Alexandre Pierrepont


The word is out
This was long ago
This is the atoll
The game circle
The alias atoll, the world of mankind, the separation of species
One wished that the action leapt forward in the way
Of this finite segment of the insane infinity of the world’s becoming
I for one take action of scorpion’s tail
I play Dead
I lucky-charm
The word is out
It’s a poem
It’s the soul of the world, the universal panacea
Be that as it may

And do they fully know what they say near Shawinigan: river at will
River, river at will
Crossed game, mutual game
Detach the syllables
The sharing of voices in a village of fishermen and survivors
Is like the sharing of loot at the brink of my consciousness
Those have sweat blood and water
They have restored the ocean’s hide anew
They have poured drinkable gold with the shadow’s liquor
Before coagulating into a half island
Detach the syllables
Behind the inverted bow of this spiraling ship
Saying ship
That I picture, go figure, as a barber pole
And by the way, now that I think about it, there needs to be and why not a Convention
On the protection of the cultural legacy of barber poles
Not waiting for the disuse, the engulfing and the pinnacle
The blue oblivion, all these sorts of things
Not playing Dead
Still the best way to draw protections and riches
Discs of seashells and coffee grinders
Not counting a replacement habitat
Half Island, Half I-land

Therefore I shall not linger on
The island beneath the sea and the spirits’ bean
Let’s admit
That this language using me is conventional

One wished that the action leapt forward

The mutineers set foot on my head
Lightouse red with froth on its gallows of clouds
The slump down as is all mutineers’ duty
In the ecstasy of exploits and exhibits
They have feet webbed like chance
The cobalt of chance
The contradictory
Salt-gray presently
Something happened in the course of the poem eaten away the salt
Which is also the real course of history
Its tawny owls
Its magnetic and gravitational anomalies typical of impact craters
History rolling besieged cities in its waves
The most beautiful
The poem is so and so clear
One can see pieces of flotsam, branches of philosophy
Here and there in its mental depths
Almost nearly an artificial reef

One wished that the action leapt forward

But before that
Someone has doubtless smuggled
For instance a cargo of wolfram, antimony, and mercury
Near the docks the colossal silos are almost empty now
Aside which are rusting several Jacob’s ladders
Flour of five flaming roses
Flour of manioc and coffee grounds for the vévés
I mix it all
The capillary, the dentistry, the sanguinary
This the poem allows me, the poem is redistribution
What’s the point otherwise
Since its cocks fight like infinity
Like the blinking of finite and infinite
The poet, the hougan, is certainly the master-dyer of this story
With his flatiron for dials
Knowing that the golden age of sundial production
Is located between the 18th and 19th century
And knowing that

Pulley sculpting poet henceforth jobless
Free at last and better armed
The top to tail mutineers are biting their lips from intermission

Who are you to live in all these many forms?
                They ask through Terence Malick’s mouth
J’ai été sous une multitudes de forms
                They answer through Yves Elléouët’s mouth

The word is out
The waters are rising

Are we this many on this sandbank in its Sunday’s Best
And under the brink of consciousness
Are we
Courtesans of the unachievable riddled with tics

Ultimately, sensitively
I quite embrace the idea that our life is all but fermentation
Of a bit of matter
Some say the fructification, and it makes all the difference
Others the fulguration, they have understood everything
Calcination, white wine reduction, putrefaction, dissolution, the steps are known
The way railed with dew
Oh! The way railed with dew
The seismic surveys clearly show the presence of a circular structure
About 200 kilometers in diameter
Buried under 1100 meters of limestone
Regardless of the health of the populations dried out by thirst
In their pollen locker or armor
It’s my word against their word
Slurs, seeds

The word is out and forgets
The origin of language, the origin of fire
The doubling of consonants and flames
Their clinking, their fees, their natural rhythms
It’s my word against their word
On the trapeze of mind’s ferns
Its saps acid, its acid attractions,
Its spark jumps rope bursting in a definitely multiplying laughter
Forbidden world and common world are not rivals but rioters
The dragonfly of retaliation that traces
The uprooted trees tousled like horses
Rocking necessarily
Precious hearts pealing in the black night’s metal
In compliance with the dream of Isidore-Désir Maisonneuve
The metals and the planets
Varying twofold
Hold the stirrup of the first and second person plural

Let us be free
Let us vampirize freely, hands behind our backs
We have a good memory and the throat on fire

If perchance life goes on, ventriloquist, but
But is hasn’t started yet
In the brambles of by-laws at will, in the violet of will
Under the hoots of clandestine starts, for all intents and purposes
I no longer dress the mannequins of my sentences
I let my pin-marble cushion drop
Stretcher-bearers of cress, currant, and cactus
All the stops, the rattles of this repressive alphabet book
I’m being played, you’re being played
Is it possible
We’re being played on the keyboard of the continuous embrace
Of winds of madness

The word is out, it is far from over

One wished that the action leapt forward
That the poet once and for all notices the traps of his poems
Disturbs his empty room

Heroic legend or positive story, horned beasts, hooved beasts
My choice is quick to make
On the slabbed floor echoing their steps
I don’t hold back the secularization of symbolic forms
I’m not holding you back
I opt for ceremonial art
For the the laze of a wolf pack at the exact opposite of these harnessed oxen
Their brick-red paint shop
For the man-silex on the silenxt path
For the grammarian monkey and the animal lineages of childhood
Phalli and Mummies
At Chixculub or elsewhere
You’ll drop by to free or vampirize yourselves
At Professor Cab Calloway’s Swingformation Bureau
All of you who sleepwalk and sleeptalk
Standing with your back turned on the tribunes of time
Your back to stative verbs
That are carbonized by the weak though it may be revolutionary glint
The outburst of the passions of great wisdom
Of great caliber
The great return for the pleasure of primary forests
For the pleasure
Celestial agriculture for all
Even if the chimney sweeps hooting in the enemy world’s chimneys
Return us the disfavor and prefer talking about the anthropocene
Well well
Or rather no, they don’t talk of it, they know with assurance what they say
Contrary to the men and women of Shanwinigan
Contrary to us as at will, at violet will
If for them everything is on only area over area of intervention
Between the line of vegetation and the limit of the snows
For us a date is set with history
In a boat hangar
The word is out
In the middle of the game circle, on the alias atoll

As if the poem was an impact crater
As if the poem meddled in the conquest of power
I listen to Taamusi Qumaq
1935, that year
The life of Inuit and the things they did were hardly different from last year
The year 1968 didn’t differ much from the year 1967
Except there weren’t many foxes
And that more people sculpted to make a living

John Tiktak (born in 1919 in the Kareak camp, near Whale Cove)
Threw then a die of faces
Made of soapstone
And Manasie Akpaliapik (born in 1955 in the Arctic Bay)
Considerately carved in a whale vertebra
A sorcerer furnished with of bird sex
I imagine all the men and women of Takuminartut in a snow casino
With snow croupiers dealing snow cards
Under the heart’s snow
It’s my word with their word, breaking the bones of transparency

When the river freezes below the waterfall
The layer of ice forms a base on which water dust falls
Like melting snow
It amasses in a pile that widens and grows
Forming an irregular conic shape
Towards the end of the winter, its size becomes tremendous
In the year 1830s, already, one came to admire the phenomenon
Then, towards 1880, the “sugarloaf” became the place to be for the beautiful society
The beautiful society
That can even, oh! surprise!
Step in to quench their thirst or savor some sweets inside the cone
There was dug an enchanting grotto where everything
Even the furniture
Is made of ice

It is decidedly too easy, two by two
A double six in the room of machines and blockades
Dominos on a first-name basis, on a last-name basis
Their climax as a given world, a common world

One wished that the action leapt forward in the way
Of this finite segment of the insane infinity of the world’s becoming
So that
Elsewhere than in a ship in a bottle

There is no limit of snows
Or then
It’s that the waters are rising
That the word is out on the island, half-I
And that she

      (Translated from the French by Nader Beizaei.)

Alexandre Pierrepont is a social and cultural anthropologist, specializing in the internal alterations (at the corner of otherness and togetherness) of the Western World and through the African American musical continuum as an alternative social institution. Works as a ghost in the haunted house of the ISM (International Surrealist Movement). Has released a few CDs - experiments, construction sets - cutting and mixing hallucinatory poetry and hallucinatory music. And has just published a book on the Association for the Advancement of Creative Musicians: La Nuéee - L'AACM: un jeu de société musicale (Editions Parenthèses).
previous page     contents     next page


Post a Comment

<< Home

Powered by Blogger