ces livres sans intérêt | these boring books
— Rimbaud Enfance | Childhood

It is an old theme | and worse | an old intention | The paradigm is worn | the attitudes forced | it is like exhausting rehearsals for a play everyone knows will never be | performed | or having to wait for the airliner | to fall out of the sky once | the engines have failed and the tail | separated | Naturally, there is a familiar excuse | to resist the invitation | to the boring party | The wattled crones and blotched studs of vampiric | flowers | shoot themselves | into display | The revival, the renewal, the revolution | is same old same old, too | incontinent | flabby | senile youths | fuck up their lives in routine fashion | unable to master the toxic | awareness of their elders | Pages it is a weight | to turn | the self-destructive hussar in dolman, shako and pelisse | bears a ponderous general’s message | in precise detail | across the serene indifference of a stream | incising itself | bright and clear | into a busky corner of some princess’s land | fudges and mushrooms and falters | into specifics of an older theme | a more ancient | intention | and — more ancient still — a prehistoric | distraction | dice carved from predators’ bones | cards with jesters and slyboots on | or hanged criminals | possibly | innocent of a venerable crime, but nevertheless… | Paper boats | mush slowly on the lake, and the lake’s | calm omnivorous surface | reflects the clouds with their Zen | aloofness and the rootlessness | of passing planes | inflected on their journeys | the ennui | is palpable | the fever, the fervour, the flavour | studied and full of references | to famous maladies and malaises | to reinforce the value of their modus | operandi | their traditional decline | palls to the connoisseur | to the naive | gold-rushers in their teens or even in | their ideals | springs up once more to feed in | the sterile bees to Potsdam and to Bethlehem…

Dying is an old game, said Dino | Everyone’s into it | Living is the new x | Pulling on your boots for a long walk | once Bagratian has okayed it | Coming unexpectedly to the clearing | the dead children with their frock coats and gowns and garters and perukes and | ostrich feathers | and they had played everyone | as young aristocrats | turned to worship | the intimate | blade of the guillotine | Kick their heads and bump the mushrooms | and decide where to go | Are you coming, Dino?

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

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