Camped out on the edge of the city | Waiting for a meteor

Rebels making inroads in the government’s positions | Post-graduate studies | I ran from the tear gas to my car

The wilderness was full of voices? | Yes, it was rammed with prophets, a huge crowd, like something out of Swift

Did the meteor fall? | It was something like a war of prophets, a great contestation, as if from Federico García Lorca

The rebels used child soldiers to spread terror through the provinces | They prophesied and prophesied, and it was a battle, to see whose prophecy would prevail | I thought the wilderness would be empty! Such a racket of frankincense and angels, truth and bliss | gods and names | It was like | something out of Evelyn Waugh, I could find no | peace…

Did you like your car? | Yes, it was a big sedan, the engine had been monstered up | it made this gurgling noise like | gangsters from the sixties or early | seventies | idling by the curb | waiting to make a hit

What did the meteor mean? | It is still | open to debate, or | its significance | is no longer worthy of | thought, it has gone | It depends

So you cut the anchors holding the boats of your moments in place, and watched the fragile craft… | drift off on the current, I was very tired | by now, you understand, and the latent | silence inside my words | had grown so onerous to me | I was frightened, it was a pressure

Did the meteor fall? | This is the meteor falling…

There was battle, an existence in which | people suffered, and the weak were punished, raped, murdered, there were abuses of power, there were pressing issues, you spoke of ochre and vermilion walls, quiet backwaters in tropical cities, the green of palm trees, the ripped canvas of the wind in a storm? | Yes, I became a prophet | Shall I tell you what will happen to the world? How our children will die? And if I did, what would you do? You don’t really believe anything…

Packing for a last journey | I took a last look round the department, the canteen, library | People think graves are solemn places, but they’re wrong, there’s plenty of laughter in a cemetery

Packing for a last journey | Yes, right inside the reader’s eyes | that would be the road I’d take | Quite secret, you realise, by night, no one would really notice | and even if they really noticed | the link to their heart was gone, the beautiful alarms | wouldn’t really go off | the messenger | would be shot from her horse | the bandits | would wear particularly | striking clothes | and their sabres, oh, how they would shine | in the cold moonlight, and when the snow fell again | curled flakes of it | like shavings from the plane of a crystal carpenter | would catch in the black fleeces of their Astrakahn collars

Inside the reader’s eyes, the road through the poplars? | Yes, in northern France, earlier in time, you follow?

How can this sadness be computed? What weight does it have? What others involve? | It is hard to calculate | a substance that connects | everything

Will you really become a prophet? | Isn’t everyone a prophet, only | some don’t recognise their own prophecy?

Buckling up the straps | zipping the bags with the razors and aftershave | Taking a copy of Turgenev | some poems by Mandelstam and Apollinaire | I have seen people die right before me, I thought what an amazing | privacy that event holds | like a collapsing mine, burying everything, but | right up until the very last | moment | the tunnels still hold open the web | to every point in a life, the record | of every mineral and ore, of each | return to the surface to witness once more | the banal miracle of breathable air

Holds open the mine of connection, in other words? | Late at night, trying to come to terms | with the strange tropical insects | the heat, the humidity | I was writing: We have become hermits | monks in our cells, nuns in our cloisters | the purity of our isolation, the interiority of our prayer | in every moment of exhibition | of status update | of photographs posted | in the glare of virtual suns | we cannot value our own lives | have no sense | of their reach | we cannot speak | we cannot know | I would like to die, alone, in the mountains | and my body never be found…

from the series bliss point (open-ended, 2012–present)