SimulacrumMichel Leiris (1925)

...Of one place in another, without interval.Raymond Lulle

Ash of agony

a man bursts forth

bestial lamp

Swirls the ingenious mystery riot

Mirror of eclipse upon the face.

Summit of centuries emanating from high wallsflows over the confines of liminal plantswhite break, some layer of cruelty

Unheard of slag fields embraces the balances round,fermenting, difficult course, to the storm's circle.The clock of leaves stammers(intoxicated solitude),invoking the fixed unfolding of appearances,binding crumbling death, lacerated by the knife

Beyond the outlines of plaguearisethe phosphorescent brambles of my limbs:supreme stratification of the birds tumult.

IMMOBILE SORCERY

Source of flavorsinfiltrates spatial domains,across the foam gust,thoughtless flagstone.

The deaf trace diminishes,springs forth from clever myths (new pupils),the calm roams around the original fogs,

lucid vault where the role of shedding statuesfloats in stone armor:sign of vegetal meanderings and of eternal masts.

Wheel of provisional gestures,dominated by the obscure power of partitions,eliminates the derisory game,deathly dial of entrails.

The wheel of writing winds the landscape delirium(harvest-battles).The subterranean images coupled with echoesbreak the chains of morning:

ultimate vestige of temporal rumorswith valleys of creatures,

tranquil husk in haymaking.

FEINT

The fringes of wind launch their revoltbeneath ancient grasslands,transpiercing the target without obstacle,collecting the shroud of voices.The cursed wake of rough sand,center blackened, ripostes,discharges anonymous filth.

Dry out the exhalation of ecstasy over impetuous tongues,to the desert of annihilated similitudewhich broods the gaping insult of riversand of constellations.

Tranquil nerves of the scepterheavily involve themselveswith a network of seminal sources.Imaginary cavity, the cloister sums upthe cross of the beating hemispheres,concealed seal.Morning shipwreck of falls,ice-floe of unruffled anxietieswhich inscribe the expanse of aerial faults,quickly corroded by the monotonous pulps of forms,

wound warped by the sepulcher,blossoming of figures,the rosary of figures nourishes the woof of textures,in the black book of shadow (mortal fluid)crushing the lightning of substance.

EXILED INTERVALS

Enduring sleep of reflectionescapees of the living curve,

outside of linguistic perspectivesthe reign of frames is abbreviatedby mute nests of enigma.

Arches of storm-surge,mouths defined by the mirageincorporate themselves to ridges of birth

Repose of dazzled breaches,the clotted scraps of the void are moved,dispersing the dilemma.

Base of number,inflates the incense of lava,fecund, the stem of bitternessand the whiteness of lakes of flesh and of dementia.

SOVEREIGN FLIGHT

Awakening of secret handsto replies of rapid courage,uplifts the corporal trajectory of urns,direction curved over abysses.

The evidence of retreatsagitates the vagabond throne,

vast threshold of crowns closely passing by the naked universal.

Jacques Dupin, L'Embrasure

Repetition

That which scintillates and remains silent in speechThe night turns round on its axis,

Singularly presenceAnd the distance of that which we clench

To its indifferent fraudulent effigy

And, exasperated in the flowersFar from pillars and waterspouts...

To labor on a reading of obscure thingsProvisions of ashesAnd its dissipation

Trembling

These columns of savage odorsHoist me right up to youStone language revealedBeneath the transparency of a crater lake

Rival revolt, wandering bondsAn anterior lifeImpatient as storm surge,Pressing and growing against me

And, drip by drip, injecting its venomWith pages of a book which grows darkFor being better read by light of flame

From the collection of destroyed wordsBetween the wall boards of impregnable deathIs born the vulnerable plant

And the entangled wind beyond.

AGGRANDIZED NIGHT

To return among youthe storehouse which I have guardedis it visible in its vortex

Among you and subservient to nothingthan to disorder

than to seeds

Inflicted with hisadoption of an other source – and of an other connective –,he wounds himself, the fatality of return the woundingcut off,but the exultation of those whom he betrayedresounds in his wound,

second source,or again some graftingcontributes to the night

As though to hasten the fall of the daymy heart's dislocation is polished

I exult with the obeliskwhose obscure face is itself therewhen the sun has struck the last

late-coming but the base of the nightof lips ill-closed, which persist and resistdevouring light, or its absence of limits,a space poorly overcome

if I founder, I founder with themthe dual word at the edge of lipsgiving form to silencelike a flute, inclined

the same strident eruditiondetaches itself from the inner wall

and paves an unaccustomed route.

Open in so few wordsas by an unrest, within some walls,an embrasure, as opposed to a windowto maintain at the end of armsthis country of night where the road gets lostat the end of forces, a naked speech

Flowers, when they are no moretheir freshness ascendsother airy mountains

and the voluptuousness of breathing maturesbetween the fingers which delay their closing

on an imponderable implement

There below, it is he who disappearsrapid route to the dawn before their woundfor which they to other bondsflowers, unto obscurity

he comes from cold and is turned toward the coldlike every route which arises...

As long as my speech is obscure he breatheshis arms plunged into the icy waterbetween the algae, toward other preyfrozen like lamps in the day

So little reality pervades this livingthat it makes for violence, or that it spreadsaudaciously over stones and waters

the skies hold the scansion of hammerssome ones among us are entering, interceding,to produce new clouds

He is oblivious where the door breathesor has hands, mine, and it is the priceof our false accordof our effacement unto the branching pointwhere light is unified

Indescribable landscapeswhere the wind arises and dismembers

He shines, I see itwe absorb each interval

each retreating step shimmerssuspending and murdering the imminence of meaning

Better shards of a wall than dead waterreflecting the stars

[50]

Night plunges in the chambera fresh and powerful bladelike the tooth of a shark

Night separated from constellations

During that the mountain slipsthe roots of fire

carried to incandescenceThe ash of the baseand the bloodcome to pass by the iron

[52]

In spite of the freshly murdered starwhich bifurcates

– it is its sole cruelty,the breathing of my phrasewhich obscures andreveals itself –,

it is again able to sustain himthe closeness of the murmur

[54]

The indeterminacy of chalk and the whiteness of windcross the sleeper's breastwhose inundated nerves vibrate most deeplysustaining gardens in stages

separating thorns and prolongingthe agreement of nocturnal instrumentstoward the comprehension of light

– and of its breakingits bifurcated passion on the anvilit breathslike thunderwithout living and without venom

among the junipersof the incline and the ravine he breathesan obscure airto compensate for the violence of bonds

I would cast myself outsideif it were me alone, this compact love,we held and deadenedin the medium of the worldarrested,all its force is down in frontand the twisted ram's hornwho charges – as if it were meits prison, not the wandering limit and the thirstof the ravine into which I would cast myself

So its blood, its black woolis ruffled by confused winds, it is mixed upby the waters of a sudden downpour

[57]

MORAINES

To write, is it a more mobile sleep which encompasses uncountable conspirators? Or the excessive movement of a vigil which pulverizes that which supports it, in us thrown to the immensely open center of its envenomed pupil? Of this frightened eye where all places of the unwritten Law are concentrated, we submit to the mastery and the seismic disruption atop the sea. Its visceral eternity, its embalming in the letter, and time recommences in the silent assassination that we differentiate (also for a long time) from the writing that traverses us and renders us invisible. An unexpected star crosses the wall. We are the suffering-sadness of its perverse matriarchy. Our breathing in accordance with its, we remain prisoners of the odor of the froth in the fissures of its reign.

The rhythmic figure of your conjunction: my death. Its trace crossed within the wall of common anxiety: my breath. My ramifications within the context of equilibrium: the exhaustion of your thirst. The paradox of noon.

Roger Gilbert-Lecomte – Poèmes Retrouvés

Anti-Sun

O sun, heart of the heavens whose blood of lightInfuses the vigor which transmutes to azureThe black ice strangler of great space obscureI hate you, mask of gold, mist and fire, circularBlind monster blinding all the prey aroundYou who veil the impure dazzling phantasmTo the loving vertigo of my avid gazesThe vision of the colorless abyss of the voidReversed hollow truth-mask of the other world.

Old Precepts of the Dead World

Immobile and muteSuspend your breath and your guardA silence of deathTo conjure up the dead

And give name to the ineffable

Wink of the Eye

He closes the eyesIt is the end of the worldHe opens the eyesIt is an other world

And when all was consumedEverything again dwelt in placeOnly the lighting had changed

Pierre Drieu la Rochelle – Interrogations

SILENCE

Silence, is it a silence.We are at the time of a beginning, when the spirit of God flies over the chaos of our times.In spite of the cataracts of grave thunder which eternally reverberate throughout time and the reign of cutting cries when steel separates its atoms, beyond I perceive a silence.

The earth is abandonedBehold the conquests of desolationVast abstract spacesDetermination to break up the excavation of iron All the parcels of soil are braced and sifted by successive explosions so that all that begins should dieThe terror is remains and the fragments persist over its carcassBeneath frenetic flagellation, total sterility is obtained.

Silence. It is not silence.Perfect silence is not, because all parts of life are vigilant and audible. A blade of grass emits an enormous and menacing sound like a 420 which rises toward the heavens.But there is peacewhen familial sons are concerned. Their accord is heard no more and one extends an unheard of sweetness. Everything it values is empty like a provincial street which lacks my despair of life.A short little main with a wooden coin.The earth boils beside him. Culbute. Tacit envelopment.

A silence falls. Gaping hiatus between sonorous lines which close off the horizon.One comes to hear the fall of a stone in the pits of terror. Is there an enemy?A profuse death is there, a place one does not know whereSuspension.The fist of God is suspended over the drums of war: his skin is the heavens held over the edge of the horizon, and it resounds of all the depths of the world over the terror of men.In the cross, I find thirty men who were thirty little children gathered by terror.I am gone in search of glory.

The Augmentation of History

And if we have no more historyand if for territory we no longer throw ourselves intohatredin which there is so much love, powerful love which protectsand if no man no more raises his colors of prideabove the others and if motley injustice no more unfurls itselfand if one cuts off desire?And if around the surface of the globe ruminating peoples have nomore history?

But see here that which once again makes the men of todayWe are of histories passéWe have not renounced our age for times known badlyWe have rejected the shameful nostalgia of accomplished times We have killed the dead a second timeso that they should not be more numerous than the livingOur war has shattered cemeteries. We have no taste for life upon an ossuary.We have made history. It is another thing that we read.Editing augments the weight of the epic horizontal lines of our song.Presently, our wildlife inhales the vertigo, we have gone roundthe drowned; being in scattered timeswe are returned, and we are amidst radiant becomings.We have retrieved the solemn senseand we have enjoyed our time in an excitement.Thus, within a silent desert, suddenly, immensely, swollen with organs, one seesa civilization beyond-history pass by,tacitlyand camouflaged by an enigmatic smile

Alain Jouffroy – from Vies and C'est, Partout, Ici

THE SWORD IN THE WATER

To Lucio Fontana

Liberty is the guarantee of citizenshipby agreement to the application of laws

Saint-Just

Laws are horrified at the void.Liberty fashions the void.The void is the birthplace of liberty.The void is in humanity.Humanity is a lover of the void.Humanity is an enemy of laws.Laws are horrified at humanity.Liberty assists humanity in the destruction of laws.All laws can be changed.This is libertyThis is the void which is in humanityin which it sovereignly decides.Only the inner void of humanity is sovereign.All laws are slaves to humanity.

Humanity reinvents its liberty at every instant.

The week of humanity has seven days:ManydayMartyrdayWetnessdayTheuthwsdayFrangeldaySeparateday and Sunsunday.While the poet takes one back every day by means of his amnesiaFor him, the time of Tomorrow's Instant has begun

The Earth is not, once again a Man...but it goes, it begins to go, it leaks:it is fascinating, the birth out of nothing.

It is the bizarre zig-zag of spermatazoaand other meteorites.It is the backyard of the paradise of Thinkers.A beautiful backyard triumphant, megalomaniacalA backyard impeccable and without equalThe most beautiful backyard of the world on a fetal Quasimodo.

Zero is not so high as one thinks it isZero hates the HightTO BELOW, BELOW!Therefore: Conflict between the beautiful and the below,The Right and the Reaper, the Senile and Father.There where there is a conflict, zero is not a wheel.Zero disappears, and takes place of the Oasis:Under the marquee, one has no faith, but the whip!Whosoever crosses another like a street.Sees it here: a man held as a road.An amoeba-man! Finally whomever, regardless of whom.But finally: such a one across such a oneis passed on the other side without either crying for aid or being enclosed,as if one and one does not make gogo and gagabut all that which one would like.Behold a truth: 1 + 1 = regardless of whom.Calculate: it is everyday that the world swindles us.

The Monseieur said to me such things.I know not what he called himself:Homo qualunque or such a scrap so cross-eyed.But this man spoke to me, or spoke nonsense:and yet it is not a stammering.It is a Professor or a International Novelist,such an important, decorated one, a serious man,but his face slackened in the void like a fat grand paper on the plants of breakfast.And his wrinkles are not christianalthough they are certainly those of an upstart.But so? You don't recognize him?This man, he is Francis Picabia or Lucio Fontana, laughing at his place.He is dead, he is alive, but he finds you to be complete cretins,Life is not glory, is not serious, is not Dada,Life escapes with the cross.

Death is the Wall and we are its missiles.No pity for the soldiers!

The immutable and necessary truths which one has made the glory of nations and which skepticism has triumphed over, are not born with man. They are the things with which he always uses to attack. Those which made literature into anarchy, those which made painting into a revolt against art, under the pretext of novelty, discover a meaning to that which has none. One has dared to attack God, Lautréamont better than Nietzsche, but one has not again dared to attack just as violently the immortality of the soul. The immortality of the soul is an doddering idea in Europe. No other thought replaced it, because it should not be replaced, but rather scuttled.

One talks and one does not understand,Conversations never serve that ignorance.Why are we not the signs, eh?Why? Can you not speak?For what good these uninterrupted waves of speech?For what good these true poems about false problems?For what good the Declaration of Independence in the prison?For what good these false positions? The Nazis roasting the intelligence.But each of us is JewishAnd the Apocalypse itself becomes Nazism.One must leave their orbitAnd cry BLACK! BLACK OVER THE WORLD!BLACK DRAPERY OVER ALLLong live Anarchy and Shit to God!Good evening Capitol! Good night Capital!RICH MAN CAPITULATES.

When one thought offers itself to us as a truth which reveals itself in the intimacy of a bedroom and that we take pain to imprison it there – the bitch – we find that it is a common place, and we drive it out into the street.

The void which follows is new.

Heidegger non stop

H! Power of Arthur, of his Harar and of the HolzwegeOf the Black Forest! H of mustaches!H of Husserl! Third H of ArthurSchopenhauer! All, the hatchet at hand?

For cutting which ways in their branches,eh? But “H” wanted to say neither Heil!Nor War. - So Heraclitus, Helios, Hegelor Hölderlin (Friedrich)? - Yes, no doubt, without hesitation! I am passed beneath these forks,in my obsessions of Hyperion, thanks to Char and Axelos, after the slaughter of holocausts.

Even there I have, you figure, exposed my Opening:a Chamade, a prophetic gazelle, of shocks,numerous Lampadophores, a man among menand the same, my horizon, the Autobiographyof Outside, each day, each night, without cryingof horrid jerk-offs, and entirely without shame,hewed of “oh!”, hewed of “ah!” (unique),up to touching the secret (haunted) of Pierre Herreyre,H. aspired, fixed orchids of ex-salt-merchants,

Of Shanghai Gesture with genuflections of the tiger - In addition to acts of dogs, of jackals, on the TrojanHorse, in the air of one chance without Ophelia

There I go everyday, like each knowsAnd I assure you: it is always gay.

First Point

The first words, always,True first gestures:A distance,An established hostility,More virulent than before,An offensive Anti-Nothingness,The dams, the ditchesBeyond the primitive igloos.

But –, but:Narcotic air reigns there – In the ineradicable exterior,At the hour of incomplete hours.

I see, hopefully,These pre-crimes,This pre-speech of the hue and cry.The self-forgetting fast exit, again faster,But I remember it.I open the case with nails, andI ignite – with the first blow –The boiler, where I persist and indicate,But is that all?A building site: a first courage.You are always there?Which is forgotten?The isolate individualor the exasperated song?

Let us claim to correspondTo this persistent temptation,The positive.

God (X) (Y) (Z)

I have crossed over to the reverse of my blindness.Everything pushed me to blind myself:TO SINK WITHIN ALL THE WALLS,And everything pushes – IN ME – to commit suicidewith all.(Internalized Third World War)

I have betrayed, shamelessly, this PUSH.Alone (without what praises it)Alone, becauseEVERY THRESHOLD IS ALONE.

And am repeated to me(“You, the eyes, which see nothing, go astray”)Go astray of me – exceed me – unshroud –No sacrifice – no cross – No fixed point – without border you-me.Without Cross; Without Christ; Without Right.

But God, everywhere, reigns around the me– as of all. All.God without eyes, pretenCious,God out of play, dominating all the games – In all the “Is”:Like that: going to all that,Dead God resuscitated GodIn the absolute me of atheists.

But me – of my side – I have begun to stateThat:The theology, the logic of the Tractatus, a-theologicalWere, quickly, very quickly, an equal combat;Low blow,Below the shaken-low of Barabbas (Barrablow).

At the same time, like all men,I have begun, as if I were cast,to confuse, to fuse my eyeswith God (x), the Greek I of Isis' sex,And I have become – of course – odious;Road without code.

THEREFORE, ABSOLUTELY ALONE: O-MEGALOMANIA, CIMMERIA!

SO, I'VE BURST OUT. FROM LAUGHTER, INTHE SILENCE OF THE HEIGHTS.AND THE PLEASURE OF THINKING, ALONE, HASDELIGHTED ME:

More friends – More enemiesNot the milieu! Nor the quarters:I am become nothing – link of the locationwith ARIADNE, her THREAD, the life of X, Y, Z.The gate of God has liberated me from all series.

For the first time, I have seen the gates. For the first time, while moving,

I have re-guarded, guarded in the regard RRR,the landscapes of all lands, errant,

Yes. Each tree: beech, plantain,poplar, lime, pine, pine-parasol, ash, red beech,oak, likewise the ebony, of Benin.

In each thing, I have recognized a causeand am bowed down before them, x y z, withGreat respect.Each thing, such that they are,replaces, divinely, all the gods –

What follows?

Paris, 19 June 1999

Jean Lescure – The Prediction of Time

The beautiful times returnTomorrow, not again

The beauty in your bodygives birth to my hands

Tear up, the winterit is a partitionthe beautiful times intoxicate

Yesterday goes to cometomorrow remembers in itbeautiful days of the pastto pass the time

When fire singsyour belly opensto sift what it createsto that which is sacred

The beautiful times returnThe fire, it is outside

The wind is within.