Monday, April 12, 2010

Car Sales Coverletter

On the threshold of Desirade


" But, before, in swine turds
fries Let these languages envious!
" Francois Villon

I am a bit old fashioned, antediluvian, I
have nothing to prove
I dream, dream too much,
spends a lot of time dreaming
and this may wring
calms me, eases my pain

and these are my daydreams
life denser

J 'I chose - finally chosen -
to be on the side of indigent

not by impotence - as I have long believed -
Not even out of spite, especially not by disgust

Only Hungry
able to live the dream awake

justice as I see it is

behave as proof that human beings have some capacity

to recognize each other
ie never

they profane the temple of love that builds

collectively in the heart all

I open fire as my friend shouted Tristan
Fou d'Aigues-Mortes
who takes the time to pull up his suspenders

before shoot on sight

I saw it burn,
the day of the year 2008, a city in southern

by lighting candles
a Christmas tree is too dry
he had found on a sidewalk
him as he dreams
in restoring order with
a great sense of indiscipline

in this world where too dry
candles Christmas
bleed instead of singing

Yesterday I went up and sang the current

Green River has its source in a clearing

Sitting on a rock in the midst of turbulent waters
I I am a health
again while I gazed
like a Templar returning from the Holy Land
naiads voluptuous nude
surprises among the reeds

They grew frightened cries of

I'm kind of under the altar a rain
false note lyric a cripple

I wear the black booty of the sun on my back
and write with my voice
one that imposes on me and my lonely, heartbreaking voice

The voice that comes from land of the dead suffering in
miles violence
She writhes like a creeper
until I
silence fierce nebulae

I wear
children dead in the depths of the night

Fairy henbane
floods me a sap violet

I saw burning

many of my friends at the stake


Shrapnel tore me
diamond prospects in

of infinity

I do
and n love it
that beauty inspires me

feats of strength
an ongoing challenge in the middle

Rose des Vents
whose hair swirls like a heavenly
Gulf Stream Sandy
above sea

large desert locusts
and I am damned to find a god

I lived like a recluse

lepers on the threshold of paradise

I stole the key of heaven before returning

alive in the body of a minstrel

I speak now
a burning
from which
and I'd better shut up -
hell is child's play
playing to scare
by goofing
in a distorting mirror

I'm an easy target if the desire inflames

I have the wings of distant
to travel outside of myself I write

despite emergency
that populate my loneliness I write

withstand the agony and the fervor to find some brothers and sisters

in a chaos of humanity
tiny demons

hidden behind swollen ass of
a goose that lays golden eggs
I see these demons burst
a Pandora's box
they make one of our newspapers and
pay on our head
firms Vanities

I am a crook
ie a poet
a matador moods
without a romantic melancholy
a mutant in the vicinity of Orion

I know clover ermine gull

I know the storm and as I lie down flat lion

eyes half-closed
until calm returns

I can do
face the faceless angel

disfigures me two shots and a few puzzles

knife in the back

I'm a raving prophet
pressed the chrome counter
a neighborhood bar
that looks without flinching
the future in a steaming cup of black coffee

A man with few illusions
whose heroism consists
a follow-up
the stories he tells to do
Be silent, like an idiot

This man takes no thought for tranquilizers

man hard
secrets that take the form of poems
to perish a little less
to bottom before re
to "air free "

Imagination is an Aladdin's lamp
on the path of truth and madness

A lamp that illuminates not in daylight
residents risky night

These do
will show gaps between moments Good

They called Arthur Rimbaud and Antonin Artaud
and seek neither fame nor fortune

They deliver the words that kill

spells to break the "charms" They

Fran├žois Villon called
and Isidore Ducasse,
before entering the legend, they are all
Raiders Fire
horrible workers
visionaries, perjury or

They called or
not they spend in our minds
such volcanoes spewing
throwing embers

be a poet is not afraid
flowing into the rapids of the existence

fingerprint is read messages from the unseen heart of a
lost continent

is to discover a word
changing the words of the tribe into a reality
where each beat of blood, every gesture reveals
deep emotion
a tremor of the universe that could be
the origin of this "Mouth shadow "
talking about the Father Hugo
and Baudelaire evoked
beside the tomb

I'm just a brother of the albatross,
I have a hole in the chest

The song of a cricket as much as a marvel
industrial landscape under snow
or a juxtaposition of colors
in a Flemish painting and post-modern

I do not find myself writing these lines wobbly
I rediscovered that in other times

It could be that I stay on my hunger
at the moment to make my last breath

I have nothing to confess
if not a wild joy of living
overflowing pain and doubts ...

Andre Chenet
La Colle s / Loup, on 12/04/2010


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