poete prosaic

Prosaic Echo

Hey there kid,
Easy going these days,
Everything went wrong
In all the right ways.

Happy daybreak babe,
You watched the sunset with me
You’ll never know your soul
Till the sunrise sets it free.

So long little oatcake,
Looks like the sweet sorrow again.
I’ll search for you in the past
Sharing my bed with oilmen.

30.04.2017

the boy you love is a boy of the ruthless sea,
who you dream of at the sweep of night,
as you imagine his dancing feet around the sun.

 his lightning fists quaking stars of broken constellations,
his red mouth swollen from blood oranges or your lips,
and your longing peeps behind you into the abyss.

the boy you love is closer than you know
as you write hymns of beauty to the arms of the sea,
the earth covers the hymn for rebirth.

—  the boy you love | (p.v.)
Lotus Base

Le bulbe ne se fait voir que de l'esprit organique,
Mais il naît que de la boue informe,
Est ce l'essence qui peut être l'inhibe,
Pour nous joindre ensemble, il se passera des éléments.

Lotus Base

The bulb only made itself seen by organical spirit,
But it cleanly emerge in an unformal mud,
I guess the Essence inhibit it a bit,
But to join us, it would go without elements.
On fantasy, shame and a grand lack of irony

You can’t change your fantasy; but you can take responsibility for it by assigning a lack within the fantasy structure itself, that is to say a symbolized understanding (a deep knowing culled through difficult experiences and uncensored reflections) of its necessarily unfulfilled core, the cause of desire itself.

You can come to understand what you’ve been holding out for, its unreachable quality, and how you’ve been hurting from the belief in its reachable existence. There’s no reason to feel shame for fantasy except to find an excuse to preserve it ‘as is.’ “The Other does not respect my fantasy; does not understand me, therefore I will secretly fantasize as I have been and await my day of full reward.” Or: “Perhaps I will always simply enjoy my fantasy in private, shut far out from the world.” Whatever my strategy, my fantasy remains preserved without the inherent irony of its fantastic structure installed within it. And the Big Other thus cruelly remains in a correspondingly despotic position of lacklessness (“Someone’s got to be getting it if I’m not!”).

To understand lack in this way opens a space in which one must arduously wonder just what (or who) one would be without their fantasy as support, without the pain known so well, so personally, of its unbearable unfulfillment.

As is generally the case, a poet turns a prosaic monotony about existential grief into the new warmth of a well designed koan: “What would I lose if I didn’t have pain?” — snakeshuntsss, 2014

Yoyo Gaga

Je replie mes membres, me dévoilant aux regards ascétiques,
Croisant les doigts pour mieux me fuir en prières,
J’attends debout sur ma tombe le moment charnière,
Sentant le vent du triptyque se refermer sur moi.

▩☨θ☨▩

Yoyo Gaga

I fold my members back, unveiling myself from ascetic glances,
Crossing fingers to better flee my body in prayers,
I stand on my grave waiting the hinge moment,
Feeling the triptych’s wind closing on me.