what would I be

 

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what would I be without these places of no recourse

where flee is not allowed, where existence

is condemned to a paltry frivolity of the deaths

spilling in utopias and imaginary gardens

in the condemnation of the oblivion

 

what would I be without this perpetual quest

for places without place

an allegory of joyless hedonism

without these fantastic architectures that ruin spaces

whose most obstinate of utopias

in the hope to erase this supposed

topography of my body

this meager ugliness of the soul

a sassy, infuriating little voice

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what would I be without the sky

constantly paling my sorrows

without silence, when murmurs die

a panting, furious, silent sting

 

what would I be as I was yesterday, as I am today

to escape the ugliness of the soul that

through the flash of my eyelids

the electrified coma of my dreams

hovering, watching, wings beating

wandering and living far from all life

in the meager streets of unparalleled streets

among the voiceless voices

to be condemned alone with myself

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Odos Metaxa

 

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From the glory of our ages where stars were blind,

from today’s rotten oranges, peeled and cut in segments,

white lies beneath the concrete line.

five or six caramel-coloured packets of Player’s cigarettes,

Blue velvet accessoires: a table of pills, a pair of syringes,

And a gold powder compact—an altar of quiet decadence.

 

In the gentle breeze drifting from the Acropolis,

A truck between dark and light grey,

Travels through delights of Indian sweet-colored flavors,

Brushing against some left of mythological attitude.

 

among what a black waving dress—

Courtesy of a gentle Orthodox priest,

walking up the steady hill.

 

Where is dressed what carries beneath the wasted figs?

The bride checks her veil in the last mirror before the aisle,

a few yards further, her legs begin to shake.

 

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Looking for a great escape

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We scribbled in the night over ethereal incantations,

Intertwined in the raw void of endless concrete primal forests

Which in the yellow morning turned into corpses.

From supreme pleasures eluding the final ejaculations of consciousness,

Drugs seemed to us a good companion, a shared ingredient,

A disguised way to hide our prodigious solitude.

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We purged our chests with dreams of drugs, waking nightmares, endless fuck,

Then wandered in the unparalleled blind streets of shuddering clouds and flashing neon lights,

The tree vibrations along the boulevards in the roaring winter dusks.

We wanted to obscure the gazes we crossed,

To freeze them in time, to distort them,

To expose them to the pale lights of streetlamps.

We also loved to wear this delightful, somewhat primal mask

Which matched to our obvious tastes:

Everything lost and therefore freeing us to find ourselves.

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Condemned to dreary, unromantic drug-soaked trysts,

Suggesting an incoherent vocabulary,

Screaming grand aphorisms like headless corpses,

Now, ruling over a corner of Berlin's night, you, my friend,

Who became mute from drug use, sinister and dark,

No longer capable of loving and dancing.

 

After the waltz, the vertigo, and then the fall.

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Destroyed by madness, our minds, hungry, hysterical, and bare

Screaming through our windows in despair,

Trudging at dawn in the meager streets

In search of a furious sting.

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From the blue of the water, from the black of the night,

We went through a deep crisis,

As if instead of missing a step, we missed two.

We gazed at the sea, and the sea gazed at us.

Things slipped away from us and fell into our hands.

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What lay behind this loss of consciousness

Was not merely a desire to flirt with death,

But all the tales of distress we invented behind our eyelids.

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* text based on the writings of Marguerite Duras (Les Mains Négatives), Allen Ginsberg (Howl), Françoise Sagan (Je ne renie rien), Dries Verhoeven (Such a longing for intimacy) and Michel Foucault (Les corps utopiques).

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Beautiful Lost Minds*

 

 

I’ve lost a friend again.

I lost him while burning the midnight oil

In meetings over ethereal incantations.

            Eu-o vi pela útlima vez acima do Tejo,

Red flash eyes in the yellow morning.

We were still withdrawing a few ghostly trifles– above a sinking fire,

A little act of courtesy.

After that promised kind of youthful sympathy,

He told in the best modern way,

In some mixture lying in Mascarpone,

That our two natures are not meant to be blent.

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A childish day turned into tragedy, with four or more winters on my head.

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Betrayed by the honey of my generation,

I struggle to escape,

As old papers or the drug sets up the case.

Or an eighty-year-old smiling public man

Animating my careless reveries,

Sitting, studying reading-books and history.

 

As man’s enterprise questions in a momentary wonder;

 

             Does the hollow of their cheek still hold the few parsley’s sprigs,

             Or the uncertainty of their setting forth to a fit of grief or rage?

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* title copied from the album: Beautifully Lost Mind of John Hayes, 2022.

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que serais-je?

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que serais-je sans ces lieux sans recours

où l’échapper ne peut s’y trouver où l’existence

condamnée à une piètre frivolité des mourants

versant dans les utopies, dans les jardins imaginaires

dans l’oubli d’avoir été condamné

 

que serais-je sans cette perpétuelle recherche

de lieux sans lieux

allégorie de l’hédonisme sans joie

sans ces architectures fantastiques qui ruinent les espaces

dont la plus obstinée des utopies

dans l’espoir d’effacer cette topologie

supposée de mon corps

cette maigre laideur de l’âme

infernal impertinente petite voix

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que serais-je sans le ciel

palissant sans cesse mes chagrins

sans ce silence gouffre de murmures

haletante furieuse silencieuse piqûre

 

que serais-je je serai comme hier comme aujourd’hui

pour échapper à la laideur de l’âme

qui à travers l’éclair de mes paupières

le coma électrifié de mes rêves

planant, guettant, battant de l’aile

à errer et vivre loin de toute vie

dans les rues maigres des rues sans pareil

sans voix parmi les voix

à être condamné seul avec moi

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d'illusions trompeuses​​

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Des illusions qu’on prénomme du temps déchu

de nos soirées d’ivresse et de sagesse

Des illusions dérisoires après tout puisqu’elles

nous offrent que cette maigre existence d’une vie

d’amour et de rêves de puissance.

Presque par égarement traumatique

immaculé de jaune du matin brûlant où les saris

colorés des femmes hindoues voletaient dans cette brise

indicible venant de l’Acropole. Et de restes

d’épopées héroïques et d’habitudes grammaticales,

le capharnaüm s’étend au-delà de la grande courbe

du golfe Saronique aux rives rongées par le sel,

émaillées de caphares et d’étendues de tissues colorés

comme des échines infinies émergeantes de poussière

et de quelques zones de gazons brillant.

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Le minaret de marbre et quelques misérables hameaux

s’élèvent dans le ciel d’été épuisé encore par l’excès de soleil

De mes mains anxieuses agitant le fond de velour

à travers les routes indiennes héritées des Anglais,

nous paraissons osseux, réduits à nos plus simples carcasses.

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