CosmicJocker

DeRank ™: 14,60 • DeAge™ : 3630 days

Love
CosmicJocker
CosmicJocker
18 sep 19

DeRank™: 3,00

@[G] but why can't I see some comments you just posted? Is it intentional or is it me who has a problem?
CosmicJocker
CosmicJocker
14 jun 19

DeRank™: 9,18

#PoesiaPortamiVia
THE BOYS WHO LOVE EACH OTHER

The boys who love each other kiss standing up
Against the doors of the night
And the passersby who walk by point at them
But the boys who love each other
Are nowhere for anyone
And it is only their shadow
That trembles in the night
Stirring the anger of the passersby
Their anger, their disdain, their laughter, their envy
The boys who love each other are nowhere for anyone
They are elsewhere, much farther than the night
Much higher than the day
In the dazzling brilliance of their first love

Jacques Prévért
CosmicJocker
CosmicJocker
13 jun 19

DeRank™: 8,09

#PoetryTakeMeAway

ON THE ROAD TO SAN ROMANO

Poetry is made in a bed like love
Its rumpled sheets are the dawn of things
Poetry is made in the woods

It has the space it needs
Not this one but the one they condition

The eye of the kite
Dew on the horsetail
The memory of a steamy bottle of Traminer on a
[silver tray
A tall pillar of tourmaline by the sea
And the road of mental adventure
That climbs steeply
Stops and immediately tangles

It's not something to shout from the rooftops
It's inappropriate to leave the door open
Or to call witnesses

The fish stalls, the hedges of great tits
The tracks at the entrance of a grand station
The reflections of the two banks
The furrows of bread
The bubbles of the stream
The days of the calendar
The hypericum

The act of love and the poetic act
Are incompatible
With reading the newspaper aloud

The sense of the sunbeam
The blue gleam that links the axe blows of the woodcutter
The thread of the heart-shaped or trap kite
The rhythmic beating of the beaver's tail
The diligence of lightning
The throwing of confetti from the top of old staircases
The avalanche

The room of enchantments
No gentlemen, this is not the eighth chamber
Nor the vapors of the dormitory on Sunday night

The figures of dance performed transparently over the ponds
The delineation of a woman's body against the wall at
[ knife throwing
The clear spirals of smoke
The curve of the sponge from the Philippines
The gems of the coral snake
The passage of ivy through the ruins
She has all the time before her

The poetic embrace like the carnal embrace
As long as it lasts
Prevents the perspectives of the world's misery

André Breton
CosmicJocker
CosmicJocker
12 jun 19

DeRank™: 13,99

#PoesiaPortamiVia

MY LIFE

You leave without me, my life.
You run,
And I haven’t even taken a step.
You take the battle elsewhere.
You turn your back on me like that.
I have never followed you.

In your offerings, I see no clarity.
That little I want, you never give me.
It’s for this lack that I aspire to so much.
To so many things, almost infinitely…
For this little that I lack, that you never give me.

Henri Michaux
CosmicJocker
CosmicJocker
10 jun 19

DeRank™: 16,84

#PoetryTakeMeAway

EPITAPH

He killed himself from the fury of passion, or died from laziness. If he lives, it’s thanks to oblivion.

Here’s what he leaves for himself:

-His only regret was not being his own lover.

-He was not born for any purpose; he was always driven by the wind ahead: a mixed platter of leftovers, an adulterated mix of everything.

Of the not knowing - but without knowing where;

of gold - but without a dime;

of nerves - without strength;

vigor without force;

of the impulse - with a twist;

of the soul - and no violin;

of love - but a dreadful stallion.

Too many names, to have just one.

Adventurer of ideals - without an idea;

rich rhyme - and never rhymed;

without having been - upon returning, he found himself lost everywhere.

Poet, in spite of his verses;

artist without art - in reverse;

philosopher - straight and sideways.

A funny serious type - not funny at all;

actor: he didn’t know his part;

painter: he played the bagpipes;

and musician: with the palette.

A head! - but without a head;

too crazy to know how to be stupid;

he took a trait for the word très. - His false verses were the only true ones.

Rare bird - and of trinkets;

very male - and sometimes very female;

capable of everything and good for nothing, he well harvested evil, poorly good.

Prodigal like the son of the Testament - without a testament.

Intrepid: and sometimes, out of fear of the “plat,” he would dip his feet in the dish.

Furious colorist - but pale;

misunderstood - especially by himself;

he cried, sang with perfect discord; and was a flaw without flaws.

He never knew how to be someone, nor something. His naturalness was a pose.

Too naïve, while too cynical;

completely incredulous, while believing in everything. What gave him pleasure was disgust.

Too raw - because he was too cooked,

to nothing less resembling than himself, he amused himself with his own boredom until waking up at night.

Wanderer at sea, adrift, a wreck that never arrives...

Too himself to be able to bear himself, with a dry spirit and a drunken head,

finished but unable to finish, he died awaiting to live and lived awaiting to die.

Here lies, heart without a heart, barren: too successful - like a failure.

Tristan Corbière
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