Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Where To Order A Red Velvet Cake In Toronto

weather is a poet whose poetry

Dom wrote Corriera songs for young and poems for children. He rhymes the weather with the child and it is always the man for him is not yet out of the woods where fabulous Francois Villon sneers with Arthur Rimbaud despairs humans. Thus man is still an idea that very few of us agree. Fortunately (fortunatly), there are women for honor and lift our hearts above shattered. Like most major misogynist, Dom Corriera falls very often worship in the manner of a saint astray without god nor master. Defoliating unrepentant, he would be able to rob the dead to go below the smell of a corolla of layered petticoats. Moreover, each woman will change does not clump of carnations, daisies, roses or lilies in his writing of lovesick? The names of legendary heroines illuminate its firmament. By vagabond noble and proud, he knows the madness of nights that extend up the ecstasy of morning " in the dew of the rut . By itself, it forms a band in turn organized or disorganized depending on the mood and temperature of the moment. He composed more than he writes and goes singing jingles " the proper wind whistling " to make life more beautiful, eternal ... Amateur excellent local wines, much like a jeering Jehan Rictus or Gaston Cost , it impels us in painfully faithful friendship of his intoxication. Listen to him simply sing and say the spells of freedom and rebellion elected idiots on the knees of Beauty:

ONZAIN carmagnolesque

There was an awful winter
Days full of slobs
misery visited upon us poor devils Sandwiches
three euros fifty
Sodas, hot drinks and enjoy freedom
From our formula
Cheques, cash, credit cards accepted
Everywhere, everywhere
spiders invading the stomach Cities
kindergarten where they shouted
Pan, you're dead, lying still!

brainless by destiny
Humanity exactly like we were idiots
Eight percent richer by themselves and
Eight billion disreputable
And retired at twenty, it would be when? Both
resign first wail
Find a job and ensure
enough free time to wank
Everywhere, everywhere viewpoints
In a sky so black with no hallways, no Milky Way

far as I am myself bathed
A water fountain dark
A dirty trick pheromones
Go all drive by Simone
Who knows who you eaten
Look no smallpox
will come in time, bad luck awaits you
Everywhere everywhere kites
cheer fires Midsummer
Where one burns Carnival, Big Business

Then came the summer, going to war
Making raid white canes
bellowing death every Sunday
were made preparing our rags, our banners
On the pyre of utopian dreams Abandoning
Everywhere, everywhere, our ruins, remains our
gleamed in the eye of Argameddon
Present arms, infantry-citizens
Sink the pasodoble Democratic
Hi come on the threshold of your death.
Dom Corriera / Marseille / June 2010

Hill (enigma syllabic)

Saul and dripping from the terrors of childhood, the ectoplasm of the man climbed the hill illunée. Road at night when unpredictable rain listen to jingle in the branches. With each drop one to one and each offering a sound, a syllable to sing, ectoplasm walking, mumbling. And staggers, gesticulating with great strides, not wrong, welcoming the news that death toads dressed in their Sunday best. He raises his arms toward the fluorescent cloud and speaks only to his mobile phone, seeking a name, one syllable. Cough, spits, still spell the name as if it were a magic formula. Forgotten now friends left the river barges that displayed gray heavy and impassive ducks. Forgotten bottles, laughs, forgotten aria staggering Coltrane and wines of all dresses, all mourning. Distraught, disheveled, ectoplasm climbs painfully on the back of the hill. Behind, beyond, is a Heritage Village and its cemetery. Cries, coughs, spits piss and his lungs, he's falling backwards into a ditch of nettles, imploring, hallucinating, the image that will never be near him, forever distant and silent. Neither the bloated moon, or the gravel along the path of faith will not retain the sweet sounds of these enigmatic syllables that haunt him. He feels the hill, which swells, breathing in his footsteps. Drunk and crazy oozing pity, he coughs, shouts, sings and weeps her face looked, half hidden by her hair at night. From heaven, his face still looks a shadow divided, torn. A voice so pure it pierces that face a constellation of tears ... he falls, slips, skids and flips on the cold earth of the hill panting. Enigma the voice of the breath caressing the curves of crystal fields, the hill that breathes like a woman's breast. Behind beyond, is a village childhood and innocence evaporated, the cemetery blooms missing. La-down, up, so powerful and so deep, a cryptic puzzle, a name that disappears beneath the clouds of torn sails gleaming through which both eyes shine cosmic suspended. Two planets are lustrous black and fierce desperate energy, that which is called "divine light". Imploded A look of love, a great clamor irradiating the Universal vault, unnecessary and serene. Falls, coughs, spits and piss and stumbles ectoplasm of man still rekindling his laptop and then turning it off in the fine mist and the moon May. Where are Coltrane and friends of the river slow? Bottles, glasses and laughter in battle ... You see that hill, which swells, breathing? She is a woman's breast lay on layers of oversight, a sleeper eternal image of a creed impossible to paradise unexplored syllable quivering desire. How long, you cherish the rain ricochets and tinkles cascading arpeggios in boiling liquid on your forehead. Tomb, staggers, shouts and despairs. An uncertain idea of man, under the eyelids where heavenly sleep, go out with the dawning day, the mysterious signs of dawn. Endless barking of childhood, early morning welcomes the barn. The shade dried human wends its way between the cords of wood, sits down and falls asleep by reciting his breviary, his endless enigma syllabic:
" Syllables cryptic
where shoes Sabbath
s 'spoil, spoil, spoil.

Dom Corriera , unpublished


Photo : Dom Corriera the banks of the Wolf by Andre Chenet


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