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.
