the work

I've caressed sultry women
to the sound of the temptations
at dawn
but you're an
aretha girl,
to you I am the
laborer who
works
for your lips.

I am a journeyman
by trade.
I go
where the work
goes.
if only you would fire me
I could sleep in city,
alone.

but no! a man must
eat and to pay the grocer
he must work!
I will die laying tracks
to taste your lipstick
once more.
I will appeal to
the union
"the conditions are
unsafe!"
but tomorrow,
I will perspire in the sun,
for the work.

Translations of a portion of Poesies by Lautreamont

the gentlemen of poetry
have gone to sicily
and become sophisticated.

the first principle that they
follow:
the wordy trail
of dialectical discussion.

accept, they must,
that greek gods and godesses
engaged in
symbolic
telekinesis.

they be prude and covet
the elementary
understandings of
poetic violence.
they
shun the sex
of their creator!

turn back.
I am incredulous
and prickly.

gentlemen,
you no longer exist
as the arbiters
of poetry.
it is your time
no longer.

I exist!
I break convention and
amble tactlessly
to a lecture.
I do not shave my straggling beard.
I accept that I am not the second coming
of the biggest badness.
poetry
consoles my ravages.
humanity has not been lost
but has become arbitrary.


Original portion of Poesies by Lautreamont


Les gémissements poétiques de ce siècle ne sont que des sophismes.

Les premiers principes doivent être hors de discussion.

J'accepte Euripide et Sophocle; mais je n'accepte pas Eschyle.

Ne faites pas preuve de manque des convenances les plus élémentaires et
de mauvais goût envers le créateur.

Repoussez l'incrédulité: vous me ferez plaisir.

Il n'existe pas deux genres de poésies; il n'en est qu'une.

Il existe une convention peu tacite entre l'auteur et le lecteur, par
laquelle le premier s'intitule malade, et accepte le second comme
garde-malade. C'est le poète qui console l'humanité! Les rôles sont
intervertis arbitrairement.

not a body in perpetual motion

your hair.
a crumbling edifice
of antiquity.
byzantine.
your hair,
not smooth roman lines,
not a body
in perpetual motion.

hospitality
from your
shyly offered
smile.
I, incorrigible,
wearing my hat across the
wooden planks
of your old albany house.
bringing you beer
I had thought of spirits.
you do not drink.
I forgot.

leaving in
early morning
or late evening
or time unknown.
walking to the door,
scrambling in the foyer,
dark.
you grabbing my elbow,
unbending,
half-embracing me.
disinterest not feigned
as well as I thought.
scattering down corroded steps,
ebullient,
curious.