21 / 180
21
of the
homme qui rit,
something cruel
or the stupor of aphasic apnea:
and not the ecstasy of anaesthesia,
but the stupefaction of mucous membranes
worn out by winds, broken into clods,
an adam’s mud now sterile.
(You know I have difficulty hearing
your voices, followed for what…
what are you looking for in these fissures?
all the roads leading inside are blocked
and inside there’s nothing to find:
only the fluids that filled me,
like wax in an empty mould…)
While discomfort remains on the surface,
the satan of flabby comebacks
behind the curtain of the soft palate
leads all the buzzing swarms
of silly scrappy hisses in the ears;
the sphenoid sinus, the infundibulum of suffering,
of aching at the base of the brain,
the stooge of the hypophysis,
also seriously damaged,
sends remorse, pains in the ass,
intense twinges (And an ice-cream
or a cold proposal are enough to relieve it).