2. All the livelong night
The idea of a song, a song of before, telling of
A mysterious woman
A woman with a breast of whispered breath
Twenty leagues
River? Gold? Or
Unpossessed of herself
Oh god it was good (so they said) that you remain nameless
Cradled by the leaves
After years of fruitless wandering
Varman-Rosée the fuck
The horrible Varman-Rosée
An exiled princess
No she didn’t flee
The little hapless one
I’m a walking disaster wandering
Palms
Slaughtered
Ode to slowness
Ode to darkness
Hatred of power
All forms of it
Neither suffer nor exert it never
Lie listless and headless
With the beastly one-timer
With the beastly rain
Holed up with the foundlings
With the signless ones
With the borderless impenetrables
With the infant hoards who dream of giants
With their forceful prayers of impotence
With the circle of fertile oblivion
Far from cameras, from major narratives
From those who hide behind the castle gates
The immortals
Leave
Are consumed
Their tongues swallowed
Become real
All the livelong night.
Avine takes the old mule road
The hill is steep
The sun bakes his goddamn brains
He would like to mount the peak
He knows that there above, there, are the condors.
Archibald and the rectilinear unconscious
Two hundred amongst
Fold the shades
The incineration the jaws without territory
Laughed its rust
The same-old-free same (twixt two extraneous hugs)
There we go, the gin is going
Analgesic and Byzantium
I lay there a long time with the stupefied essential dog.
Thank you for the dawn
Forgive us our insufficiency.
I enter this glass.
One day, ha you’d almost think the voice saw: in the time of the dying people…
Mob riot improvised in the Snow quarter, early March, the slippery guy who fell just centimeters from the ankles of Varman-Rosée, in his thoughts, open face, closed face, face that closes, in that beautiful carelessness of his stilted march.
He goes to the gate (Varman-Rosée)
He climbs abord a paquebot bound for Argentina.

Traduction de © Samuel Reichert

Texte original de © Christophe Macquet