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Le zaporogue 12


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Le zaporogue 12

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Le zaporogue 12

  1. 1. LE ZAPOROGUE Douche Été/Summer/Sommer 2012
  2. 2. 2
  3. 3. JERRY WILSON Chapter 2 The tractor trailer rig was pulled over to the side of the freeway on-ramp, itsdiesel engine rattling. Hand-scrawled in large white letters on the rear mud flapswere the words Show Me Hooters. “O-kay,” said Melvin aloud. He took a last few big drags off his cigarette,flicked the butt, and heaved himself up from the asphalt. He tossed the piece ofcrumpled piece of cardboard on which he’d written IDAHO into the brush,grabbed his pack and headed for truck. Buzz Porterfield Trucking, Fontana, CA, read the decal on the door. Melvinpulled it open. A little white poodle stood on the passenger seat, barking andsnapping. “Shut up, Teddy,” growled the driver, thumping the dog on the head with ameaty finger. The dog turned and jumped into the driver’s lap. “Hop in,” said thedriver to Melvin. “Put your gear back there in the sleeper.” Melvin pulled himself up into the cab, stowed his pack, and eased his assdown. The air-ride seat was a relief. “I’m Buzz,” said the driver, petting the blinking dog. Buzz was a wiry, lumpyold man with tanned leathery skin, striated and furrowed. His head was baldexcept for a few curly tufts around his inordinately large hairy ears. His nostrils 3
  4. 4. were enormous and he was missing all his top teeth. “This here’s Teddy,” he said.“He’s feeling his age and he’s a little grouchy but he’s okay.” “Melvin Mohl,” said Melvin, shaking Buzz’s hand. Where about in Idaho are you headed?” “To the mountains.” Buzz frowned. “There are a lot of mountains in Idaho, Bub.” “The Sawtooths,” said Melvin. “Somewhere around Larkspur.” “Well, I’m on the way to Seattle,” said Buzz. “I can drop you at the truckstop at Jerome. From there, Larkspur’s just up Highway 75 a hundred miles orso.” The rig groaned slowly forward. “Where’s Jerome?” Melvin pulled out a grimy dog-eared map, unfolded it,and traced a dirty finger along the line representing the interstate. He ran hishand through his oily black hair and wiped the droplet of liquid snot from the tipof his slightly hooked nose. The action left a dark smudge on his nose and upperlip. The droplet of snot immediately re-formed. “It’s close to Twin Falls. Once we cross the border into Idaho, Jerome’sabout a hundred miles to the northwest. Where do you come from?” “Moroni, Utah.” “Where the hell’s that?” “Pretty much dead center of the state. Small town, maybe 1,200 people.” “Nice place to live?” 4
  5. 5. “I suppose, if you like church and Lawrence Welk.” Buzz chuckled at that. “What’s in the Sawtooths?” “Wilderness. No people. No CIA.” “CIA?” “Yeah, they’re after me, have been for years. In Vietnam I was a member ofthis top-secret commando unit. Assassinations, stuff like that. Once the war wasabout over, the government decided to eliminate all the members of the unit, youknow, to keep the whole dirty business a secret. They got everybody but me. Ibarely made it out. I was on the last chopper out of Saigon before the city fell. I’vebeen hunted like a dog ever since. I’m careful, though. I’ve never listed my phonenumber and I don’t use a computer. They can read your fingerprints through thekeyboard.” “You don’t say,” said Buzz, raising his eyebrows. “Sounds like you read a lotof spy novels.” “No. I read mostly westerns,” said Melvin. Squinting in the glare of the bright afternoon sun, Buzz watchedthunderheads scudding in the distance, darkening large swaths of flat whitish-ochre landscape. “Must be tourist season,” said Melvin. There are Utah state flowers all overthe place.” “Yeah?” 5
  6. 6. Melvin pointed out the plastic grocery bags that lay flattened and filthyalong the shoulder of the highway or snagged on the branches of the sagefluttering and snapping in the wind. “The state flower of Utah is a Walmart bag. Alot of people don’t know that.” “I didn’t know it,” said Buzz, watching a bag rolling across the highway liketumbleweed. “It’s actually an invasive species, like cheat grass. It’s only been a hundredyears since cheat grass migrated from China. Now it has all but choked out thenative fescue. Won’t be long before the Walmart bags choke out the rest of thenative flora.” The conversation dropped off. Hypnotized by the monotonous hum of thediesel engine, Melvin stared transfixed at the speeding landscape, the scrub andsage, the discarded bottles and cans, the wheel rims and the huge shreds of tiretread. (Buzz referred to the treads as ‘alligators.’) Gigantic granite buttes juttedstarkly in the distance. Their peaks were once tiny islands in the middle of LakeBonneville, the ancient lake that had once filled the Great Basin. The thought thatthe entire state of Utah was once covered by an immensely deep Pleistocene lakewas agreeable to Melvin. Buzz pulled the truck off the freeway and into a rest stop. “I have to take apiss,” he said. With a groan he slowly hoisted himself up from his seat andstepped back into the sleeper. “I don’t piss in truck stops. I use a jug. Truck stoprestrooms are filthy. Besides I’m never near one when I have to go, which is allthe goddamn time. These days I have the bladder of a teenage girl.” 6
  7. 7. Buzz rooted around the clothes and magazines and other debris scatteredon the floor of the sleeper. “Fuck a duck, I can never find anything around here.That crazy dog buries everything. What’d you do with my piss jug, Teddy?” Teddy was curled up asleep on the bunk. On hearing his name, he jumpedup and wagged his tail. “Here’s that other shoe I’ve been looking for,” said Buzz. “Damn your eyes,Teddy. Oh, here it is.” Buzz pulled a half gallon plastic milk jug from the debris. Acouple fingers of foamy piss swirled and churned at the bottom. He handed it toMelvin. “Here, grab that. I’ll show you my system. You might need it before weget to Idaho.” “Don’t trouble yourself,” said Melvin. “They got a crapper here.” “Nonsense. You don’t want to use that shit hole. Here, unscrew the cap.” Melvin sighed, took the bottle and screwed off the cap. “Now take this in your other hand.” Buzz handed Melvin a can ofdisinfectant spray. “After you piss you have to spray down the bottle. The spraykills the germs, keeps the jug from stinking. Go ahead, give it a shot.” Melvin gave the jug a couple of half-hearted spurts. “No, not like that. Put your finger back on the nozzle.” Buzz reached over,put his big hand over Melvin’s finger and pressed down. Spray shot from the canin a long sustained burst, dousing the entire bottle, and filling the sleeper with athick, sickly-sweet swirling mist. 7
  8. 8. “That’s it,” said Buzz, grinning with approval. “Now you’re cookin’ withgrease.” With his bald head, huge cavernous nostrils, and big pointy ears, helooked to Melvin like Nosferatu floating in a dense fog. Melvin stepped out of the truck and lit a cigarette. He took several big dragsin quick succession. Teddy hopped down the steps, trotted across the asphalt andinto the scrub. Melvin watched him sniff around, lift his leg and piss on the sageand the clumps of fescue. Buzz emerged from the truck. “I feel like a new man,” he said. “You ready togo? Where’s Teddy?” “He’s out there somewhere.” “Teddy, let’s go!” The little dog came running. “Mind if I finish my cigarette? There are a lot of nasty chemicals in thatdisinfectant spray. Tobacco smoke helps neutralize them.” “Okay by me,” said Buzz. “Just don’t take too long. I need to get to Seattlesometime this month.” “It get’s lonely out here,” said Buzz, once they were finally back on the road.“Sometimes I like my lonely life, other times I can’t stand it. If I didn’t haveTeddy around I’m sure I’d go completely crazy. I miss women a lot. I often thinkthat when I finally retire and quit this shit I’ll find a woman to keep me company.But then I’m reminded that I’m not a young man anymore. Nothing works right.Shit, the last time I masturbated nothing came out.” “O-kay,” said Melvin. 8
  9. 9. The truck began a climb up a long winding grade. Buzz attempted to drop agear but missed it. “Goddamn it,” he said. He quickly revved the engine andmanaged to catch a lower gear as the rpm’s fell back down. “You like driving?” asked Melvin. “Yeah, I like it alright, except for the long hours. I’m getting too old for thatshit. When I was a kid I wanted to be a judge. I wanted to wear one of those longblack robes and bang that mallet and tell people to shut the fuck up. It neverhappened though. I guess I had no idea how to make something like that happen.Still don’t. I’ve had a thousand different jobs, none of them worth a damn. Istarted this racket about 10 years ago. I thought it might be fun to be out here onthe road blowin’ diesel and eatin’ t-bones. Unfortunately, it’s anything but.Driving over-the-road is a hard, dirty shit-payin’ job. He sighed and rifledthrough some cassette tapes in the console. He selected one and put it in theplayer. “Well, I’m a failure and there’s no gettin’ around that.” “What the hell kind of music is this?” said Melvin, frowning. “It sounds likesome sort of alien elevator music. “Bachelor pad music,” replied Buzz. “It civilizes the wilderness.” “What do you call this crazy song?” “Summer Samba. Walter Wanderley Trio. It’s Brazilian bossa nova.” “Whatever that is.” Melvin picked up and tape case. “I’ve never heard of anyof these people. Tito Puente. Esquivel. Hey, I like this title—“El Marijuano.” Helaughed. “That’s Xavier Cugat. He’s the shit. I have all of his records.” 9
  10. 10. “I thought truck drivers listened to country.” “Don’t believe everything you think,” said Buzz. “O-kay,” said Melvin. “Did you happen to see what that last sign said?” asked Buzz. “It said, ‘Welcome to Idaho,’” replied Melvin. “Shit,” said Buzz, turning down the volume. “Do me a favor, will you? Reachbehind you in the sleeper and grab me that white plastic bag.” “You mean this one that’s full of trash?” “That’s the one.” Melvin handed Buzz the bag. Buzz wound down the glass and grabbing ahold on the bottom of the sack, emptied the contents out the window. “Fuck thoseIdaho state cops,” he said contemptuously. “Born liars, every one of ‘em.” Melvin watched in the mirror as the trash flew out across the road and intothe green wheat fields. He cracked his window. The air smelled faintly of feedlots. Buzz pulled the rig off the freeway at the Jerome exit. “I’m hungry,” he said,stopping the rig in the crowded lot of a truck stop. “You hungry? I’m buying.” “Alright.” Melvin had a quick cigarette in the lot waiting for Buzz to do his business.Buzz finally stepped down from the cab tucking in his shirt. “Hold the fort down,Teddy,” he said. He shut the door. Teddy was at the window barking as Buzz andMelvin walked away. 10
  11. 11. The two ambled through the small multicolored city of idling trucks. The airwas foul with diesel exhaust. Cigarette butts, used condoms, wads of toilet paper,and ubiquitous containers of discarded piss littered the filthy asphalt. Seated at a booth, Buzz ordered chicken-fried steak with mashed redpotatoes and green beans cooked in butter and bacon and a side of RockyMountain Oysters for Teddy. Melvin ordered coffee and an egg salad sandwich. “That’s all you’re going to eat?” Buzz asked, regarding Melvin’s rail-thinframe and slumping posture. “You need to put a little meat on those bones. Thisplace is a dump but the food’s good. Best food in a hundred miles. Besides, chickslike guys with a little meat on them.” He pulled up his t-shirt and with one handand grabbed a healthy hunk of freckled white flab with the other. He laughed. “It’s enough,” said Melvin. “I had a big breakfast. Besides, the cooks inthese places never wash their hands after they shit.” “I imagine so,” said Buzz. He and Melvin sat in silence until the foodarrived. “You ever eat Rocky Mountain oysters?” asked Buzz, through a mouthful ofmashed potatoes. Missing his top teeth, Buzz gummed his food in a wide circularmotion. “Teddy loves ‘em.” “Once,” said Melvin, sipping his coffee. “I’ll usually try anything once. I’vetried rattlesnake, alligator... I’ve even eaten monkey brains.” “Monkey brains?” 11
  12. 12. “Yeah, when I was in the Seals in Nam. For dinner one day Old Papa Sanbrought in a live monkey, cut off the top of his skull, scooped out the brains andserved them. They were good with beer.” Buzz was disgusted. “You know you’re about to put me off my food withthat bullshit. I thought you were in the CIA. You were in the Seals too? You damnsure don’t look the part.” “People underestimate me all the time,” replied Melvin solemnly. He wipedhis nose with a dirty hand, leaving another smudge. “I don’t doubt it,” said Buzz. Melvin couldn’t hitch a ride so it was a long walk through the little town tohighway 75. At dusk he left the highway and, looking furtively around, climbedthrough a rickety barbed wire fence. In a hollow between several Russian olivetrees, he spread out his sleeping bag and climbed in. He laid exhausted, smokingand staring up at the patches of sky visible through the thorny branches. A largecloud loomed grey and glittering white in the moonlight. It looked like a vast icymountain peak. Its austere coldness made Melvin dizzy. He stubbed out hiscigarette and shut his eyes. The Summer Samba wafted through his head. He’dforgotten to ask Buzz if women actually flashed their tits at him out on thehighway. The thought of exposed golden breasts lulled Melvin to sleep. 12
  13. 13. YANNIS LIVADASTraduit par ANNE PERSONNAZ 5 Poèmes Des étoiles filantes sur l’Alabama Tu dis quelque chose et c’est un poème mort N’attends rien. Même l’indécence de nos cauchemars ne nous réveille pas. A mon âge ils y réfléchissent encore les roublards. Certains sont tellement volages Autant que l’amour à l’intérieur du sang. Autant que les étoiles filantes sur l’Alabama. 13
  14. 14. Je parle tout seul tandis que devant moi fleurissent les roses trémières Je mise seulement sur moi-même je suis un jeu de hasard mais si j’ai perdu ou gagné cela seuls les autres l’apprendront quand devant eux fleuriront les roses trémières. 14
  15. 15. La solitude je la subisLa solitude je la subis comme un accident ou comme une allergie le printemps est certain tel le jour sur la nuit au fond rien ne m’importe mais est plus profond encore de ne pas savoir en dedans si surviennent allergies accidents je grandis avec mesure les miroirs ou parlent ou se brisent en entendant ma propre voix inspiration échéance désastre salut ils n’admettent pas de fin les poèmes. 15
  16. 16. Les poètes déplorent le poème immortel Les poètes déplorent le poème immortel et c’est très relatif à cette goutte au nez du moineau. Le regard que me jettent tes seins est immortalité comme la préhension qu’a le moineau avec ses petites pattes. Les mers sont paroles qui sortent de la bouche du rivage et nous dénudés à consumer le futur pour un cierge encore. 16
  17. 17. Poème Une pluie dans mes mains meurt comme des amis qui ont cessé d’écrire et veulent pénétrer par l’oreille de la fleur le brouillard. Si cela a quelque sens. Cela déclare le noyau d’une deuxième et d’une troisième vie là où elles trouvent le vêtement les mites – Là où les cils des palmiers veillent la nuit en quelque château de sable effondré Et quant à la pluie, s’entremêlent la pluie et les bruines aussi d’une métropole retiréedont les livres furent écrits comme une prière d’une prose au style disparu en sorte que les pouces de la pluie cisèlent et par-ci et par là. 17
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  19. 19. J.S. BREUKELAAR The BoxGetting her in the box was one thing. Keeping her there was another. It took allhis expertise, all his savvy and imagination. She’d said they should do morethings together, so he wrote a running program (she loved to run) and in theprogram, unlike reality, he was the better runner. Well, faster. She still had betterform. He’d give her that.– I love it when we run together, she said when they emerged at the railwaycrossing. The sun a yellow ooze at the horizon line. There was a juice bar acrossthe street; the sign blinking in the dusk. She’d order an apply lime frappe. He’dhave a latte and a mineral water. Her chest heaved and her face was flushed,smiling at him. Her hands were on her hips, her nipples erect. She was panting.You really push me. It’s all I can do to keep up with you.He said, Keep up with me? I thought I’d lost you there at one stage. What wereyou doing, going for bagels?For a moment she looked aggrieved. Rather, something surfaced in her eyes, ahurt that he hadn’t written it, and his fingers were a blur over the console as hetried to fix it. She scared him sometimes.– Just kidding, he said. You DID keep up with me.– Pretty much, she said. Right?– Right. And you look good. You got great form.Confusion darkened her brow. Her head was tilted at an odd angle. His handsfroze over the console; what now? It was difficult to stay one step ahead over her 19
  20. 20. sometimes. Other times he could anticipate her every move, cut her off at thepass.– How could you tell? she said slowly. You were ahead of me most of the time.In the dark, Andrew smiled. Too easy. She walked right into that one. He stagilywiggled his fingers (like an orchestra conductor, he thought, or a surgeon) andbegan to type, sparing the briefest of glances across the room at the girl lying inthe dark. Wires waved like tentacles from her head, flowing into the box. Lucy.His first, his only love.– Not all the time, Lu. Once or twice there, I slowed down enough to let you pass,and you looked good. Really good. Best ass in the business, by the way.Her blue eyes cleared. She beamed back at him. Took a step closer. He couldsmell her shampoo (verbena), and sweat pooled at her throat, and he could tasteit at the back of his eyeballs and it tasted like tears.Smells and tastes were a bitch to code.-------Lucy remembered the impact. They were fighting. She was at the wheel, sotechnically it was her fault. It was always her fault. She would have been given (ortaken) the blame even if Andrew had been driving. But he wasn’t It was her. Hewouldn’t make her cry. He wouldn’t.At first it was always dark. She did things in the dark. She was running, itseemed. Or fucking. The dark was sexy. She was naked. She wanted to go home.It was always around the corner, the ocean. She could hear it, almost smell itbeneath the soft smell of night. But she couldn’t see it. It made her tired.The dark lifted a little and they were together again. He seemed different, achanged man. They did more things together now.He wasn’t angry any more. That was the difference.Just sad.------- 20
  21. 21. They were sitting at a booth. Outside the ocean roared. She was talking about herwork, about her boss who bullied her because she was hot for her. Everyone washot for Lucy, even her boss, Kate who was married to Annette, at home raisingtheir second child. Kate and Annette had been to their place for dinner. Kate’shungry eyes had followed Lucy around their small kitchen, and by the end of thenight, Annette was very drunk.Andrew wrung his hands over the keyboard, remembering. He shook his headand reached for the canned coffee on his desk. The little apartment was indarkness. Outside the freeway roared. Was it day or night? He had one cupboardfilled with Korean canned coffee and another filled with bottles of Bacardi rum.When they ran out he ordered more and the bottles or cans arrived in a box left atthe front door to their apartment. At the beginning it was easy to tell whether itwas Bacardi time or coffee time. But somewhere along the line he got them mixedup and started drinking Bacardi in the day and coffee at night. It didn’t matter.The Korean Joe tasted like rum now and vice versa. The mind was a strangething.Lucy looked tired. She had hot red rings under her eyes, and her lips werecracked. Andrew pointed as politely as he could to the blood oozing from her ear.– I’ll be right back, she said, getting up to go to the rest room. After she was gone,Andrew brushed shards of glass off the seat. When she came back, she’dfreshened up some. Lucy wrote advertising copy for a boutique firm downtown.He put a hand on her thigh while she talked. Andrew wasn’t really listening anymore.– One day, he said. You can quit. Finish that novel you started. When I get thepromotion.Andrew worked for an engineering firm in the Valley. Lucy leaned against him inthe dark. Beside the canned coffee was a bottle of Bacardi. Andrew took a swig. Inthe beginning he had mixed the rum in Snapple. But when the Snapple ran out hedidn’t order any more. One less cupboard to worry about.– I’d like that, she said. I love you. 21
  22. 22. Before he could tell her he loved her too, a swarm of her friends pushed throughthe front door of the bar, letting in a gust of cold sea air (she’d always wanted tolive on the coast). Andrew felt his brow furrow. He hadn’t written them in! He’dnever write them in. Pretentious asses. He drew an angry right-to-left smearacross the bottom of the console and they hesitated and a few of them turnedaround and went back out, but some of the others kept coming. They mobbed thebooth and squeezed in around Andrew and Lucy, reaching for the bottle of rumand passing it round. Swigging from it. One of her friends started talking aboutfilm theory and then someone chimed in about individualism and modernity andthen the split subject came up and the mind-body problem, and Andrew, who wasa civil engineer and worked for a firm in the Valley designing bus stations, andwho had no idea of who Fassbinder was, or Deleuze or Horkheimer, huddled overthe console in the dark with the bottle of Bacardi between his naked thighs, andflicked at a Korean canned coffee with the back of a bitten fingernail. Across theroom at the center of a swirling system of colored lights and buttons, the boxhummed and Lucy lay there with her wild mane of wires and behind her closedeyelids, pulsed worlds within worlds.He’d created them all.-------Lucy’s friends seemed different somehow. She felt cut off from them. They lookedright through her, talked as if she wasn’t there, yet she felt exposed somehow.Naked. Her flesh tingled and her muscles screamed. They were all so interesting,so smart. She was blessed, really. She’d known them forever, some since gradeschool and now here they were, with their beards and thrift store glasses framesand dogeared books on Horkheimer they pulled from the pockets of retro leatherjackets. Andrew loved them too. He said so. So why was he pulling away, andpulling her away too? He had her under both arms and was pulling her out of thesmoking wreck and her friends recoiled in horror, waving with a ghastly cheer.Lucky waved back tentatively, glancing up at Andrew’s unshaven chin, hisblistering neck.His hand was so hot on her thigh, too, twitching nervously. She gently removed it,got up and weaved through the bar to the restroom. She looked like hell. Maybe 22
  23. 23. that was why he was acting strange. She lifted her head to the ceiling to stop hernose bleeding (it bled all the time these days) and, as a distraction, she tried todecipher the bleeding cracks on the ceiling.I love you, the cracks said. The blood seeped from the cracks and dripped downonto her upturned face, so it must be true.------– What I want, she had started to say (he wished she’d keep both hands on thewheel).Andrew knew what she wanted. He knew her better than she knew herselfsometimes. She would write. The boss bullied her but Andrew would rescue her,free her so she could finish her novel. Just as soon as he got that promotion. Herfriends were bad for her. They made her feel inadequate. He was sure theHorkheimer dude had a thing for her still. They’d dated for a while beforeAndrew came along. Lucy said she loved how Andrew was different than herfriends (dumber?) but got along with them all so well. Had she ever even noticedthat he hardly said a word when they were around?When they called the apartment he told them she was resting. His hands flewover the console. After a while they stopped calling. So did the hospital. ThankChrist. They were all to themselves now and for the first time Andrew felt that shewas truly his. He gave her whatever she wanted. If he didn’t know what shewanted, he made it up. He could hear her in the next room tapping at herkeyboard and he smiled in the dark. He’d given her that. Her boss fired her andAndrew was put in charge of a meaty new project that supported them both(dreams were easy to code). The typing had stopped and in its place was a restivesilence. Sometimes she paced like an animal wanting to get out. He would bringin her morning coffee—he checked his watch, was that a.m or p.m? He heard anoise behind him or in front of him, it was hard to tell. Directions were hard tocode. She stood behind a door, slightly ajar. She was naked. He hadn’t written ina door. She had an athletes’s body. A flat stomach, high full breasts. Naked waseasy. 23
  24. 24. – Would you like to play chess? she said. They’d learnt together, studied themoves and strategies from the Internet.– The movie is in an hour, he said. Don’t you have to get ready?She wrinkled her forehead. One of her eyes had come loose from its socket in theaccident. The side of her face had blistered down to the bone. Andrew franticallyworked the keyboard.– You’re right, she said. I need to get cleaned up. I look like hell.She turned away. Andrew closed the door behind her and bit off a moan. Betweenher nuggety shoulder blades, a wide shard of the windscreen pierced her spine.Andrew’s legs felt wobbly. He was naked too. His body was not, in reality,athletic, just skinny, wasted away on a diet of Bacardi rum and microwave pizza.-------He looked great. Adonis-like. It must be all the running they were doing togetherthese days. She’d gotten faster, though, or he’d gotten slower.– Come here, she said.– I can’t. I don’t know where you are.His voice was loud in her earphones. She tried not to streak ahead but couldn’thelp it sometimes. He panted to keep up with her, but he never could. She waitedfor him at the cafe and he’d arrive, gasping, suggest a way for her to improve herform. The ocean roared. She fingered the volume down on her control.– I’m here, she said. Where you put me.There he was. His face was a little blurred, like a face in the rain. She peeredaround the cafe at the flickering walls. Where was the door? She could hearmovement and murmurs in the dark.– Where? he said. He looked up from his console. When had he stopped beingangry?– Over here, she said. In the box. 24
  25. 25. His head slowly turned to look at her. He had coffee on his chin. He was naked. Acord flowed from somewhere behind his ear and he dragged it behind him as hestood up and approached the bed. He stank of rum. Above his sunken belly, hischest was still scarred from the accident. He reached out a hand to her twitchingfingers, touched them, and drew it back.– Let me out, she said. You can’t keep me here forever.– Please, he said.– If I’m in the box then so are you. But you don’t have to be.– Lu—– I’ll be okay on my own. It’s what I want.He wiped the dribble off his chin with a shaking hand and turned back to theconsole. Standing over the keyboard, he began to type. She could tell he wascrying. The light reflected off his bony ass. Behind him she could see the twilitbeach. She limbered up and began to run. 25
  26. 26. 26
  27. 27. TONE SKRJANECtranslated by ANA PEPELNIK and MATTHEW ROHRER Four poemsSittin’ On Top Of the WorldI’m sitting in the middle of a hill and rolling a cigarette.with its fatherly gentleness the sun is warming upour little community: me,a patch of heather and the beesthat are buzzing and hopping from onetiny pink blossom to’s just hills all around,girlishly curly.and a church on top of each one.the slope is full of white,wide open hellebores.some of them are totally red.spruce trees are still convincingly green.perfect silence, only the chatter of birds,some car in the distance,the tireless dog barkingin the valley. 27
  28. 28. sittin on top of the worldsredi hriba sedim in si zvijam cigareto.sonce z očetovsko blagostjo grejenašo malo skupnost: mene,zaplato resja in čebele,ki brenče poskakujejo z enegamajhnega roza cveta na drugega.vsenaokrog sami griči,prav dekliško na vsakem kakšna cerkev.pobočje je polno belihna stežaj odprtih telohov.nekateri so čisto rdeči.smreke še naprej prepričljivo zelene.čista tišina, le čebljanje ptic,kakšen avto v daljavi,neutruden pasji laježv dolini. 28
  29. 29. Afternoon with MillerWhile the men werecrouched in dust arguingabout boccea woman on a balconycrossed her legsand exhibiteda breathtaking piece of thighcovered with tiny bright hairwhich, of course, you couldn’t see. 29
  30. 30. Popoldne z MillerjemMedtem ko so se možječepe v prahu prerekalio balinanju,je ženska na balkonuprekrižala nogiin razstavilačudovit kos stegnaprekrit z drobnimi svetlimi dlakami,ki se jih seveda ni videlo 30
  31. 31. A Night in the NightAgain I’m reading more.Probably because it’s fall.Sometimes I sit a while at dusk,eavesdropping on the soundshiding in silence.I watch the scenerywhich evades all laws.I feel toucheswhich others don’t.It’s night and tens oflittle dead sunssway in a black riverwhich is smooth from afarand mysteriouslike skin. 31
  32. 32. Noč v nočiSpet malo več berem.Verjetno zaradi jeseni.Včasih dalj časa sedim v mrakuin prisluškujem zvokom,ki se skrivajo v tišini.Opazujem pokrajino,ki se izmika vsem zakonitostim.Čutim dotike,ki jih drugi ne.Noč je in na desetinemajhnih mrtvih soncse pozibava v črni vodi reke,ki je od daleč gladkain skrivnostnakot koža. 32
  33. 33. A Poem in the ShadeI sit in the shade of an old bay laurel. I’m smokingand pretending to write. As if I’mdeep in my thoughts I stare through infinity.A cup with tea, my afternoon meal,is empty. Just like memories,digested several times. Buzzing of fliesand indistinct voices from a distance. I’m lookingat luxurious passion flowers. Totally ripeorange fruits and completely unbelievableblossoms with antennas builtin floors. All this miracle on a single limb.I can’t scent any higher truths.The sun that creeps through limbs of a bay laurelis feeding on my body. A midge on the tip of my nose.I’m still remembering, feeling, seeing.I write this down. I write a painting.Words aren’t always a game. 33
  34. 34. Pesem v senciSedim v senci starega lovora. Kadimin se delam, da pišem. Kot da semgloboko zamišljen, zijam skozi neskončnost.Skodelica s čajem, moj popoldanski obrok,je prazna. Kot so prazni že večkratprebavljeni spomini. Brenčanje muhin nerazločni glasovi iz daljave. Gledamrazkošen grm pasijonke. Čisto zrelioranžni sadeži in popolnoma neverjetnicvetovi z antenami in zgrajeniv nadstropja. Ves ta čudež na eni veji.Nobenih višjih resnic ne zavoham.Sonce, ki se splazi skozi veje lovora,se pase na mojem telesu. Mušica na koncu nosa.Še naprej se spominjam, čutim, vidim.To zapišem. Napišem sliko.Besede niso vedno igra 34
  35. 35. THIBAULT DE VIVIES Deux tentatives Le temps que ça passe.J’ai soulevé le couvercle, dans les environs pas de quoi s’arrêter en chemin, fautfaire au plus vite, j’ai descendu les marches en sous-sol, la petite visite des bas-fonds, pas de lumière avant d’atteindre l’interrupteur, l’arrivée en douceur fautespérer, pas de quoi appeler à l’aide, au plus discret bien au contraire, il memanque le jeune homme à la peau blanche, perdu là-haut en chemin, pas letemps de le porter dans mes bras, pas le temps de sauver sa peau, plus monproblème, ça accourt de tout partout, y’a à fuir.J’ai descendu les marches quatre à quatre avec en chemin les chocs contre laparoi, les gouttes de sang à essuyer sur le front dégagé avant la sortie nocturne, laboule à zéro pour que ça repousse avec une nouvelle tête pour tromper l’ennemiedans les temps à venir, j’atteins le fond du trou noir la cachette, avec la prière quim’accompagne, quelques mots pour rassurer le Seigneur Dieu du ciel et de laterre qui saura me pardonner lui, si ce n’est la communauté des hommes. ***J’ai souvenir d’être resté là le temps que l’orage passe au-dessus, la petiteprotection au-dedans de la terre, personne pour me rappeler aux mauvaisespensées, le jeune gars abandonné là-haut sur la voie, suffisamment de bonnesâmes autour maintenant le courage à disposition pour s’occuper du malheur dusouffrant amoché, mais allez donc je vous en prie y’a à faire, ramasser les potscassés, je vous laisse, j’ai pas à présenter ma culpabilité à la face du tout venant,suffisamment à faire avec le créateur qui réclame les comptes au jour le jour. 35
  36. 36. J’ai coché sur le mur les heures qui passent en décomposition de minutes et desecondes avant ça, l’objectif à atteindre la durée d’une nuit à venir avec une gardeen préliminaire avant d’aller chercher le sommeil réparateur sur le moelleuxempaillé de la paillasse, j’ai ce temps raisonnable à occuper en ne pensant pastrop, c’est à garder pour les prochains jours de communion avec le très haut,l’envie et le besoin de se reconstruire avant la prochaine sortie.J’ai réchauffé au gaz le reste de viande dans le torchon, du manger chaud pourressourcer mon corps assis sur la pierre, le cul qui s’endurcit à force desollicitation, j’ai mon temps de solitude heureuse, loin des bruits encombrants dela cité ronde ces temps-ci, les pensées malsaines en vadrouille et c’est tant mieuxpour ce soir, faut le repos du guerrier pour les heures à suivre. ***J’ai souvenir d’avoir relu mes notes, les celles prises sur le carnet de route avantle drame, d’avant que ça arrive, pour que ça se passe au mieux la préméditation,je sais bien ce que je veux et je sais bien comment je peux y arriver, le plan desrues sans nom du quartier, de quoi se perdre si tu ne fais pas au mieux avec laconcentration de tous les instants, j’ai allumé la lampe torche, personne quim’empêchera d’accomplir la mission, celle qui m’a été attribuée ce jour, les ordresdu Très-Haut.J’ai pas eu à faire avec de la complicité, et laquelle d’ailleurs? Qui va suivre lemal-foutu? Qui va faire confiance? Je préfère opérer seul, juste moi et lescomptes à rendre au Divin, bien suffisant, merci de me donner du travail, je faisau mieux pour m’y prendre avec la manière, satisfaire Mon Seigneur Dieu,suffisamment de bâtisseurs à l’œuvre, j’ai ma seule responsabilité dans l’affaire. *** 36
  37. 37. Je l’ai bien vu le jeune homme, me regarder de travers, par les yeux en dessous,quand je passe pas loin au retour de la balade, je ne le supporterai pas longtempsle trajet contrariant vers le temple, ma brûlure sur le flan qui jusque là étaitcachée, maintenant à découvert par sa faute, la croix divine incrustée au ferblanc, il a montré du doigt le sale gars pour les tous ceux qui sont mis au courant,désormais on connaît ma monstruosité et on raconte les méchancetés au-prés dufeu, j’entends au loin qu’on se moque de moi par sa faute à lui, on parle de celuiqu’a encore la foi, abandonnée de tous en ces temps raisonnables.L’a bien fallu que je ne laisse pas faire à me laisser pisser dessus verbalement, l’abien fallu que j’intervienne, l’a bien fallu que j’y plante le bâton dans le flancgauche pour l’équité, où j’ai la marque de brûlure t’auras la trace de mon passage,la plaie refermée avec l’insensibilité au toucher d’une cicatrice qui se voit,l’impureté du corps à jamais, le complexe qui ne part pas, je ne sais pas si tu ysurvivras à l’acte criminel dicté par la main du seigneur, ma caution divine, jepoursuis ma route vers d’autres aventures. ***J’ai souvenir d’avoir essuyé le sang sur le bâton, la matière rouge ça contaminel’objet, je nettoie toute la longueur, je replace dans l’étui, je range dans le sac,mon petit rituel bien réglé, je ne touche à rien d’autre, je finis mon assiette enléchant les contours, les restes faut pas les gaspiller, j’ai la satisfaction du bienmanger du bien bu j’ai la peau du ventre bien tendu merci petit jésus, la nuits’annonce longue et profonde, avant ça je repasse à la main en appuyant bien fortle col blanc de mon habit noir ouvert sur les côtés, à faire tremper pour le jour àvenir.J’ai eu les rêves peuplés de créatures immenses et nauséabondes, ellesm’entourent les bêtes de leurs grands bras protecteurs, elles me disent ça va allert’en fais pas trop mon bonhomme, elles serrent bien fort à m’en faire péter larespiration, je ne ressens plus rien, je m’élève au-dessus de mon corps, je ne voispas la lumière blanche au bout du tunnel, j’ai la grande déception, je décide derevenir en moi pour prolonger ma vie bien remplie après tout. 37
  38. 38. ***Au petit matin, j’ai plié mes affaires, j’ai enroulé la paillasse, j’ai embrassé lecrucifix, j’ai tout mis les résidus cartonnés du repas de la veille dans le sacplastique à jeter, j’ai laissé l’espace aussi propre que je l’avais trouvé en entrant,j’ai la sueur au front, je monte les marches vers la lumière du jour, je relève lecouvercle sur la rue et je marche les quelques pas pour m’éloigner de l’ouverture,pour ne pas éveiller les soupçons, j’ai repris ma vie de tous les jours jusqu’à laprochaine mission, la petite voix divine au creux de l’oreille qui me montre ladirection, à qui le tour cette fois-ci ? 38
  39. 39. Tentative de pourquoi ici ou ailleurs… (1)Tentative de pourquoi ici ou ailleurs je n’ai rencontré que désolation sur monchemin dans la lande au sortir de la cité j’avance à petits pas dans la direction dulointain et je me nourris de ce que je trouve à disposition quelques fruits ouherbes énergétiques qui feront bien l’affaire et je pense à ce que j’ai laissé derrièremoi quelques amis mais peu de femmes qui pleurent à mon départ en agitant lemouchoir blanc pour l’adieu de circonstance, je sais bien que je n’y reviendrai pasnon pas question de revenir en arrière Messieurs Dames faudra faire avec monabsence pour de bon ou pour un temps mal défini je m’éloigne de la cité qui neveut plus de ma présence dans les parages ça non suffisamment de mal répanduautour de moi, à venir au bout du chemin caillouteux la possible rencontre avecles peuplades du nord oui de celles qui ne séjournent pas plus d’un tempsnécessaire pour construire au pied d’une source une petite cité dans laquelle onlaissera deux d’entre eux un homme et une femme pour qu’ils repeuplent la zoneet peut importe l’âge tant pis même s’ils n’ont pas atteint la puberté ils trouverontde quoi survivre et le procédé pour acquérir une descendance coûte que coûte onsait bien que la nature fait son travail comme il faut, j’ai le bonjour chaleureux cejour de grande prière dans la peuplade on n’est pas dans les meilleuresdispositions pour la grande disponibilité pour l’étranger alors faut que je fassel’effort de circonstance cest-à-dire le sourire sur le visage et la main tenduefermement en signe de paix, je ne veux pas déranger bien sûr mais juste peut-êtrede quoi me nourrir et boire un peu c’est rester quelques temps en leur compagniepeut-être quelques jours pour reprendre des forces c’est qu’on n’a pas le moral aubeau fixe et l’aventure ne fait que commencer, les enfants en âge m’ontquestionné sur où est ma demeure et quelle langue je peux bien parler etcurieusement je les comprends moi sans qu’eux en retour n’entendent mesréponses ou bien à demi mot pas plus alors faut accompagner les mots par desgestes qui racontent la petite maison sur la grande place de la cité on venait me 39
  40. 40. rendre visite pour les soins à l’âme que je prodiguais à qui voulait bien qu’oncherche au-dedans de leur tête si on y jette un œil alors peut-être y trouverons-nous un petit quelque chose à guérir, les enfants ont eu peur de mes gestes quipointent du doigt vers la tête on me dit qu’il ne faut pas faire ça non surtout nepas indiquer montrer du doigt la boite à cerveau on me dit que ça peut envoyer demauvaises ondes dans la tribu les croyances sont tenaces alors attention de nepas effrayer les enfants mais trop tard ils se sont éloignés en courant dans tous lessens en ordre dispersé et peut-être qu’ils n’y reviendront plus vers l’étranger quitrimbale avec lui tout son lot de fantasmes pour les générations à venir quirepeupleront la lande, les gouvernants tribaux ont su malgré tout m’accueilliravec les honneurs malgré tout on me propose de partager le manger et le boire eton me prépare la paillasse pour cette première nuit de sommeil les rêves clairsd’une immensité verte qui peine à se régénérer alors comme on peut on acheminel’eau pour éviter que le vert ne se transforme en jaune et que la vie désertetotalement les lieux, je dors en profondeur et n’entends pas l’agitation importanted’un environnement en mutation constante c’est que la nuit est plus fraîche quele jour dans la lande alors on s’agite pour ne pas sombrer et se laisser envahir parles mauvais esprits du froid qui paralysent les bonnes pensées il est dit, au réveilje suis bel et bien seul autour du feu plus aucun membre de la tribu mais peut-être seulement quelques traces de leur passage mais pas plus de quoi attesterd’une présence passée non pas plus pour en avoir le cœur net alors bien sûr l’afallu que je me redresse et que je reprenne la route pour la prochaine étape àquelques milles de là un nouveau peuple ou une nouvelle cité se présenterontpeut-être avec de nouveaux repères à prendre mais en attendant merci bien duvoyage entre veille et réalité qui sait ce qu’il y a à retenir de l’une et de l’autre. 40
  41. 41. IDA-MARIE LEBECH Elleve malerier Untitled 41
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  48. 48. Fisker-Cykelpiger 48
  49. 49. Lige til at skide på 49
  50. 50. Runners high 50
  51. 51. Så lange det klapper 51
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  53. 53. SCOTT ROGERS Seven poemsLooking back I realize now I never had a chance to win her over.we sat in her closetbecause she was afraidofthunder storms.i had a shoelodged up my assasshe spoke.she told me the storiesof heryouthpast lovesthe things that made hernotbelieve in loveanymore.sudden bursts of lightasshe flicked her lighter 53
  54. 54. and triedto burn theends ofa jacket.we smoked onedownand then she moved inonmedemanding sexher hands violentagainst myskinkissesshot with recklessabandonmentsheclimbed on topandrode herself sillyfinallyclimaxing as thunderroared in muffledspurtsjust outside.there was the smellofsex sweetandhot as we laid theretogetherstill sweating 54
  55. 55. hearts beatingbreath heavy.looking backi realize nowi never had a chancetowin her oversimplybecause she refused to be. 55
  56. 56. as my heart fellfrom your handsandshattered there upon the floorall the piecesmatched the patterns on your dressexactly 56
  57. 57. listening to Nick Drakeher pantiesslowly descendingtothe floorthe brush and tickleof herhairacross my chestaswe kissgentle candles dancewithshadowsupon the wallandceilingwords spokenwetsyllables pronouncedhardin the endwewere both fucked 57
  58. 58. a Biblea pair of brass knucklesa knife from my dead unclea used wedding ringand a stuffed sheep named Carlthis is all I have to get me till dawn 58
  59. 59. exhaustionexhaustion.weak coffee in a broken cuplukewarm atbest.thoughts of you stick likenapalmand burn me beyondrecognition.i sit naked on the side of the tubhead in handstrying to rememberwhen and youthful resolveis nowemptyand the numbness ofall those yearsall those woundsisstarting to wear off. 59
  60. 60. either oneperhaps it was the malt liquorin a red plastic cupor the girl with a heart murmurwho sat on the roofquoting Vonnegutas she jerked me offin the moonlight 60
  61. 61. BENOIT VINCENT Farigoule bastard, berger des baronnies (Extraits)IVAlors se rend farigouleBASTARD chez l’ami Picris. Picris loge dans une vieillemasure, un peu à l’écart de la rue la plus excentrée depuis la fontaine • celle de laplace. Sa maison n’en touche aucune autre. Elle est cernée de grandes herbes etl’été, c’est à peine qu’on parvient en son perron. Qui est une grande dalleconstituée de pierres de Taulignan, levées, couchées, venues de loin, à pied. Lesavoines et carottes s’écartent au pas de farigouleBASTARD, ainsi les laituesmontées et piquantes. Il ne frappe pas, mais gratte un peu le bois charnu,desquamé de la porte, puis la pousse. Hé, lance-t-il en traversant la cuisine, quiest nue, propre. Picris est de l’autre côté, dans l’espace vague qu’il s’est constitué,d’herbes folles et d’arbustes glanés sur les collines, dont certains n’ont passurvécu au transfert ou au voyage. ”Alors prêt ?”, en voyant arriver l’autre.farigouleBASTARD hoche. Ils s’assoient comme à l’accoutumé des beaux jours,sous le tilleul qui ferme le terrain. Derrière une ligne d’aurioles, les paliures sesont parés des boucliers. Après les quelques pieds trop vieux de vigne, voilà laforêt qui ceint non seulement le territoire de Picris, mais tout le village et grandepartie de la vallée. Mauvaise forêt de blaches qui ne grandissent pas maisembâclent quand même les va-et-vient — et recèle toutes les bêtes. Chacunextrait son petit cube de tabac gris, et c’est toujours un étonnement de le voirentier, solide, fermement cubique, alors que permanent serré dans les gilets, lesgibecières, ou les mauvaises sacoches. Ils ne parlent guère, chacun plus minéral,mais entre eux c’est soudé, coopérant, compatissant. Syntone. « Tu as vu Celleces jours ? — Non. » (Silence de cigale, de martinets.) « Tu entraînes Sabrina ? — 61
  62. 62. Oui. » (A nouveau.) « Je prends un abricot. — Va. » Lorsqu’il franchit la lignevégétale que les clôtures miment, les nuit glissent sur les serres et dans lescombes. C’était leur séparation, qui s’est terminée au vin piquette. Âpre est le jourqui vient. 62
  63. 63. 5Je m’appelle Ierevan, mes amis, quand j’en ai, m’appellent Evgenj, et encoreZheka. J’ai vingt-sept ans. Je suis arrivé par la terre, ou par la mer, ou par lesairs, qu’importe. Nous sommes venus six, et cinq ont effectivement posé le piedsur ton sol ; nous avons exigé des nuits qu’elles nous portent jusqu’à toi ou auxtiens. Nous avons excédé les limites qui nous avaient été imparties. Depuisl’enfance, nous luisions d’une pâleur clandestine et, partant, suspecte. Nousétions avides de cette lumière, nous clignotions. Nos mains s’allongeaient, etnous perdions peu à peu le goût du panais ou du raifort. Nous avions soifd’autres envergures. Nous attributs numéraux, et moi avions passé plus detemps dans l’uniforme couleur taupe de notre Etat pacifié que nus, allongés, lamain sur la cuisse, brisés sur la ferraille de nos matelas à songer à des boissons+ citron, à des cafés, au soleil, aux cultures de fruits. A des femmes moins pétriespar les mottes de terre que par le désir. Moi je rêvais surtout à des femmes ;propres, aimables, affables. On avait un grand lac, et sur la suie noire de sespoissons goulus de vases passaient des bateaux, qui transbordaient je ne saisquelle marchandises pour vous autres, et nous n’étions pas plus mauvaischargement que les racines ou les épices, ou tout ce qui transite par les cahutesqui se font appeler port et sur quoi ingénument les bakchichs font office de ciresigillée. Nos pluies transperçaient nos vêtements et la faim ne les tenait plus.Alors moi, un feu jeune Frère, un cousin, et trois autres, nous avons chargé unepalette pleine de nous-mêmes, car tel était notre office payé en liasses de billets,à croire qu’on se nourrissait comme des rats de cette paperasse qui n’achetaitrien, et on devait encore les distiller nous-mêmes les bouteilles d’alcool moisiqu’on ne pouvait se permettre. Nous six embarqués par un ou deux autres, à quion avait promis de ramener une part de lune — pas sûr qu’ils aient le cran ceux-là de sortir leurs sabots de leur glaire. On a passé les heures dans les cales,celles-ci ou d’autres, dans les trains, ou les avions, accrochés de fortune à unessieu, un carter ou un quelconque système précontraint fixé par frottement. Tuconnais la rouille ? On l’a tutoyée et traduite, on s’est inspiré de son art et on estdevenus tels. Et par chance, et par avalanches diverses et autres cabrioles, voilàqu’on débarque d’un pays l’autre, chaque jour plus sales, on avançait, on nes’arrêterait qu’une fois atteinte la terre si longtemps allumée dans nos esprits.Quand j’étais petit, il y avait un livre avec des oies qui portaient des enfants en 63
  64. 64. Cocagne. J’ai longuement patienté l’heure. Je suis resté assis devant le fleuve, àvoir s’écouler l’eau comme du sable ou un rêve ; j’ai pris l’ombre et le soleil, j’ailonguement pissé dans le crépuscule. J’attendais le bon passage, le bon zodiaqueinscrit dans le ciel à la cartographie rapidement incrustée dans mon cœur. Lesnuages ont vogué, dessinant des formes grotesques et tour à tour majestueuses.Puis la corneille a crié une fois. Nos maigres économies ramassées dans uneboîte de porphyre ou de jade, planquées dans un pan de bordure en dentelle dela Volodga, et passées de l’un à l’autre selon un ballet savamment mesuré(Klavdj avait étudié les mathématiques statistiques) de sorte qu’il ne soit jamaisséparé plus longtemps d’au moins deux de nos affûts ; nous nous relayions entout, et la mort de mon Frère a durablement déréglé notre machine, Klavdjpeinant à trouver non seulement le laps pour, mais aussi les moyens physiquesnécessaires (feuille propre et stylo fonctionnel) pour combiner une nouvellerotation à cinq. Nous sommes arrivés en ballottant, comme des balles de tissusou des poupées livrées au marché, dégueulasses, amaigris. En lieu et place denotre cœur, c’étaient mille kilomètres de privations, d’humiliations, mais aussile vide de suffisance et de morgue, alors comme un seul corps, on s’est levé bienvite le genou qui par légèreté passagère, ou distraction, s’était posé sur ce quiallait devenir notre nouvelle maison possible, et on s’est mis debout… 64
  65. 65. B1. farigouleBASTARD est simulacre / & pastiche / Les autres doutent de lecroiser / Il porte une fausse moustache / Postiche / On dit qu’il se résigne à sacabane. Il est renfrogné & ridicule / Il se terre comme un lièvre / Il est nu commeun ver / Il est constamment terrorisé / On le voit dormir dans un camion,trimballant des plaques de tôle ondulée, des drains multicolores de plastique /On l’entend qui ahane comme un bœuf, qui chuinte comme un nourrisson / On levoit aux zincs décatis miser de la rouille sur d’incertains paris / On le voit faire dustop à deux endroits en même temps / On le voit guetter de porte en porte / Il seglisse parfois dans les appartements et surprend les ébats secrets de Kévin etKelly / On le voit assis sur les marches du temple, à se caresser la barbe, unebouteille serrée dans un sac de papier kraft / On le dénonce aux bonnes mœurs /Il apparaît, mais pas de la même manière ; il passe de visage en visage, il se fonddans la masse, il se confond. Il mime jusqu’aux marbrures et engelures de la nuit./ Il est plus souvent nommé qu’il ne parle et, si elles existaient, ses oreillespréviendrait les pompiers ; son corps est avertissement de grand malheur / Il estAnkou, oiseau de mauvais augure / On se détourne de lui / On lui jette des sortsfétides / Il est impuissant / Il collectionne les pierres / Il harnache de vieillesrosses, et leur soutire de l’avoine / Il est sans foi ni loi / Il a grandi avachi dans lacourbure de ses paupières / Il est self-made man, self-made Bastard. 2.farigouleBASTARD est masque romain / un ancêtre. Masque tombal, on le tientdans un meuble du hall d’entrée / Il est le Vieux dont on garde en souvenir lepetit ombilic, par superstition / Il est masque de théâtre, jour et nuit, lune-soleil,son empressement à être évident est consternant / Il est bruit et fureur, colère,tremblement / Il est geste brusque et morbus comitalis / Il est bave, pendant delangue, et la rage / Il croque des coquilles vides & suce les pattes des crustacés / Ilest extravagance / Il accumule les heures, puis les mélange et les distribue auhasard / C’est une machine à perdre / Il est désorientation, boussole brisée entombant sur un os / Alors il est passé dedans / Il évolue six pieds sous terre / Sesmoustaches sont roussies / Il marche au fond de l’enfer. Il a trouvé une voie,personne ne peut dire / personne ne peut dire, pour revenir avec lui, ce qu’il yfait, ni pourquoi il se plaît à y séjourner. Quand il nous échoie, il ne rapporte rien,mauvais pêcheur — ou pécheur trop concerné / Il dévore le tribut de la mer, ilengloutit son content d’âmes en peine / Il est vessie & lanterne. 3. 65
  66. 66. farigouleBASTARD est un ours / torve habitant du dehors, du froid, de l’obscur /Il s’entortille dans la chevelure du lierre et se roule sous les feuilles jusqu’à lasaison / Il ne paye aucun écot / Il germe / Il sème / Il insémine / Il se coule dansles vignes, écrase le mout le marc pieds nus / Il boit comme un trou et se dandineen gueulant sur le boulevard / Les fenêtres claquent ou ce sont ses dents / Il foutle feu aux moissons / Il se couvre de fétus et disloque les gerbes et les ballots /C’est un feu follet, il faut voir les razzias sur le champ / Il se laisse pousser labarbe / Il veille aux toisons / Il hiberne sous le lit à peine nubile / Il éclate ensanglot, à chaque lune gibbeuse, dans la tiédeur de leur laine / Il éructe larmesaux yeux / Il porte un lourd gourdin en bandoulière, et s’en sert pour assommerles fâcheux / Il chie à même le sol, voire au perron des habituels / Il patientecomme le serpent et soudain déboule, se dresse bifide, une couronne de laurierssur la tête, général vainqueur, en chorégie de pacotille, braquemard tendu àéclater sous la toge, en goguette veineuse, vengeur, pour un triomphe de pétalesnouveaux, de confettis de corps, de gouttes de sperme. Sa gibecière estcornemuse / Il souffle dans les urnes / Dans le bourdon des vielles et les éclats decrécelles, il se branle à l’unisson. 66
  67. 67. TATJANA DEBELJACKI Five poems You believe - believeIt is only about your psyche, magical stories are literally stories for little children.Magic takes the advantage of the fact that a man’s psyche affects his physiognomy– if you believe that something bad will happen to you, it will. When you arereading or thinking about things you must do it critically – you can’t believeeverything you read or you are told. Books on parapsychology are mainly writtenwith the purpose to make money and they usually publish terrible lies …Once again, and most importantly, magic works only if you believe in it … 67
  68. 68. A Pyramid and a CathedralTrue poets do not fear facing the lighting of truth, the times long gone whichmerge into a life dimension. Times fly, thoughts fly. An eventful experience! Wecannot help uniting. Don’t be far away, stray words. I looked at my ancientmanuscript. Each conceals a pearl! A storm is raging, a lightning hits crystalclouds, a hero fugitive, a dog under a tree, a cabin in fog. You, a beast of flesh, aspaceship from cartoons. You can say it is unstability in your horoscope! Ourdreams touch! Miracles of logos, infinite moves, right and left, Yang and Yin, Abeland Cain ...Who is going to win, black or white? Magical attractions 68
  69. 69. THE PAINI take a nap and IT HURTS,I fall asleep, wake upIT HURTSI think about something elseI feel THE PAINI look for myself,I lie to myself,I get drunk,and IT HURTS,and IT HURTS.To die in the arms of someone who does not trust youIT HURTS. 69
  70. 70. INSTEAD OF MY WILLBefore the sunrise,Before the cock-a-doodle-do,Barking of the dog,And something else,While I’m introducing myself,I’m showing special attentionLaughing atThe double-echoing applause.By the same sound they are revealing the secret.Are these the people I used to know?Why are they here?I accept the boquetsOf withered words.I don’t have time to dry the greeting,To tune up the look.To shake hands.I’m in a hurry for thirsty ErosBlisfully absent minded! 70
  71. 71. INCUBUS – INCUBI Do you feel any aches in particular Part of the body that any medications could relief, Neither massage, nor any other therapy could? Do you dream the dreams that become true? Do you suffer from headaches often Those with no real organic cause? Does the «inner voice » sometimeswhisper that you should start an argument, smash, adore the devil, do non-consensual sexual activities, incest and alike? Do you feel repulsion towards Praying and addressing to God? No? Do you have cramps or itches in any part of your body With no real organic cause? Do you have a feeling that someone is constantly following you And influencing your life in a negative way? Yes ? I dream from time to time I dream on regular basis I do not dream 71
  72. 72. 72
  73. 73. DELPHINE MICHEL LululandTout le monde finit par me demander : que fais-tu là-bas, qu’es-tu allé faire là-bas, pourquoi là-bas ? Qu’est-ce que c’est que ce pays ? Ça paraît tellementimprobable, il faudrait une bonne raison pour. Il n’y en a pas.Le premier souvenir est l’absence de pain, de vrai pain, fait par un boulanger avecses mains à lui, ses défauts à lui, trop de sel, pas assez de sel, trop cuit, pas assezcuit. Du pain, quoi. Et ça passe dans les rêves comme un paradis perdu. Peuimporte que je l’aie mangé ou pas. Le drame est que je n’ai plus le choix de ne pasle vouloir. Il y a ce pain au cube, parfait, moulé, insipide.*er läekert*Les portugais rehaussent bizarrement l’humanité par leur présence ultra- réalisteet mélancolique. La saudade du quotidien. Un air grave même au supermarché.Quelque chose qui donne le droit d’avoir l’air triste aussi tout en continuant. Onn’est pas venus ici pour rien. Donc.Les frontaliers bataillent. Chance culpabilité ouverture opportunisme échangeeffacement. Etre un peu là mais partir vite pour ne pas gêner, ne pas en faire trop,jamais. Rester les moins payés, c’est sans doute acheter la paix, la paie, la paix.On ne sait plus.Travailler pour l’Europe. Quelle belle idée fierté utilité. Jusqu’à ce que. Le petitmonde fermé, le petit monde clôturé, le petit monde entre soi, le petit monde.Mais.Les maisons 1900 sont belles, belles jusqu’à l’euthanasie. On ne restaure pas, ondétruit au mètre, on construit au kilomètre, ravage. L’identité des murs. De sibelles maisons sur des rues entières, de toutes les couleurs. On attend que lespropriétaires ne puissent plus. 73
  74. 74. *Si vous souhaitiez changer d’habitation, nous serions à votre disposition pourvous faire la meilleure offre en vue de l’optimisation de votre bien – Noussommes à l’écoute de vos besoins.*Bam. Boum. Bim. Une rue d’immeubles. Energie positive, architecture parfaite,trois étages seulement, parquets biologiques et trois places de parking en sous-sol. Pour ton 4X4, ta bonne conscience et ton image.Bénir les profs d’allemand. Finalement, elles avaient raison, c’était simple etbeau. Les profs de Lulu s’embrouillent dans les règles : on n’est pas tous d’accord.Et nous ? Comprenez et répondez en français, ce sera déjà ça. Mais pas assez ça.70% d’immigrants, autant de francophones. Les allemands jonglent, nous, onrame. Quelques années. Puis ça vient. Trop tard, toujours trop tard.Les anglais restent trente ans là en ne parlant qu’anglais. Stupéfaction.Lululand est le pays idéal pour la famille Ingalls dopée au Cac40. Papa Mamanles enfants le chien, la maison l’école européenne les amis de vacances les parentsdes amis des enfants.Remarie-toi avant de divorcer. Le parent-solo n’a pas lieu d’être. A moins d’unproblème. Ton problème. Pense à ton image.Ton image ta voiture ton attitude rebelle au minimum. Une fissure, des travaux,un enfant handicapé peut être, tes petits somaliens parrainés à nourrir et tonvel’oh.On ne crache pas dans la soupe. Même bio. 74
  75. 75. AMIT RANJAN Two stories Abra Dabra MacabraRum tum trumpledum, bacon fat and rumpledum, old saint Mumpledum, pullhis tail and strumpledum.This was a doggerel he had read in Shaw’s Saint Joan. Every morning hemuttered this little rap to himself, to prepare for the day’s rap n’ roll. Sleep late,get up late, miss the breakfast, smoke a cigarette, get up on the old scooter, whichmatched the mileage of a car. He knew the way blindfolded. Reach Munirka, takea left, straight, right, Moti Bagh, Shantipath, the swirl of Mother Teresa crescent,Park Street, Mandir Marg, left and right. Simple. Sixteen kilometers, twenty fiveminutes. The last turn has a shamshan ghat next to it. Stench of burning flesh inthe heart of the city, people feeding pigeons nearby, vultures hovering overhead.They say men and women come back as pigeons. So they feed. And behind thecrematorium is the tower where our friend works on the thirteenth floor. Morbidneighbourhood. And then rabid rap of the boss. Puck, puck, puck. Trap, trap,trap. Replace the first Ps with F, and Ts with C whenever these words are used.They called him Rishikesh, after his flowing mane, and his foul mouth andtemper.“I wish I also became a pigeon. Then Rishikesh will come to feed me, and I’ll bitehim. Might be some vulture friend would do a little woodpecker act on his headtoo,” Vikram thinks.“Dude, why are you pucking late by pucking fifteen minutes. What trap is this!Go, do this story on this pucking past life regression guy. He’s written somepucking book on pucking people having pucking past lives. Puck lunch, and just 75
  76. 76. pucking go.”So the photographer and our friend are on the scooter-cum-car again traveling toHabitat centre to cover the book launch. A David guy is making a powerpointpresentation with pictures of celebrities and pictures of who they were in theirpast lives. The basic funda was that people retain their bone structures, and theirinterests also. And also, a white guy remains white. Only Halle Berry, who mustbe in his hall of fame, is given a concession, and she was a white girl in her lastbirth. There must be some Indian flavour to the presentation too. But due to lackof his database, the Indian past life ancestry is also white. The entire Bachchanfamily has been transported down, mother, father, wife, in the same hierarchy.The star attraction, president Kalam, was Tipu Sultan in his last birth. King Khanwas a nautch girl Sadhona Bose in his last tryst!Tea time. “Sir, can you tell me what I was in my past life?” Vikram asks David.Dave, the grave hunter, takes him to dark room with red and blue lights.Hypnotism begins. Abra dabra macabra.The lights blink. Red, blue, black, flash, flashback, black. Vikram’s eyes roll up.He goes into a trance. “What would you like to be in your past life?” David asks.You mean what would I have liked to be in my past life? Or you’re going to tell mewhat I was in my past life? Or what I would like to be in my next life?I am not God to grant you a slot. Learn to look ahead into the past.Ok then I’ve learnt. I guess I want to be a pigeon, vulture, or toad in my past life.And a hot shot babe in my next. That’s just an application if you can forward it toGod. Your recommendation might work. And I promise you a one night stand forthe favour.Don’t forget your promise. But toad is an odd choice…Haven’t you heard girls say, “How many toads do we have to kiss before we findthe prince?” I’ll offer a kiss. A prince free with every kiss. A TV free with a remote.“So?” asks David.Will the dumb princess or princesses realize whether I am the same toad? I ll pop 76
  77. 77. up everyday as a new toad. Like new cellphone covers. With shining warts.“But you don’t want to be the prince cursed as a toad?” David tempts him.Are you mad? Then I’ll have to live with one princess. And then she’ll be queen.Bee queen. And what’ll happen to the toad fraternity. Once the prince is found,who’ll kiss them? And the girls will have to kiss only princes. And the castle andall that. They’d have clean pool of mineral water and all that. If I want toreconvert, or take a day off as a toad it’ll be so tough. I am a dirty toad of driedmud puddle and I wash my face in the Yamuna waters. Besides, do you think anyprincess really wants a prince? Dress up everyday, smile the toothpaste smile tothe audience, code of conduct, poets writing poetry about your waist, all that jazz.And then get kidnapped by some monster in a fort, and wait for the prince torescue you. The prince, meanwhile meets a hundred princesses on the way. Themonster gets bored, leaves the ageing princess of his own accord. I think theprincesses are always interested in toads, than princes. Besides, you haven’theard of the Ashwamedha yagya, have you? If you are the head princess, you’redone for.“That’s an interesting thought, but still a toad is a toad. It is hard to live on theroad. Some prince or the other crushes you, and you lie there till you become theroad”. David can get poetic if he gets emotional.But sir, you said people retain their bone structure, and even humanity. Thenwhat’s the point of this exercise?“Oh, that was just celebrity chat. I can’t show a Kennedy as a cat in last life topeople, right? I have given people two births or berths, whatever you will, inhumanity. Look, it’s like this. Indian tradition says that you have to be reborn 84lakh times as different species, and then you can be born a human. That’s why Igave you the choice of what you’d like to be in your last birth. You choose yourpick, I plug you in to that species, whenever you were that. That’s why I say lookahead into the past,” David pulls up the specs up his nose bridge for effect.You are a hardcore intellectual. This is like Farce-ist study of human die-eclectics.Plug me in, into the buffalo birth.“First toad, then buffalo!” David is baffled, “Aren’t you interested in knowingwhat you were as a human. I give two chances to mankind, I told you. 77
  78. 78. Well, if I had the same bone structure and same interests, I would have beensome court poet writing heaps of praises for some lascivious lump of a leeringbadshah. Like now I write about the Page 3 people, about how hip and happeningthey are. Give me the buffalo deal. Haven’t you heard Bhains ke aage been bajanese kya fayda? Boss, butcher, traffic, credit card collectors, no one would matter.Buffalo is the most philosophical animal, it does its own thing under allcircumstances.David is impressed. He thinks, and thinks for long, and then says, “No dude.Black buffalo is killed, white cow is sacred. Racism. No! No! No!”I appreciate your concern. But I wonder why in your presentation no black guyever came back as white. When Pears had launched it’s soap, the ad showed ablack baby turning white after a bath. A soap can do it, a rebirth can’t?“Come on,” says David, “our discussion is getting too political. How about addingsome colour? How about plugging you into the peacock mode. Plumes, anddance, and rain. And if you start losing your plumes, I’ll sell you a plume lotion,which’ll make it regrow. Just fifty dollars per plume. And then we can make a“before and after” ad and set up our own venture called David Peacock lotion.Shut up! No peacock, no Hitchcock. These sound like tabloid puns. Besides, theentire gender scene will be inverted. Male more beautiful than the female. Menwill be molested, their plumes would be plucked and dipped in ink to writeadvertorials, and politicians will have to fight for men’s reservation instead ofwomen’s. You know politicians chant the same slogan all their life, so it’ll betough for them to change their object of crusade. I don’t want to be in their badbooks.David, meanwhile, is gleaming with a new offer. “Giraffe would be cool. Longneck, long vision. Spotted skin, a symbol against racism. Cool style too.”Listen I don’t want to get into trouble with my fashion designer friends. They useminimum fabric for the rest of the body, but they make very cool scarves. Afterall, as a writer says, all dress is fancy dress except our natural skins. They’ll haveto work hard for the scarves of the long neck. These days they are the Page 3people, I’ll lose my job as a party journalist. 78
  79. 79. “Dude, you are absolutely pig-headed. I won’t be able to fit you in anywhere inthe 84 lakh options. Even non-living objects know what they want to be in theirprevious life. This rock over there wants to be a star. It was a star that rocketeddown and became a rock. All rock stars have rocketed down. Your municipalitywants to be the huge pig of Troy. It belches out demolishers, and has such a hugetummy that no amount of bribe fills it in,” David says with exasperation. “Youknow what dude, I can even transmogrify. That is really send you into a past lifein this time and space. Abra dabra macabra. Go, become a toad!”Vikram becomes a toad instead of a pigeon, even before he is given atransmogrification form, even without an attestation by a gazetted officer. Andnow he could be trampled under Rishikesh’s car.The photographer shoots the Page 3 types outside, waits for several hours, peeksin. No Vikram. Only the past life writer. He rushes to the office and tellsRishikesh.Rishikesh jumps off his seat, “The pucking reporter went away without filing thestory. I will pucking sack him. But this is an amazing story. Tomorrow’sheadline…CIA CANNIBAL CANS INDIAN REPORTER. We’ll do a stingoperation. Prepare. Attack….Wait Wait Wait. You moron, you can’t pucking takethis big pucking camera for a sting. Go buy a pen cam from Palika.”Rishikesh is no ordinary editor. He has been a spirited “spirit” reporter in hisyoung days. He has packed off the photographer to the market to check out thescene himself. He reaches the scene where David is jumping up and down atreally having achieved the conversion act. “What do you want to become, O manwith the mane?”“What the puck? What trap? Puck Puck puck. Trap, trap, trap. Puck, Puck…I willpucking roast you in a pucking roaster,” shouts Rishikesh.David doesn’t want this conversation to be too long, “Oh you want to be a rooster.So be it. Abra dabra macabra, go become a pucking rooster”Rishikesh regresses to a rooster, and chickens away.David thinks for long, waits for someone to turn up. No one comes. He thinks forlong again, considers his options, and converts himself to a buffalo. He walksdown the street, waiting for philosophy to dawn, as Vikram had promised, but thedamned thing doesn’t dawn. So he starts talking to himself about what to chant toshift to another life. People on the street are astounded. News reporters come 79
  80. 80. with huge mikes and ask, “Aapko kaisa lag raha hai?” The municipality comesand takes the buffalo. He is put in a cage. Lights, camera, action. David Buffalotalks for a few days about past life theories, psychology, geography and all that.This has become a picnic spot now. The sun stares into his eyes, he is not givenfood on time. Children throw stones if he does not speak. He stops speakingaltogether, and goes into a yogic calmness.Meanwhile, photographer comes and sees nothing but the blue and red lights. Hecalls the police, who take possession of the bulbs are primary evidence. After adetailed enquiry of over a thousand pages and hundred years, they come to theconclusion that there was a “foreign hand” in the kidnapping, and that themagician converted the Indian to red bulb, and himself to blue bulb, after thepolice had surrounded him from all sides.Our protagonist, now a toad, roams around many countries, escaping beingtrampled, hunting for a princess to kiss him. Finally, a princess who has readmany Spells and Swoons novels, has decided to try kissing a frog and see whathappens. She finds our friend, and is surprised to see that he doesn’t want toescape. She kisses him, and contrary to his expectations, he turns a prince.Reporter Frog Prince. Under Rishikesh too he was a frog prince, jumping aroundthe city to find news. They decide to celebrate. Kewl Kola company has a festivaloffer, buy one bottle, get one free. What better than Kewl Kola to celebrate, theythink. But though he is a prince, his brain, always slow, is still in the frog mode.He drinks, thinks, and dies. Kewl Kola, they say has pesticides. But this festiveseason, they decided to upgrade and add toadicides to make human beings moreresilient than cockroaches in case the nuclear war happens. Service for humanity.So our friend regresses back to his toad life, his human body vanishes. He callsout to the princess. She is baffled at the vanishing of the prince, and walks away.Ever since then, roosters have been saying Puck Puck PuckEver since then, buffalo has become meditative, unperturbed, and silent. Andgoes into the water, and doesn’t come out. As they say, Gaya bhains paani mein.Ever since then, this city’s police have put the red and blue bulb atop theirvehicles, and threaten to send whoever comes in their way, to their past lives.Ever since then, toads have been making that sound of theirs, calling theprincess.This is an ancient story, recently ratified by the Archeological Purvey, but not yet 80
  81. 81. in public sphere, because animal rights activist have taken strong objections tothe stoning of the buffalo in the story. 81
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  83. 83. ONCE UPON A RHYMEOnce upon a rhyme…err…time, there was a renowned educational haven calledthe Shaw Claw Pore University. One morning was particularly bright, and therewas a major commotion in the Zaveri hostel. It was almost festive, with hostelstaff carrying trays of sweets and tea inside the hostel, and coming out franticallyto fetch another tray. People whispered to each other, and walked in and out,pensive if noticed, gloating if not.I was from Kutlej hostel and thought it was not of my business, but eventually Ilet curiosity kill the cat.It had so happened that a thief was caught in the wee hours of the morning,trying to steal a bucket from someone’s room. Being responsible citizens, theowners of the bucket ( it was a joint venture of two roommates) decided to handthe thief over to the police. The poor man had offered to pay twice the amount ofthe property but the responsible citizens said that it was not a matter of property,but that of propriety. They were proceeding on their business, when they wereintercepted by more responsible citizens, who said it was not a personal matter,but a matter of public interest, and therefore they could not singularly decide thefate of the erring man. It was thereupon decided that a UGBM(Universal General Body Meeting) would be called to deliberate and decide on theissue.The news was spread amongst the hostel inmates and the wardens. Those presentin the hotel were, generally, research students, since most undergrads andpostgrads had left for the classes. These gentlemen did not have classes, as theirwork was research. This news was particularly welcome to them, as this was onegolden opportunity to prove that they were not just apt critics, but executives aswell. They put on their best attires, which were generally not of much use, jazzyperfumes and all, and came down to the mess where the UGBM was scheduled.The wardens came, there were four- it was a rare sight, they were generally seenonce a year when they would do an FBI raid at two in the morning to check out ifthere were illegal guests residing in the rooms. The PIGs ( Permanent Illegal 83
  84. 84. Guests)never minded the deal, it was cool idea to pay a meager and cool thousandbucks for a whole year. It was a different matter that the PIGs were more visiblethan the actual residents; and it was a common sight to see a real resident beingquestioned about his identity by the hostel president, who, the rumour says, washimself a PIG.Anyways, the wardens decided that the matter was too grave to be decided bythem alone, and therefore the Vice Chancellor, Rector and the top officials needmust be called. The hostel phone was not working, and therefore a warden usedhis mobile to spread the word and immediately made a bill voucher of a thousandbucks. It was with great difficulty that the warden was convinced not to call theChancellor, who generally happens to be the Prime Minister of the country. It wasnot, however, due to the reason that the person in question was the PrimeMinister of the country, but that a few days back the President of the country,who had come on a visit, had been denied a bouquet by the University Presidentfor he having been a scientist who had aided a nuclear test in some very roundabout way.Anyways, some more vouchers were made for tea, refreshments etc., and thevoucher book was almost full till the committee gathered around 11:30 am. I havetotally forgotten our dear protagonist, the thief, by this time; the guy was lockedat 8 am, inside a room adjacent to the mess, so that he could hear theproceedings as well. The proceedings began with Professor Shukla, the VC,greeting everyone, “Good aftermoon friends!”. Someone retorted from the crowd,“Sir, it is yet another half an hour to go for it to be afternoon!”“My dear young man, please get your ears checked. I said After Moon and notAfter Noon. M for Moon. Aftermoon for propriety.”The junta was zapped, but not quite, for Prof. Shukla had been a wannabe poetand metaphorist for years.“And good after-June to you all too”, Dr.Shukla added. (It was early July!)Now you know why I said “Once upon a rhyme…”The deliberations began; the first question was who decides who is a thief; is itthe police, is it the hostellers, the wardens, the society, who? An answer could not 84
  85. 85. be reached at till two o’ clock; Derrida, Foucault and other eminent philosopherswere quoted from fat books; the VC staged a walkout, returned after somecajoling, and said, “Good after-soon to you all. Let us agree that the man is a thiefand move on to the other questions.”Among other questions was, “What makes a thief?”. Is it genetic, is it psychotic,or is it born out of social stratification and disparity. The psychology teacherMrs.Ramani gave a long lecture on kleptomaniacs and urged that the man be sentto a counselor. She also urged that thieves are a threat to our fragile ecosystem,until she was interrupted by Dr.Shukla, “Good after-coccoon, Mrs.Ramani!”Mrs.Ramani was quite baffled and demanded an explanation. The VC asked her ifshe was fond of silk sarees; and she answered saying that she wore only silksarees. It was a moment of triumph for the poet who cried, “Mrs.Ramani, yoursilk comes by boiling and killing silk cocoons. Are you not a threat to theecosystem, are you not a thief? Therefore, good after-coccoon!”The research scholars made notes furiously, and one of them spoke at lengthabout how the word “thief” itself was a construct to legitimize the oppression of afew. Another chap from linguistics department contested this and went into theLatin and Greek etymologies of the word. A teacher from the classical studiesdepartment said the word “chor” was a positive one, and that Krishna himselfwas a thief, not to forget Prometheus who stole fire; and Robin Hood too. Sheadded that Luv and Kush were the root words for love and cash, the two primarydriving forces in life, which can lead anyone to steal, and therefore the man’saction was justified.The final question to be discussed was the role of the thief in society. This was, ofcourse, after many other questions and lunch break, and a greeting by the VC,“Good after-spoon”, referring to the lunch spoon. A criminology student wascalled upon, who said that a thief is a key link in the social chain, something akinto food chain, where the survival of the police is possible only due to thieves; andthat our morals are good because the theives’ morals are bad. On a secondthought, he apologized severely for using “good” and “bad” which are loose terms. 85
  86. 86. The VC tried to put the issue to some sort of vote but everyone wanted to speak,and the gathering kept on swelling. It was around six when a loud wail was heardthat drowned all the commotion. Everyone was stunned. It was the thief.He shouted from inside, and from hunger, “Please please please have mercy.Mercy! Mercy! Unlock me.”He was unlocked to have a fair trial where the accused should also have a voice.“Please! I am tired. Please hand me over to the Kasant Kihar police station. Thethird degree there is much less severe.”He prevailed, and despite the unwillingness and protest of most, he managed toreach the station, where he lighted a cigarette and said, “Good after-buffoons!”It was later found out that the bucket did not belong to the supposed owners, andthat it contained polyvinyl acetate bromide chloride, which is not good for health,and therefore was an abandoned one that the two had picked up! 86
  87. 87. MATT BIALER 13 photographs 87
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  101. 101. MATT ROHRER Four poemsACROSS THE COUNTRY HURRY HOMEQuickly all the little girlsacross the countryhurry home in the samewinter coatsa wind winds aroundthe loud distracted blocksFriday afternoon lightlessbe clear, be cleara young mother thinksdistracted on Earthlooking always at the cloudsthe tin clankof the outside thermometerblowing againstthe windowis its own forecast 101
  102. 102. BAD WEATHER PLAN #4Taped outside the metropolitantransit authority office“bad weather plan #4”and standing beside ita woman. Everyone whopasses she hands thema piece of paper.It’s for youshe says.In all the yearsno one has everaccepted it. Waiting for her busa mousy girl complainsabout her professorto someone who isentirely fictive. 102
  103. 103. NEW LAWSIn the old man’sapartment they foundphotographs of his catbut no cat.From the bottomof his cell hisstomach cried outwith hunger.The terrible thingabout these new lawsis they’re just likethe old laws. 103
  104. 104. BUS PASSShe found a bus passon her front stepswith $20 on itand though she basicallyknew it belonged to S.She just got on the bus.But wine loosened hertongue. She cried,and then she wipedher eyes and said no,I won’t cry. And indeedthere was no reason.S. is rich. A finesprinkle of icefell all across the city. 104
  105. 105. MIGUEL DAJUDA PINTO Grande campagne dix pièces à l’aube à l’aube j’ai remarqué sur le sol remarqué un zénith rasant remarqué l’absence d’ombre au sol au même instant n’ai pas remarqué sur les nuages pas remarqué une ombre dansant au dessus des nuages pas remarqué qu’elle menaçait déjà viens donc viens donc juste so leil dévoiler ces faces rageuses du peup le minuscule qui 105
  106. 106. s’agite laisse les doncdémantibuler la mémoire et festinerdes lambeaux vois donccomme ils ont muscléleurs langues pour enticher les oreillesde cet abîme toujours aux exhalaisons de stupre jaillit leurvanité morbidesache donc que l’heure descabots est venuela gamelle brillante et pleine en fait descréatures dociles chiens galeux singes savants serpents qui sifflent loupsgris tel est le détail de l’animalerie ambulante j’entends iciet là dire cirque mais je ne peux l’approuver connais tu uncirque rien qu’un cirque qui effraie lesgamins et les fiche au rancart non rendsleur service sombre soleil n’oublie pas qu’ils temouchent tant que tun’as pas la morve aunez ils sont comme çasots lumineux auxombres de violence éculée qu’ils ne peuvent pas circonscrire et à l’heure du grandmidi fais leur des 106
  107. 107. geôles ou cachots deséclipses je t’enprie qu’ils se noient dedans les veaux d’or on en a trop et trop salués 107
  108. 108. paluchesIleurs grosses paluchesd’enfants trop vieuxles lèvent haut etfort pour se signalerà l’évidence et qu’onles remarque bienIIont des pieds pourseules voix émaillésde verrues des cors desampoules à force dejouer à se grimperdessus c’est à celuiqui piétinera l’autrele dernierIIIpour la bagarre sontsi veules que possèdentdes partisans chair à sinoncharriés dans des bétaillèresjetés ici ou là quisavent les formulessur le bout des doigts(mais les ignorent par cœur)partisans qui leur ont 108
  109. 109. fait offrande de boutsde peau ceux-là les couardsles grosses paluches lespieds cornus se sont empressésde les leur rendre(et généreux y ont taillé des œillères) 109