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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Andre Chenet (Unpublished)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/