The endless Scroll
For Jean Benoît
Good Night, Rain, The Brightness
For Jean and Mimi
There is no reason to doubt that the moment is here among us now. I will give to dust all the significance of your breath and your beauty, and then I will brand you with roses, and the hours, tall and longhaired, will open the key with the lock.
I will brand you with all that is profane, is beautiful, follows your blood with night, my uprooting night exceeded by your eyes...
To you, love, mine, in whom the fire of the forest betrays the city for your grand terrestrial window, giving light for you, and I will brand you in your vision, for without time you linger in thorns that deliver you always ahead of your voice. Your window that sees us and remembers the house of our sea-light rendezvous, our wandering evening, unlocked.
I see you and hallucinate you, and within your great Oceanic shadow, mirrored on all sides by the flood and the missing pieces of the puzzle of secret passageways, and meet you half way around the world... between a burnt out starry sky and a phantom of waking up still alive. You yourself, by your lighted presence, ravage those doorways held together by the moon, balanced by the savagery of absence and your breath of hummingbirds.
My love keyed with desire, along that street named after your reflection, where la petite mort has landed, sputtering on the boulevard of Springtime and the evil lilacs, tearing the city apart, with its grimoire-shaped hooves... I love you dipped in night-blood of bathing the beauty that alarms the blind pilot in the arc of his rapture, landing without reason...
You are the endless scroll of pleasurable decisions, the messenger of marvelous attractions, and I am the specter of the wind, when it departs, taking everything with it... Within my eyes the panther in a black pendulum swinging, the Maîtresse of unendurable “Good Nights...” and to which you are the caress of rubies and momentous crimes, bright pollen...
It is I in the midst of your lightning,” grooming the distances in the auburn locks that entice the serpents drooling fresh secrets in your words, inside of your body exhaling sleep, and setting those fires in the garden... The threat of a storm arrives before you...
The plume of sparks erases history, the bright triangle of glances inciting mayhem.
© J.Karl Bogarrte - January 2011
Jean - Pencil on paper
© Pinina Podestà - January 2011
© Bernard Dumaine - December 2010
Vanitas - acryl and collage on paper, 140 x 185 cm
© Rik Lina - December 2010
3rd feather - bloom looks at his palm, at the book, at the sky
bloom looked at Breton's list-Swift, Sade, Chateaubriand, Constant, Hugo, Desbordes-Valmore, Bertrand, Rabbe, Poe, Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Mallarmé, Jarry, Nouveau, Saint-Pol-Roux, Farge, Vaché, Reverdy, Saint-Jean-Perse, Roussel. He'd added some of his own-Zazie, Bogo, Benoit, Pinosová, Rosemont, Mansour, Parent, Ducornet. He turned to the open sky and raised his open hand. "Can you see this, André? Jean?" he asked, rising his outstretched hand higher. "That's surreal."
© Joseph s. Pulver, sr. - 2010
he laughs as Breton laughs-clear-effortlessly.rides where Breton rides.sings of his own accord-it rings bright as the head of a giraffe against the sky ! his arms are the river, a child of moon and garden and sky-tongue in the grandeur of Discover!he meets blind with scissors that play outside the margin.he is a circle and his weapon is L~O~V~E~
© Joseph s. Pulver, sr. - 2010
there is a whisper.
Gone to some /where/ of bones and skulls - HA! !! With those wings? N~E~V~E~R! !! No BLACKNESS can silence the blazing light of your feathers-unfurled! ~!!
there are echoes that hold won't come.
Your voice is quiet - HA! ! ! That laugh, singing through the dim mundane, rests not!! ~!
I have eyes that share your FORWARD, JEAN, no barren grains of sand l~i~m~i~t your FLIGHT!! ~!
© Joseph s. Pulver, sr. - 2010
Rune Grammofon poem [65.b]
they made him from bricks
his open mouth
rushing with storytellers hard as closer
a bird sat on his shoulder
wings spread like a mighty cross
many where the masked round faces
that hid in the clouds his hands waved away
in the space he created
he mixed passion with eternity
then he howled
until his desire gleamed
bright as the sun in a fit of anger
a webbed-winged bird large as the sabbath
and a butterfly appeared
on wet red ground they mated
when the dance of desire was complete
the bird ate the butterfly
then rubbed an egg from under its wing
inside was a brick
it rose on two totem legs
spread its flame-thorned wings
and opened its mouth
I will not be defeated he said
"after Jean Benoît"
biosphere / deathprod les fleurs du mal
© Joe Pulver
Jaune tamis solaire où le chercheur d’or enfonce ses mains brumeuses
À la recherche d’un oiseau tiède pour orner le revers d’une correspondance
Ou bien c’est un emblème décoloré qui est encore vu aujourd’hui en transparence dans le désordre d'une chevelure écarlate
Avant minuit dans les cimes illettrées de La Coste
Toutefois dans ces syllabes
Il peut les pressentir
Emblème et tamis
Si on accélère le pas, la lecture
Si on accorde une caresse fugace à une gravure inachevée où la bougie coulante, l’exemplaire trempé et le crâne sont incrustés dans l’œil de l’Éternité
Je parle d’un Livre imaginaire qui nous appartient
Comme toute étoile de ce ciel, qui est à ma portée, à votre portée
Qui paraît maintenant vouloir m’imiter et qui vous idolâtre
Notre Livre, toile d’araignée délicate et aile fragile où le gris perle règne, est aussi une mélodie berceuse fissurée par les soupirs de la dame inéluctable
Elle est notre belle danseuse qui dans le dix-huitième siècle montrait la lave de ses seins aux alentours du Café où Charles Fourier réunissait à ses disciples
Envers et contre tous
Niagara de sperme avec sourire de fée!
En rappelant son abyssal regard, ses boucles crépusculaires, son existence est transformée au moins dans ce poème
En poudre de cachot démoli par la violence extrême d’un orage esquissé lentement par la lune
Tout à coup (ce n’est qu´un lubie) je pense enlever l’image initiale du cadre qui la limitait
Surveiller maintes fois le parcours sublime de ton écriture de géant
Ta lettre du 31 août doit arriver malgré l’absence d’adresse…
De Jean Benoît, mon ami.
© Alejandro Puga 1. 8. 2006
© Daniel C.Boyer - November 2010
Darkness, the cage, dreams above the city. Stretches out its ravaging
hand, its artless heart, all its
claws to own, erase.
Teeth as walls, climb and tear, leaving only
the tatters of have been.
And you, Bright Heart, in your cape-open to love,
with a balcony of stars and joy
and a blissful fire that will not lie in bleak silence-
take your 1st step on the sea of swelling word and deed,
dance your way to the longing city
and the faces
And we, stirred by the calligraphies of your arms,
open the plums of our summer-harvest dreams and harmonize
[after zazie's "DOOM" NOV 2010]
O Energy of Wheels & Fingers twirling angel-can, what tribute could I pay you? ?? I have no gift to pull down the stars and let them dance for your delight. Have no melody of passions—never full enough, soaring, to voice. My hands and words seem so inadequate though my little matches are glowing.
But you have
my smile—free of poverty,
my heart—all the books that will not be silent,
and the joy your work, every grain & blade!! !, brings out in me.
O Master, can you see me spin and flutter as all your songs [AGAIN, sleek as a bicycle painted with 1,000 tricks] free me from mundane and hapless?
Fly, my Dear Brother! !! Rest in no rooted-glade, but dance your nebulae—stuffed with surging contact, in the imagination of every eye
[Julia Hülsmann Trio “Kiss From A Rose”]
Joe Pulver for Jean November 2010
Wailing Wall - 1994
© Rik Lina for Jean - December 2015
© Pierre Petiot - December 2015