world
not from atoms
but from remnants
forest of arden
from umbrella
ionian sea
from parkers quink
just as long as
his look is wise
just as long as
his hand is sureâ
and presto theâworldâ
hooks of flowers
on needles of grass
clouds of wire
drawn out by wind
Â
IN THE STUDIO
With a light step
he moves
from spot to spot
from fruit to fruit
the good gardener
props a flower with a stick
a human being with joy
the sun with deep blue
then
nudges his glasses
puts on a tea kettle
mumbles to himself
strokes the cat
When God built the world
he wrinkled his forehead
calculated and calculated
hence the world is perfect
and impossible to live in
on the other hand
a painterâs world
is good
and full of error
the eye strolls
from spot to spot
from fruit to fruit
the eye purrs
the eye smiles
the eye remembers
the eye says youâll last
if you manage to enter
right into that center
where the painter was
he who has no wings
wears floppy slippers
he who has no Virgil
with a cat in a pocket
a genial imagination
an unconscious hand
correcting the world
Â
GAUGUINâTHE END
Mango blossoms in white sun in black rain
raking images and leaves in a broad sweep
on the rue des Fourneaux and on the Pacific
giant Gauguin heavy muted clogs knocking
seeks out a source then langorously drinks in
a sky slashed open and falls into sweet sleep
he didnât want rest he wanted a dream
which is work a long march at noon
carrying the shadowy pails of images
     sometimes he still hears
the hissing of Paris salons at home he left
a white woman now his curtains are shut
he must still be sleeping
let him sleep
ocean driftwood guitars O parrot
he didnât love girls not Téhoura
nor Mette Gad spit strung between her lips
Alina died too early mildew disgusted him
a great vehicle goes with mango blossoms
the last king Pomare this rotting pineapple
in an admiralâs coat drives into the country
a wooden bell rings
patient Vincent a sunflower in the sun
the sun will burn out his ruddy brain
he was brave he painted with a razor
it isnât Monet he cried I wonât exhibit
avec le premier barbouilleur venu
he who comprehends cobalt leaves the guild
there was no other path just a path to the sea
Gauguin moves his body on hands and knees
fruits are like boils the forest has eczema
the Maori gods pick their teeth moodily
ocean driftwood guitars a parrot
between a fiery sky fiery grassâsnow
a Breton village with mango blossoms
Â
BLACK ROSE
it emerges
black
from eyes blinded
by lime
it touches the air
and stands
diamond
black rose
amid planetary chaos
blowing
the imaginationâs little pipe
lead out
colors
from a black
rose
like a memory
from a burned city
violetâfor poison and cathedral
redâfor a steak and an emperor
blueâfor a clock
yellowâfor a bone and an ocean
greenâfor a girl turned into a tree
whiteâfor white
O black rose
in a black rose
what do you hide
amid the dead flies of electrons
Â
APOLLO AND MARSYAS
The real duel of Apollo
with Marsyas
(absolute ear
versus immense range)
takes place in the evening
when as we already know
the judges
have awarded victory to the god
bound tight to a tree
meticulously stripped of his skin
Marsyas
howls
before the howl reaches his tall ears
he reposes in the shadow of that howl
shaken by a shudder of disgust
Apollo is cleaning his instrument
only seemingly
is the voice of Marsyas
monotonous
and composed of a single vowel
A
in reality
Marsyas relates
the inexhaustible wealth
of his body
bald mountains of liver
white ravines of aliment
rustling forests of lung
sweet hillocks of muscle
joints bile blood and shudders
the wintry wind of bone
over the salt of memory
shaken by a shudder of disgust
Apollo is cleaning his instrument
now to the chorus
is joined the backbone of Marsyas
in principle the same A
only deeper with the addition of rust
this is already beyond the endurance
of the god with nerves of
not from atoms
but from remnants
forest of arden
from umbrella
ionian sea
from parkers quink
just as long as
his look is wise
just as long as
his hand is sureâ
and presto theâworldâ
hooks of flowers
on needles of grass
clouds of wire
drawn out by wind
Â
IN THE STUDIO
With a light step
he moves
from spot to spot
from fruit to fruit
the good gardener
props a flower with a stick
a human being with joy
the sun with deep blue
then
nudges his glasses
puts on a tea kettle
mumbles to himself
strokes the cat
When God built the world
he wrinkled his forehead
calculated and calculated
hence the world is perfect
and impossible to live in
on the other hand
a painterâs world
is good
and full of error
the eye strolls
from spot to spot
from fruit to fruit
the eye purrs
the eye smiles
the eye remembers
the eye says youâll last
if you manage to enter
right into that center
where the painter was
he who has no wings
wears floppy slippers
he who has no Virgil
with a cat in a pocket
a genial imagination
an unconscious hand
correcting the world
Â
GAUGUINâTHE END
Mango blossoms in white sun in black rain
raking images and leaves in a broad sweep
on the rue des Fourneaux and on the Pacific
giant Gauguin heavy muted clogs knocking
seeks out a source then langorously drinks in
a sky slashed open and falls into sweet sleep
he didnât want rest he wanted a dream
which is work a long march at noon
carrying the shadowy pails of images
     sometimes he still hears
the hissing of Paris salons at home he left
a white woman now his curtains are shut
he must still be sleeping
let him sleep
ocean driftwood guitars O parrot
he didnât love girls not Téhoura
nor Mette Gad spit strung between her lips
Alina died too early mildew disgusted him
a great vehicle goes with mango blossoms
the last king Pomare this rotting pineapple
in an admiralâs coat drives into the country
a wooden bell rings
patient Vincent a sunflower in the sun
the sun will burn out his ruddy brain
he was brave he painted with a razor
it isnât Monet he cried I wonât exhibit
avec le premier barbouilleur venu
he who comprehends cobalt leaves the guild
there was no other path just a path to the sea
Gauguin moves his body on hands and knees
fruits are like boils the forest has eczema
the Maori gods pick their teeth moodily
ocean driftwood guitars a parrot
between a fiery sky fiery grassâsnow
a Breton village with mango blossoms
Â
BLACK ROSE
it emerges
black
from eyes blinded
by lime
it touches the air
and stands
diamond
black rose
amid planetary chaos
blowing
the imaginationâs little pipe
lead out
colors
from a black
rose
like a memory
from a burned city
violetâfor poison and cathedral
redâfor a steak and an emperor
blueâfor a clock
yellowâfor a bone and an ocean
greenâfor a girl turned into a tree
whiteâfor white
O black rose
in a black rose
what do you hide
amid the dead flies of electrons
Â
APOLLO AND MARSYAS
The real duel of Apollo
with Marsyas
(absolute ear
versus immense range)
takes place in the evening
when as we already know
the judges
have awarded victory to the god
bound tight to a tree
meticulously stripped of his skin
Marsyas
howls
before the howl reaches his tall ears
he reposes in the shadow of that howl
shaken by a shudder of disgust
Apollo is cleaning his instrument
only seemingly
is the voice of Marsyas
monotonous
and composed of a single vowel
A
in reality
Marsyas relates
the inexhaustible wealth
of his body
bald mountains of liver
white ravines of aliment
rustling forests of lung
sweet hillocks of muscle
joints bile blood and shudders
the wintry wind of bone
over the salt of memory
shaken by a shudder of disgust
Apollo is cleaning his instrument
now to the chorus
is joined the backbone of Marsyas
in principle the same A
only deeper with the addition of rust
this is already beyond the endurance
of the god with nerves of
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