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owl mourning crazy free dead poet…

Julien Maret

In extrêmis

Translated by Jordan Lee Schnee

Published: 29.12.2016

for Emmanuelle Guattari


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let’s cover our tracks… let’s walk down the fork in the road… along the hedges… the peat… let’s disguise ourselves… in the tangle… let’s trace our silhouettes let’s traffic our bodies… trench coats beneath our eyelids… we must unload unload… let what may come come let’s finish what needs to get done… I throw sand in my face… we get bogged down in each other… evenings indoors next to lamps… next to tables what we ask each other… what we say to each other… each one facing the other… forks knives… plates stuffed into our mouths… our slippers before going inside… each other’s homes… amidst the laurels the sands and we size up our misfortunes… not even our miseries… what else can we tell each other… our upheavals… recount dispersals… our attachments ties… when we pluck airplanes from the sky hold them in our hands… when we… not close not far owl mourning… the areas we refold… we evaluate the territories… the landscapes the mud the stone… owl mourning crazy free dead poet… not enough on our heels… black blouses and falling… ignored lake tears your legs crossed going up to your chest collar limp room… little brown bubbles in our glasses… pieces of ice ruminations about the pack ice… ideas in the sky… among the stars… on other planets… porcelain glass houses… our equipment pale substances containers… ingredients waters airports… the desire that motivates us… which made us volatile and ephemeral… and even more wellspring energy matter… extensions undulations crumpled flipped-over and our sighs… barely touched… the low leather boots of old ladies … towards watering holes… when we put nuclear power plants in children’s bedrooms… and these ones those ones images in our head far-off… the plastic in our aging faces… the things we don’t know… tombs inside ourselves… chunks of pack ice… of mountain of territory of space… lights grow faint… and we revolt we drown ourselves… they make us distant they separate us… we try on our tip toes… we pass through the fabrics that we cut out… for our waists and our shoulders… materials colors to cover our skin… skin on our skin… plants fruits… our tools injured in the cotton fields… worn to nubs our hands our feet… their hands their feet the ropes… their snares our nets our shadows… we sneak off and move on… far off the melodies of the coming night… and we drunk on sun lying in pink and purple waters… my hands and tongue too disappear into things… I can’t see them anymore… I can’t see us anymore… I they… what to do about it… using mistakes as an excuse… we mistakes we humans submerged in rules… inside above outside and through… we repeat and we trace the margins of sighs… small parallel instants… sometimes nestled in the hollows and beating hearts… I no desires other than to be told stories… we can’t stand heroes and ballets anymore… we don’t want to better ourselves… we don’t want to fly to travel time… only to deal with the trip back behind our pale desires… we no longer want to surpass technology… and from now on I want to simply tell of us… without a story… to lead a life that is silent and soft… a voice that recognizes itself… to lead a life that is fragile on the point of collapse… barely known… a voice in the language… a voice in our words… a voice in the fires… a voice my plurals… my companions… my members our songs… that which extends… extremities extensions themselves and that which makes us different… our replies some of our secrets back pains… the scenery of the bone structure… the wear and age of the bones… we of always of never… no doubt dateless… without the blurry parts of the distorted image… world map flattened… zones domains… ­stone walls commentaries… our applications… timetables in waiting rooms… our delays our springboards… hems on blue shirts… paralleling the broken mountains… flood overturning forest of cemeteries… we are eroded arches… destitute friends in the rain… over there underfoot… our footsteps on our footsteps… at our fingertips underground under the lid… fragile heavy fingernails… caress of tombs when the water rises… up over our endings… on go the weeks go on… our hands on our foreheads… o’ true darkness scarf over your eyes… we hear the clogging of the paths we took… on our undulating lines butter churning… we’re not sure displaced and displacing… half-sphere half-ball mooing flipped on its side… screaming sirens blades falling weights… we still enjoy the slow-motion on this moving flesh… our snowflakes in the stories… frame houses… pitiful in what we try to say… about the circumstances sometimes… when the wave comes up over our feet… shells that signal a fear of heights… our deaths together sand and sand castle… in the clatter of the dawn wheels vermouths on Mary Celeste Square… in the wisteria bushes… huge wisteria with hanging arms… shoreline silt sad boat… that crosses the dunes that crosses forgetting and that burrows in… roses against wood… wood against earth… and the flat shine of the finish… we send signals into the air… we send up dirigible balloons… but what are we doing up there… strapped into cargo holds… up there our heads in the clouds our thoughts on our shoulders… furrowing our brows to think… to push ideas into the void… all the planets ever invented classified in our heads… control tower and changing room… our suits in our trunks… traveling… the dresses blouses foxes around the neck… visions visions our garden plants and power plants… shirts parka blazer done-up to leave… through the doorway through the granules… our windmills in the sky… fuse valley prairie…marks in the corners… numbers found again… my elders my seniors… the enormous dreams under us… interlacings of clouds of bird-catchers of lines… every color every shape… our cable-lengths… underwater distances… and entire trees the survivors in pots with nothing to say… cold air in our endeavors beheaded heads in the clouds… how to inhale each other… to feel each other… the trees in our arms… in other arms’ arms the branches our outcasts… the thing that offers us peace on balconies… in front of the lake love inside cars… last terrace last coffee… what a promise… what a desire… we keep clapping our hands together… constantly fighting the days… every morning terrible life… the gull cutting across the alley… us walking and going back up the same alley the same tread… we grow old inside our heads wrinkles and groups… grimaces… comings and goings… as ifs thrashings… full force gesture and habit… like nothing ever happened… pretending… stuck inside of history… like we were allowing ourselves the change… and we close our eyes to hide our tears… to hide the world… hide gesture… hide what we’ve got left… our last steps… we won’t have succeeded… stuck on our metamorphoses… on our ivories… never leaving ourselves… looking far ahead of ourselves… static and complicated conscience… disused and obsolete… without a hold on what to do with its billions of objects… what to do with its conclusions… what to do with what appears before us… thousands of pieces of signs of past with mixed emotions… traversing our origins… like our intensities… the receiving the supplying of signals… the light of every city in a beam out into space… opaque sky dull iris torpedo… just track the clouds… without looking at their shapes… without passing through their matter… watching ourselves walk through the sky… the last words in the sentence… the last words in the book that will never see the light of day… we reach the penstrokes the edges distended… hollow games and what we imagine… frameless portraits wild eyes… circle of stones and edges… what we achieve… in the middle of our lives… when what we had thought… blue futures green futures… we propelled each other… tomorrows on earth… how to leave… how to finish… with our swelling thoughts… our plainly exaggerated link… and overblown wooden leg glass eye… our anvils our bases we carry them on our heads… three knots in the bar… we begin the watch… lying flat over the territories… we screw our dreams shut and we die… spirit not even under construction yet… watery pool muck… the spirit not even a wasteland… culture cherry trees and our almond trees… spirit hope knocked over… when stomachs swell… chimeras in space chimeras of planets… headed for black holes… hesitating in front of the privet hedges… tomorrow we will annihilate the blue sky… low earth gone life that we will search with indifference… in our interred homes… our departed gardens… not even a stone… take up soft life again… again take a train a car… start again… our old habits… the days of the week… going to the office on our bicycles… our utensils… in the monster’s jaws… scheduled… in land registries… melancholy on new façades… cleaned-up repainted again unscathed… and again where should we put the bread just out of the oven… one-way construction work cobblestones… railings bodies of water… road closed… go someplace else other networks… new meetings… young men young women generation… a few bees in the lavender the flowerpots… receptacles for the rain… dumpsters garbage… what still remains on our faces… what marks how many waves… how to survive the weather… our moods our machine tools… how not to succumb to our powers of reason… rational poem… and where to let our words fall… where to take ourselves beginning of an intense vulnerability… fragility of wrists in the sky… defenselessness of the people sitting… little white pebbles in ears… curtains with musical notes carpets with tropical birds… sweat on our foreheads… and our air-conditioned thoughts… under ceiling fans… thudding drawers file folders… pianos tapping… heal slowly… inner tubes… when the deed is done… when coming back is nowhere… we slide our hands through sloping fountains… through the clear water of watering holes… where the animals no longer go… where the birds no longer land… towards the clear black water… emptied of light… there is no fruit in the sleeping water… yellow fever swinging algae… that stretch across… that pass over… but these pointless blockages in the mass of the present… in rooms… motel trailer corrugated iron… erosion of isolation… those who burrow in and where to get inside… softly vegetal… outside beat path beat of wings... yellow river crying room… angels wood and that too goes over our heads… and where to tap the fountain waters… we avoid springs… we don’t dance in the rain we don’t look at the tree trunks… we had to start over… relearn breathing… salute the setting sun… by hand from now on… not every day brightness bush… white door we’re back at it… in deep… the number of dead… 449 80 62… every day the answering machine a voice life itself… messages circulate… our telepathies sound of radios… screens static snow… North South dust from the Far West… while islands elongate… our engulfings… our ocean and abyss eaters… in the crumpled dark sheets… at a slant… the wings on our planes… our aerial journeys and sky vocations… our calls networks… our ringing in the brightness… the immediacy of burials our basement lights… not every day and still life each morning… different speeds different areas… and just existing falls into itself… into ourselves less than rock or crystal… even though the continents come back together all of us meet under volcanoes… in the ashes… when the seas pull back… when the water flies up into space… the vapors of men… the vapors of silent beasts… our calcifying articulations… emotional disturbances whirling images… remnants of past dizzy spells… adorable efforts our bodybuilding… cans and cans of protein powder… billions of awkwardly flexed contours… flexing animals the bone structures inside our windmills… beautiful old dawning wheels… our conquests around the machines… what does the child say to his father… what do the old folks tell us trapped in their rooms our heroes our posters… what do they have to say the beginnings the endings… these circles in the sky spiral rings in our hands… bubbles geometries in fist tips… when an earth reaches the horizon… for our death shafts… coal minerals digitalism… knocked out by crosses by contusions… suffocated by signs dying of thirst inside of fences… our internal gardens… honeycombed by mole burrows… checkered with walls despite the way we act… our differing abilities… three little dots that come out of our mouths… facing the disturbed earth… now the taciturn birds come and perch on our shoulders… shoulder-branch… shoulder-sill… electric wire… shoulder against shoulder with no rest… dead birds on our shoulders… black seaweed at our feet…

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