Some poems written on the spot/

Sète, Place du Pouffre, 2021







 

Hands

Originally there are
five invitations
to emancipate Man
to find the fire
At the origin
there is the factory
the tool brought
by the pulsating imprint
the hand.
Dexterity adopted
in a thousand-year-old silence
even before language
the hand.
Belonging to the fist
to the caresses
and the planes of victory
the hand that slaps
the hand that bleeds
the hand that works
that kneads that draws
the hand of insoluble evidence
and interactions with the present.







 

Art as a weapon

Inventing to roar
his rattle to roar his verve
the one who creates, transfuge of action,
lets the tremor of his work
of his work on the columns
of archaic temples.

Art as a weapon
with the detonation of
a screaming tip
of the shame of doing
and not really doing.

What can be saved from these eloquences
from these cookie-cutter chamades
from these cantonades of thought
what will survive
the carnage of the shadows to come?

Not us.
Not us, of course,
but the wave of the gaze
driven by courage,
it is probable.

There are inaudible imprints
delicate
and offerings that we distil
with our jousts.

To die to die,
choose your weapon.







 

Mediterranean

Morte-née
the patrol of salt drinkers
sketches a unanimous boat.

Hopes hooked to the anchor of the kneecaps
it is absolute and with rage
that the waters flood them.

Of absolute courage
that the eyes bring back
their peace





 

 

Lonely walk

Friendly the first time
as the first footprint of soil
the first breath of cold, dry air
into my lung
comely with that time
I get excited



that the whiteness of silence



forgets its own name.