A bouquet of faded flowers in my letterbox…
I
I was naked for the first kiss of my mother
I was naked before Sammy and before men
I would be cold already
Without this taste of black salt
in your black blood
I have the claws of a woman in my flesh
I bleed for her delight in love
But hide from me the image of her god
that fakir whose grin desalts my soul
and lets the ferns
hold in the earth
the freshness of a patch of violent water.
These flowers in my letterbox, I cross my
fingers to caress them and the conscience of
the world is silent with me over the drama
of Léopoldville – I spit into the Seine like all good poets.
II
What do I want with a thousand stars in broad daylight
the rapt surrealist
in one of them at midnight
has blessed my crazy reason
My reason is the memory of a levitation
it knits a blue stocking for the violated night
it kindles hell in the black flames it ends
the purification of my sinful swan
which once fixed a halo of pollen
on the head of a lustful black crab
my reason makes me difficult and faithless
in the abstract of my passion.
My prick is not even a root of the tree,
to speak as that tree rustles
would give a rustic perfume
to the game of my flight
and put less blood on the hands of my quest.
The disasters unfold in silence
as one loved them in childhood memory
and a grey rain serves all our dreams
forcing me to become a forger
and holy assassin
despite the equinox
despite myself
despite the sorcery of the smiles
of my obedient black brothers
And then
what would you have me say of this silence
squatting beside my own conscience?
They give you what they have eaten and what they have not known how to keep. The shadow, like them, had a certain reticence. I am full of spite with the sun.
III
You must be from my country
I see it by the tick
of your soul around the eyelashes
and besides you dance when you are sad
you must be from my country
Keep moving time is waiting to seduce us
learn from this that the oil in your lamp
is really my blood brimming up
and that, if it overflows, you mustn’t light your lamp
we must have a dark corner somewhere
for our ancient orisons
All of us from the same umbilical cord
But who knows where we fetch
our awkward heads
Often the silences
reeking of iodine ravage us
with lecherous resolves
for my beardless conscience
ravage us alone.
IV
The Scorner
I drink to your glory my god
You who have made me so sad
You have given me a people who are not distillers of gin
What wine shall I drink to your jubilate
In this country which has no vines
In this desert all the bushes are of cactus
Shall I take their crop of flowers
for flames of the burning bush of your desire
Tell me in what Egypt my people’s feet lie chained
Christ I laugh at your sadness
O my sweet Christ
Thorn for thorn
We have a common crown of thorns
I will be converted because you tempt me
Joseph comes to me
I suck already the breast of the Virgin your mother
I count more than your one Judas on my fingers
My eyes lie to my soul
Where the world is a lamb your pascal lamb – Christ
I will waltz to the tune of your slow sadness.
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