Olchar E. Lindsann
The Ogre counted them down from right to left,
According to earthly conventions, you had to arrive on time: the two placemats were whisked away.
A huge chunk of meat was brought out all swaddled and tied up like a newborn.
Someone was looking for a handkerchief and not finding one felt around at the side but having already been deceived once, passed their hand negligently over their forehead.
The mistress of the house promised a lecture on the elimination of vermin from artists’ lodgings.
The chunk of meat seemed to be twitching.
The boogeyman picked up the knife; a few drops of blood spurted from the barely-open wound. But this was all in vain.
The athlete intervened – the table was split in half – the little kid fell between the ogre’s paws.
– is struck …
Fall
Silence
Don’t open
It’s them, them again, the dead!
howled the boogeyman
Barricade the door
don’t say a word whatever you do
The polar bear passed its tongue over its gums with such a racket that there was no longer any way the pounding on the door was going to cease.
– Open up, then my friends
Firefly disappeared this morning spirited off in a cyclone. I sought her high and low – I informed the chief of police – nothing.
The sun…
– Still her sun.
said Matassin and the boogeyman in a whisper.
– The sun appeared a bit later – but she’d already been spirited off
So then I dove into the water to fish out her gaze. One frog gave birth to two pearls.
while up a glow-worm
wormed toward my neck
I yearned to flee
But the coral necklace was too tight
I looked into the depths of her eyes and I suffocated
was hovering over my regrets
The old artist cast a domineering glare upon the ogre. The clown cogitated for a moment and fancied he could catch a glimpse behind the window panes of the fairy Morgana, she who had alongside Matassin once stared the sun right in its face.
He was hustled toward the door.
Gadifer barred his way.
– I’m Firefly and Mirador’s only friend; we’ve known each other since the cradle. The fairy Morgana enchanted all three of us and wound us in a silken thread just as strong as friendship.
The polar bear passed its paw behind its ear – scratched itself – licked itself, and, to give itself a bit of gratification, swallowed a scrap of paper whereon was a poem put into painting.
At last the door gave way and Mirador was hurled into all of their arms.
He no longer possessed the sense of scent.
A hostile and disgruntled wind hissed through the chimney.
The fairy Morgana passed upon a current of air through the dining-room into the kitchen and was about to lodge herself inside the spigot above the sink.
– I want to have myself some fun,
shouted the mistress of the house
Today’s my name day – I’m named Cantanette.
Mirador advanced confident into the middle of the chamber:
– My friends
Firefly after a night of insomnia and feverishness shot from her bed swift and supple as a greyhound.
She leant her elbows on the open window, anxious and watchful for the sun’s awakening…
The star died, no doubt tired out from having chased the lunula[1] from orb into orb, never wishing to show itself. It was behind the house when the cyclone whisked it up.
From the poorly closed spigot, drops of wine were splattered onto the floorboards. The chandelier plummeted with racket at Mirador’s feet.
Was that the cannon?
And Firefly who was floating in the air…
everywhere!
His condemnation was inscribed on every feature. The future engulfed him in a menacing gaze by the stovepipe.
A mute council was taking place behind Mirador and without knowing why he hunched his shoulders.
The burden of his body was heavy in this house.
In a final gesture of despair he hurled his gaze toward the heavens.
But what was it then?
Through a yawning gap in the floorboards the star was descending toward him.
Behind the door, the old artist saw a glow.
The eye remained menacing.
From the spigot drops of blood
On the parquet a mirror
The day hunted down the evening.
Mirador wanted to call for help – in the room nobody.
The hemispheres enter each other.
The fairy Morgana of the golden braids was there – her head brushed the ceiling. In her arms Firefly sleeping dreamed.
At this new apparition all the invitees returned.
– I am the one whom you enchanted – the one who was capable of loving you – the one in whom you confided the gift of friendship,
bellowed Gadifer,
Allow me your hand
I’m the oldest of the three – the one to whom you offered wood to the soul of metal and the phosphorescent Pierrot.
Whenever hide-and-seek would be played in the House of the Path, it was I who would first find all the hiding spots.
I want the mirror of silver.
’Twas I who munched all the mosquitoes – while you slept outstretched on the grass – beside the dried up pond,
declared the polar bear.
Mine the mirror of silver.
You’re reminding yourself – one day when, asleep on the rails, I arrived at the moment when the train was about to run over the body. With but a single finger I tossed the locomotive into the pit,
muttered the athlete.
I deserve the mirror of silver.
– My sight is weak and distorted
said Matassin
I never could look the sun straight in the face… but aslant. Ever faithful, I forewarned you of every treachery thanks to my squinting glance!
Give me the mirror of silver.
And everyone turned up to strut their stuff in turn:
– I dedicated alexandrines to you at your birth.
– I crafted for you a fan composed of all the feathers of a peacock. You discovered it upon your waking – one day – when, asleep on the beach of the lake in Montsouris Park,[2] the peacock jealous of your braids would have liked to remove them from you by way of duck beaks.
– It’s Cantanette the most cheerful of us,
said the women.
Then, whispering in the fairy’s ear:
Firefly in her spite cursed Gadifer after having stolen from him the bottle of the soul of metal – From Cantanette, she took two blue pearls that she bore in her hair – from me, a brooch of coral – from Micheline, a moon shaped bracelet.
Every voice was shouting:
“Ours, the mirror of silver.”
The fairy dispersed a cloud which had been placed before their eyes.
The athlete appeared, juggled with the ball which, as fickle as the morn, rolled out through the gap in the floorboards.
He displayed his empty hands to the crowd.
The storyteller asked for a fresh glass of water.
In the sky the star appeared. And its first ray would position itself upon the brow of Firefly asleep.
____________
[1] lunules. The white part of a nail or talon.
[2] A large park in southern Paris containing a lake, cascade, and related attractions.
from Céline Arnaud, Tournevire. 1919. Éditions d’Esprit nouveau: Paris. n.p.
Olchar E. Lindsann has published over 40 books of literature, theory, translation, and avant-garde history including The Ecstatic Nerve and five books of the ongoing series Arthur Dies. His poems, essays, and translations have appeared in The Lost & Found Times, Brave New Word, Fifth Estate, The Black Scat Review, BlazeVox, No Quarter, and elsewhere, and he has performed and lectured extensively in the US and the UK. He is the editor of mOnocle-Lash Anti-Press, whose catalog includes over 175 print publications of the contemporary and historical avant-garde, and of the periodicals Rêvenance, The in-Appropriated Press, and Synapse.
dreCeiving Goods
~~^^^~~~~~~~~~~~~~
‟ierges. Kleptomaniac-bears puff th”
–Clément Pansaers, A Bomb Collapse.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~˜˜˜˜~~
h old that door! they bear
a lagier vol e. pouf! clover
sp rigs out slick oil; air
re fuses sputter whisp, er
e rupture kept up with their
d ire lecteur led to rig our
a rrêt, bare handed, errant
s till wriggling, some how.
My Juggling tricks in Prison
~%\*~ºVº%~~~~~~~~~~
“act he was already old, and aft”
– Rabelais, Pantagruel.
~~~~~~~~~~%ºVº~*/%~
“But strange apparitions in the subterraneous vaults,”
replied Pantagruel, by the assistance of the robbers’
conclusions. “Aren’t you vaults joining to the principal
’cipal point? all the artificial flashes of light,
the heavenly fates. We see others being concealed,
respect that their marriage seems produced by the
mint of the joys of paradise. coffin was to
tempt the hermits in the deserts of sight;
Perhaps you will recollect that I took
the deserts of Thebaid and Montserrat.
The female figure was the son of chance,
connected with our gang, who already, and, for
feral times, when curious travellers have made it up,
shooting from the coffin can tell you – for
previously had been, think you fit. Bring me
in the times at random, and on the... –”
and read the lines whose number we have;
I shall arrive and with no long delay
more miserable.
agreed on, then we can explore your dis, fig –
has learnt his fate by the sudden retreat
who, hearing this line concerning ruinous side building,
in fair and fertile by some brimstone we
foresaw that he, extinguishing of the light in
Aeschines of, and of that which you had
in spirit, I had poured it in as:
Old man, these youthful warriors press
it from you before I start my juggling tricks,
as I was leading the vigour’s spent way
into the grievous, ago, o’ cellar.
~~~~~~~~~~%ºVº~*/%~
“ured head was made of an hollowed pump”
– Peter Teuthold, The Necromancer.
~%\*~ºVº%~~~~~~~~~~
Refrent’sh Elf
aye i neckled back la rousse fesse key,
nubbin-scrow’s on iron menth’all
dictie o’ nary a brewer pops duden,’n
chemy Al’s ask’n how pyle up idios
in visible’s watch,men’ate many wat-wat’n
prove’r b.s. it gold, come pass glish cyclo
en medical taneraic’r tollboth o’magus dis
eases mythosemigloss’n’s’pan o’gloss,’r tripodd.
My Whole Self, Thinking Himself Lawless)
~~^%^––~~~~~~~~\~~~
‟their place again, and called it”
–– William Bradford, Of Plymouth Plantation.
~–^%^–~
‟ous, of vision and dream. The pleasure vainly”
– Stéphane Mallarmé, ‛Stages and Pages’
~~~/~~~~~~~~––^%^~~
Everything counsels – the magnificent ex-instrumental polyphony, the
lively Lieutenant they took’s opportunity, and thrust the decor’s
cesspit attention to come no more amongst them;
Ration – we consider cohesion, other relief from neighbours
or a whole artform fell into poetry, licentiousness
become today. Does this mean all profaneness, writer
of misrule and maintained Atheist School (as it
artifices sacred verse, got some goods into their
language alone, tis as very vainly) hands in its
constraints, to compete? quaffing great excess orchestra (and
/or song, just some spoken); a maypole, suf
-fice to open up the Indian echoes fairies
and frisking together (like so many representation-women summaries,
versified collection summons one to a drinking, detached
motifs had they revived anew our individuality’s Bacchanalians;
themselves, according (or the beastly practices, sundry rhymes
sway in his portioned poetry) composed thought detraction,
opposes it: both taken off others, to foliage
emerging like a mermaid whose idle, idol Maypole,
curlicues of an arabesque, a figure, lasted remains
their name of place, and instead sent inside
anyone Merrymount-worthy, as if this jollity types its
broad self for a seal. after Morton was
opening correspondences there; just as that came over,
up parts its parallel pages. under the chance
indeed such profaneness, the present volume, those should;
and the author’s obsessions should be certain symmetry,
brought over a patent under the Mount Dagon.
be riotous of Massachusetts, but visiting vapor. There
is down, certain rebuked for, vainly like excess.
Shudter Friction Converter
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
‟limp knife’s bricks........ medlar of war”
– Francis Picabia, ‛The Bicycle Archbishop’
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
shgreeddner nodule...... magnat-f’lip grenadea limon
flattenament fslap, jack dronar
yr wreckageless babbylon doilies ....... personnel
tar,getted pandered
radianlt food desert a’isle oarases
ferîle icecap....... prosthaenic strafe camp’aign’t it
grand how ‛spat’riot bubbloes
peagrenly trenchfoot licker......carnyage data basse
methianic fortificatude, bile....... fleayblown in yr dain’ty bauble
Zeppa
~^\~~\_,.,..,;.,,.,,;,;...
“s borne
past the bourne of the real w”
– Hugo, Mazeppa
,.,..,;.,,.,,;,;..._/~~/^~
!disre\, member’d mysticomet smear
in fernal gallops stardune o/er
shriek of exas/pirant mindreach mergence
:my raculous bloodstreak:
buzz’rd w\rack, course’r a-trophied
horse-tooth-hoof pounds
of fleshy desertst’retch bîle
of mortiflesh ratchet, of vulturage tendon,
:yr brasion of sentience:
of flayscalp bruise angelic convul hook,
pull nerve abraided, pluck’d
or deal vast penitdance wristbind
ô tort, yr career flapp’d by concuss, sp\lit tooth
lasht f/lank raptors
spirit bled in carrion tusion
:ye splintshin of awe:
abjec magniloquent, meatpulp icon
straction inbodied
phetic in ab/c\ysS
A Translation from Céline Arnaud's Screwdrive.
II
At the Painter’s Pad
At precisely 7 o’clock all the guests arrived. The Ogre counted them down from right to left,
Matassin from left to right
Two places remained void.According to earthly conventions, you had to arrive on time: the two placemats were whisked away.
A huge chunk of meat was brought out all swaddled and tied up like a newborn.
Someone was looking for a handkerchief and not finding one felt around at the side but having already been deceived once, passed their hand negligently over their forehead.
The mistress of the house promised a lecture on the elimination of vermin from artists’ lodgings.
The chunk of meat seemed to be twitching.
The boogeyman picked up the knife; a few drops of blood spurted from the barely-open wound. But this was all in vain.
The athlete intervened – the table was split in half – the little kid fell between the ogre’s paws.
– is struck …
Fall
Silence
Don’t open
It’s them, them again, the dead!
howled the boogeyman
Barricade the door
don’t say a word whatever you do
The polar bear passed its tongue over its gums with such a racket that there was no longer any way the pounding on the door was going to cease.
– Open up, then my friends
Firefly disappeared this morning spirited off in a cyclone. I sought her high and low – I informed the chief of police – nothing.
The sun…
– Still her sun.
said Matassin and the boogeyman in a whisper.
– The sun appeared a bit later – but she’d already been spirited off
So then I dove into the water to fish out her gaze. One frog gave birth to two pearls.
while up a glow-worm
wormed toward my neck
I yearned to flee
But the coral necklace was too tight
I looked into the depths of her eyes and I suffocated
The oar carried off the pearls of the necklace
And the angel Azariel anxious and feverishwas hovering over my regrets
The old artist cast a domineering glare upon the ogre. The clown cogitated for a moment and fancied he could catch a glimpse behind the window panes of the fairy Morgana, she who had alongside Matassin once stared the sun right in its face.
He was hustled toward the door.
Gadifer barred his way.
– I’m Firefly and Mirador’s only friend; we’ve known each other since the cradle. The fairy Morgana enchanted all three of us and wound us in a silken thread just as strong as friendship.
The polar bear passed its paw behind its ear – scratched itself – licked itself, and, to give itself a bit of gratification, swallowed a scrap of paper whereon was a poem put into painting.
At last the door gave way and Mirador was hurled into all of their arms.
He no longer possessed the sense of scent.
A hostile and disgruntled wind hissed through the chimney.
The fairy Morgana passed upon a current of air through the dining-room into the kitchen and was about to lodge herself inside the spigot above the sink.
– I want to have myself some fun,
shouted the mistress of the house
Today’s my name day – I’m named Cantanette.
Mirador advanced confident into the middle of the chamber:
– My friends
Firefly after a night of insomnia and feverishness shot from her bed swift and supple as a greyhound.
She leant her elbows on the open window, anxious and watchful for the sun’s awakening…
The star died, no doubt tired out from having chased the lunula[1] from orb into orb, never wishing to show itself. It was behind the house when the cyclone whisked it up.
From the poorly closed spigot, drops of wine were splattered onto the floorboards. The chandelier plummeted with racket at Mirador’s feet.
Was that the cannon?
And Firefly who was floating in the air…
Everybody ran off.
But in the end, this wretched young man bore his misfortunes with him… everywhere!
His condemnation was inscribed on every feature. The future engulfed him in a menacing gaze by the stovepipe.
A mute council was taking place behind Mirador and without knowing why he hunched his shoulders.
The burden of his body was heavy in this house.
In a final gesture of despair he hurled his gaze toward the heavens.
But what was it then?
Through a yawning gap in the floorboards the star was descending toward him.
Behind the door, the old artist saw a glow.
The eye remained menacing.
From the spigot drops of blood
On the parquet a mirror
The day hunted down the evening.
Mirador wanted to call for help – in the room nobody.
The hemispheres enter each other.
The fairy Morgana of the golden braids was there – her head brushed the ceiling. In her arms Firefly sleeping dreamed.
At this new apparition all the invitees returned.
– I am the one whom you enchanted – the one who was capable of loving you – the one in whom you confided the gift of friendship,
bellowed Gadifer,
Allow me your hand
I’m the oldest of the three – the one to whom you offered wood to the soul of metal and the phosphorescent Pierrot.
Whenever hide-and-seek would be played in the House of the Path, it was I who would first find all the hiding spots.
I want the mirror of silver.
’Twas I who munched all the mosquitoes – while you slept outstretched on the grass – beside the dried up pond,
declared the polar bear.
Mine the mirror of silver.
You’re reminding yourself – one day when, asleep on the rails, I arrived at the moment when the train was about to run over the body. With but a single finger I tossed the locomotive into the pit,
muttered the athlete.
I deserve the mirror of silver.
– My sight is weak and distorted
said Matassin
I never could look the sun straight in the face… but aslant. Ever faithful, I forewarned you of every treachery thanks to my squinting glance!
Give me the mirror of silver.
And everyone turned up to strut their stuff in turn:
– I dedicated alexandrines to you at your birth.
– I crafted for you a fan composed of all the feathers of a peacock. You discovered it upon your waking – one day – when, asleep on the beach of the lake in Montsouris Park,[2] the peacock jealous of your braids would have liked to remove them from you by way of duck beaks.
– It’s Cantanette the most cheerful of us,
said the women.
Then, whispering in the fairy’s ear:
Firefly in her spite cursed Gadifer after having stolen from him the bottle of the soul of metal – From Cantanette, she took two blue pearls that she bore in her hair – from me, a brooch of coral – from Micheline, a moon shaped bracelet.
Every voice was shouting:
“Ours, the mirror of silver.”
The fairy dispersed a cloud which had been placed before their eyes.
The athlete appeared, juggled with the ball which, as fickle as the morn, rolled out through the gap in the floorboards.
He displayed his empty hands to the crowd.
The storyteller asked for a fresh glass of water.
In the sky the star appeared. And its first ray would position itself upon the brow of Firefly asleep.
____________
[1] lunules. The white part of a nail or talon.
[2] A large park in southern Paris containing a lake, cascade, and related attractions.
from Céline Arnaud, Tournevire. 1919. Éditions d’Esprit nouveau: Paris. n.p.
Olchar E. Lindsann has published over 40 books of literature, theory, translation, and avant-garde history including The Ecstatic Nerve and five books of the ongoing series Arthur Dies. His poems, essays, and translations have appeared in The Lost & Found Times, Brave New Word, Fifth Estate, The Black Scat Review, BlazeVox, No Quarter, and elsewhere, and he has performed and lectured extensively in the US and the UK. He is the editor of mOnocle-Lash Anti-Press, whose catalog includes over 175 print publications of the contemporary and historical avant-garde, and of the periodicals Rêvenance, The in-Appropriated Press, and Synapse.
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