Tuesday, December 14, 2010

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


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
disconcerting at first second era imaginary
where I live already for thirty-nine years

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

And maybe tomorrow

grenade still in his voice called saltpeter
torn by

plates to our bodies

The clocks dynamite
fake teeth
languages cross

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

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

s tooth and the hole of hatred

And maybe
bivouac above the city with our vines

Is it work in the underground
scarves Recognition

Then the assault armor
words copper

Every Season
each dog in

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 ?


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
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


Brigade repair the fabric of the citizens subject
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
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
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
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
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

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!
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

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

Me, by striking the flint on the night
the wounded heart of love I
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

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


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