.com / watch? v =- ExLPnft8lo & feature = related

Some works of La Frenière : "The Other side " "Because ", " Manquablement" , Paths to editions of the pen, Nice, France.
Fire haunts me, The Art Editions Port, Three Rivers

See also the website of Paths Pen :

- http://editionscheminsdeplume.over-blog.com/

Lazy Cakes Relaxation Brownies

Resist the night (1) Exile

Jean-Marc La Frenière was born in 1949 in Beloeil and writing ever since. It was first discovered in France by Editions Chemins de plume finally to be published in Quebec by Editions Sabord The Art of Three Rivers in 2010. His book of poetic prose Fire haunts me is a pure delight which earned him the price of the book fair Three Rivers in 2010 (vote up).
Jean-Marc Lafreniere is a major voice in Quebec. He lives in St. Ferdinand de Halifax in the Bois-Francs where he writes every day, straight ahead, never read.







Paths Publishing Plume us part Nice part of the passage of Quebec Jean-Marc Lafreniere. This poet provider of raw energy, revealed in France by Editions Plume Paths who published his first three books of prose poetry "The other side ", "Because " and " Manquablement ", this year received the honorary New Voices Prize in Literature in Canada for his book: "A fire haunts me ", published by Editions Art scuttle it. Plume Paths Publishing are pleased to honor him by radio, television, signatures and lectures on his work before he left for Paris. You will find below the invitation to benefits which may be spent:

Thursday 2I October 2010 to 17 h at 30 the Library Louis Nucera , (1, avenue Saint Jean-Baptiste - 06364 Nice)
Jean-Marc Lafreniere , Price New Voices in Literature 2010 to Canada, will present his work


Thursday 2I October 2010 to 20 h at 30 Baha'i Center (24, Rue Maréchal Joffre - Nice)
Literary meeting Franco-Québécoise
Jean-Marc Lafreniere talk about his work and answer questions from the public
presentation followed by a poetry open mic with friends poets
Musical accompaniment and rustic snack
Free admission

Saturday, October 23 at 15h , Book " Draft Culture (23 rue Hotel des Postes - Nice)
Victor Varjac author receives Quebec pa ssage in France

Information: 04 92 09 89 22

" When I'm not writing, I like a hollow stomach, an ear that will not listen, an eye that closes the window. The sentences are transformed into roads, streams, mountains. I touch the end of the world on the tip of a pencil. I walk in the ditches like a rock in front of beef. I left the highway to gravel roads, supermarkets for trout streams, the studded tracks for crawler-haired, parking meters for the deer parks. I tune the dew in the early hours of the morning. I listen to his infinite ranges in water, mourning doves make circles in the air, clouds paint the rainbow sky. We must treat the trees as you touch the violin, put flowers in pots away merchants, keeping sheep for the night, dreaming for the day, honey for the heart, words of love for everyone. " Jean-Marc Lafreniere in" The Language is my country "(Éditions Trois-Pistoles, 2010)

Bits by Jean-Michel Sananès , editor Jean-Marc Lafreniere France (Publishing Pathways Feathers, Nice):

Messiah is a credit card

The world calls us to shiner his coffin. The worst problem is the money man is his gods. The real faith does not need a church. The minarets and steeples subjugate believers. While the clergy all Franco praises of the world, the Pope repudiated the red priests in South America. He who loves does not need to fuss or salaams, face turned towards Mecca, worn out knees on a prie-dieu. When a sower spit in our hands, the perspiration is his only prayer to the future harvest. In a world of profit, the goodness of man became a vice. You're too good. You're too hottie. You think too much to others. The man prefers his car to his dog, his cell phone to the neighbor, the pub in reality, the names of actors and effects Special to the film's story and his hockey game to the voice of children. The old wall of the world is smeared posters. Poverty is hidden behind the neon. Who is right? Who is fake? All slogans cancel out in the spray of waves. The blood on the screens anesthesia shame. Our brothers are killing each other
prayers and money. The Blackshirts return disguised as bankers, cash for Fuhrer. The smile, the briefcase on his arm, they sold the corpses and spit on the heart. Hatred unites the taste of profit. People slaughter each other in beliefs contrary. Each currency exchange us away for life. Each prophet howling killing his neighbor. Neither Visa nor MasterCard! Neither Allah nor Vishna! Or Euro or Dollar! Neither arm of the past nor do feed kiss the sky hope. Time is running today. Even despair birth by Caesarean section. The souls that we lost under the skin. The sentences are written on the finest sand. It is not enough to remove the nails from the hands of a crucified for an angel appears. Simply extending a hand to other hands, a palm extended to accommodate the wind, pollen, rain, a small child's finger heals the night, a voice in the silence declaring his love.

Blood no longer knows the way to the heart. Like little Tom Thumb, fingers memory lets out crumbs. The holy water is found at the end of the sewer. A rat in a church is the only pray. Men pretend to talk to the statues. The capital murder. His work is never that laziness of the heart. Man is more than a monkey driving a car. Would it be possible to once again become human? I am looking for a file in a roll to escape the vacuum. I will remain faithful to the dead wood, flesh, earth, stars. I defend against the infinity banknotes. I plug the holes with soft words. I serve as poetry serves the soup. I set the instruments in the light shade. I crush the seeds in the bottom of the vowels. I pull the spark of a handful of ashes. A fork moves me to the equal of a loaf. I expect something or someone in ink on the page. A question arises or not, just no response to the child. I want a grammar where the verb does not live conditional. I do not expect that the buds are drunk, that the branches are crazy, the leaves are host to talk to birds. They throw on their top flight of small grains that bloom in heaven. My heart took refuge among the angels and chickadees, dahlias and roses. Love the lips and anger in the guts, I climb on the words to capture lightning in a mess of shadows.

In the course of the creek

Snow apple trees soaking the valley. Forgetting his stones, his marbles, his treasure, the child continues to eye the flight of a butterfly. It's not like the miser weighting its not filling with pockets. Feet light wind caressing the grass. The river flows into the sea, carrying her death. I walk on the shore where each tree is a salvation. The essence of the experience ignores appearances. The gods are dead under the weight of the coins. The language of passion is reduced to nonsense letters on the heart. Politicians, shady businessmen, bradeurs countries, snuffers of hope, people of ill-gotten share the world. We are here to kneel before the stock prices, the altarpiece of banks in prayer TTY. Indifferent to the things of commerce, I base my speech on the course of streams, the balance of the rain water with its figures, grammar trees combining roots. I do not care profits, poverty is a way of life. What you lose in foil enriched goodness.

The history of man has written on the blade of a knife, the butt of a gun, a tear of a child, a drop of blood. The world is shrinking at the speed of the aircraft but the slow turtle lends even a soul. What strange animals have become men. I contemplate a flower in the middle of the pack. I listen to a song bird amid the din. Stretch the words in the sentence to see the stars. Tenderness continues to dissipate overnight. Before learning how to decipher the silence, I endured the noise. I leave little pieces of paper flowers on the pavement. The clouds burst into tears for the thirsty flowers. The birds sing for their brothers the trees. The forest is reflected in the brilliance of a leaf. Hunger gives his bread, cold clothes. But the men, their pupils blinded by the brightness of the dollar, does not see babies buried under the ruins. They faded dream of the old Marx and denied their souls. Childhood changed during the night of the objects. The sound of tills replaced Mozart. But there are other men who believe in goodness. They say fools, poets, dreamers, dreamers, when they want to hand the embers of survival. They bring a violin to cities without music, peace, salt words, the beauty of a star among the black snow.

Three poems chosen by Andre Chenet :

We were all stolen

We were all stolen
Treasure Island for a false map
skin animals for mirrors toc,
river water and the bark of trees for poles and
paper
the peace pipe for water that crazy,
soul every thing for a God crucified.

We were all stolen
our language, our songs and the meaning of dreams
for false promises and smoke screens,
our salmon rivers and our bark canoes,
the race for hares rabbits battery,
land that is all for the plots of evil,
gold fever for paper currency,
sweetgrass for hints of petrol.

We were all stolen
crystals of snow for stars glass
slow speed wood iron bed
grass and leaves for a hospital bed,
plants that cure for a morphine pump,
colors for the face of Rimmel toxic odors
the book for a single missal.

We were all stolen
smoke signals for a postcard,
heat of fire to electricity,
the key of dreams for a keyring
our memory, our children, our ancestors.
everything is alive.

horns burst eardrum and deer
Huskies lose in the sense of smell.
In the dark night of the white men
even our shadows are lamps.
I say this without hatred as they strip her heart.
My hand looking for a hand that is not a glove.

I listen to the first sounds of the world,
the call of the wolves and the opening buds.
My soul takes the form of everything I see,
the flight of a bird, the tips of tall grass, the circle of teepees
open to infinity.

I do not expect what ends. I'm still waiting
what begins.
I do not want a bridge, but teach you to swim.

Robin and ash

A Rose in the ashes

distributes its fragrance.
A source in the stone

hints at his lips.
A shadow in the night

preserves its light.
One dead in his grave

Finds its cradle.

In a hole of hope
A white bird busy
To hide her eggs.

The Labour

I live on credit
on the arm on the love
my table of contents available to the four winds

the dream always
stretched above his strength and soul

clambering over its means

When I die in the hole
without a sub without a dime
I wear my life like a butt
misery
plowing light

Sources:
- http://lafreniere.over-blog. net /
- http://editionscheminsdeplume.over-blog.com/
- http://chevalfou.over-blog.net/
- http://francais.agonia.net/index. php/author/0011087/Jean-Marc% 20The% 20Freniere # bio

Resumes In Manual Testing For Freshers

of poetry

Excerpts from "Exile of Poetry" (2010), unpublished collection of Andre Chenet :



Before sleeping

There are no poets
the ball rolling
little suns
within words

a concentrated space
returns and our silences

truth is that all that questions?


humans struggling to push to grow
daylight

the blind as night
makes them fearful loneliness


edge of death
loneliness
fairy injured

there is no
poets in books or magic

no return of love





; I tell you


I tell you from inside my lip on the edge
blood
I tell you

with filaments and bits of fire
I told you
sacraments
creating
I tell you

beats every moment I tell you

fork winds
language lovers
I tell you what just

far and dear to my heart I tell you

the following dreams
crimes
time I say something
insatiable
of oblivion and sand
I tell you
Islands
ephemeral words of yesterday
I tell you
stammering
the white nights of my
I tell you what

ends and what begins
I
say that almost nothing
of syllables and sounds





The immortal

Tell me the heart and silence

I came to sing
the joy and beauty

your arms wet your hands and your legs
love in the tall grass
I came to you in
uncrossing all
paths through my voice
your eyes saw my pain
already you light up my poems
I came from a country that does violence

where everyone carries his cross
dark beliefs
I spent borders
bristling
suffering Tell me life and embrace infinite

his music and his breath
I came to sing love
and fragility
your mouth red spring
your breasts with salt and equinoxes
and immortality.





Memories of legendary times

A Toothy
the embers of an alphabet disappeared
o Fire
fruit that split to the goddesses
falcon heads

ancient times where we danced naked among the myriad

spiral of the Milky Way
time initiations
virile and solstices

wild feasts when we went to places where nocturnal
reborn
light on the banks of sacred rivers
we climbed from
Finistères
paths through
shifting sands and waves of dream in these times
haloed mystery
peoples obscure signs tattooed purple
Us Currencies
on the wire with
water snakes of the infinite
we have not forgotten how to speak the language
green trees
nor the mockingbirds and
wind made us wings to fly the hippogriff

magnetic storms at this time of moons
prophecies and our wives had huge eyes shone like
where a constellation of mother of pearl beads
creating





Passwords Cristina
Read these suns
fluctuating
on edge
where foraging birds fairy


break any
gap between us and our breaths
with perfumes rare
of loneliness panting


vermilion seal the pact of our eyes
lost wax on our ardent
blinding Hugs

accompany life
to nest at night and we

off in a whirlwind of crazy stars.





The fire of desire

I lived for Sundays sad
tocsins of purple and stormy nights
How to distinguish outside and in? The hem
sleep relaxes
pass between my lips where silences
I have no reason to exist if the world withers
ignorance
I should wander freely through
groves and
fields of country as the seasons turn
I age my desires are rain or shine
age of love, where hordes quench their thirst of life
Only the ashes which the fire resistant bites.





Litteris

We will open new

galaxies at the forefront of our poems

We will open our exiles to
nightlife lights of the earth We will open

what dreams
seal in the enclosures of reason

We will open gestures of prophets
countries destroyed

We will open on the cliffs of gypsum
a road height desires

We will open fire which makes wood
and that water does not tell us

We will discover the major issues
in our deepest sleep

All literature is a theater of signs
between what is thought and accomplished.





Psalm

He does not know that lightning breath
that sticks to the glass like an old dream

within reach Morning


He listens more than stone cold
when you took the time
and he no longer understands

It crosses
things and uses few words to achieve this share

forgetting that swells

It changes the silence in a psalm
absence
and burns to the eyes
distant fires.


Andre Chenet