the road
poetic ports


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Diverses poetic ports:

Clowns........... The rocky mountains

Mornings....................................... Desires of evasion

Stop to the edge of the cliff

I am going away........

I like to hang.......


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Clowns



Clowns mornings
to the sun frosty
Clowns of factories
to the disguise smile
I find you back at the bazar
Clowns of my days
your belly open to the hunger
the hant over my hope
I find you back, lost

Clowns of my dreams
the scull assaulting the gibbets
Clowns of my nights
come to my roads of suicide
come in my gulleys of evasion
come over our coffins
in Clowns of rendez-vous
come to the brocken wedding
to the legs skyscrapers trumbling
your hands of pleasure to the posterns
Clowns assassinated




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Les rocheuses

I carry
the rockies
my tranquillity
I can go without you
The Frazer
tortuous
escapes us
seperates us
censures us
And he is right
The whited hairs.....
of majestic peeks
are my heart
our youth
my desires.

Jasper......
is said I despair
I aspire to tranquillity
I expire of you
Mount Robson
an elevated king
who contemplate you
but the horizon hide it
and hide to me your feelings
The seven twins
the eighth one is You
The seven capital seens
the eighth one is You





Mornings

the great dictator sun
breack the tranquility of the sky
in the ruts on morning
the modalities of days
perpendicularly
corrupt the laziness of the pavements
the doors half-opened are yawning
the shutters recoquize the horizon
and the morning smokes of cafe
trouble the Mecca of the celestal ceiling
the alignement of the motorized
and the slow paces of indian lines
diametrically
flow toward the cacophonies at noon

the crowd wear the swallows of capitalists
but the strikers wait their turn to die
and God knows if evening is coming
but there is always mornings
the ruts of mornings but no evenings




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Desires of evasion

Drums in my forefront
I feel my eyes of leaving
in the trail of images
And the repetitions of neonlight
turn over my aspirations


Mamals in my roots
my nose over the mamals
my foot over the breast of her wound
the slope toward the oblivion of mothers
the crack where I forget but towards....

Candles lighted in my brain
my brain of leaving
My sweeten finger of horizon fountains
over the foot of mud
the breath of unsurmontable roods.




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Stop at the edge of the cliff

Stop at the edge of the cliff
leaves of man
flowers of evil
stop at the edge of the cliff
your skulls thorned in the cities
your hands hanged to the chains
stop at the edge of the cliff
faces of thorned steel
fingers extracted to the bloody bellies
faces of forefronts corpses
fingers teazed by hynger



Stop at the edge of the cliff
the girls suckled by the sun
the olders dried out by the sun
the men hanged to the eternal sun
stop at the edge of the cliff
stop the noon of needle
stop the monsters truths
faces at noon to the mirage sun
faces licked to the assumption of hope
faces pulled to the daily slaughter
faces thirsty of tomorrows habits



Stop the faces of noon
to the cliff extinct
stop the faces of hope
at the edge of the cliff of hope
stop the faces beside the cliff
your fingers extracted from the belly of bread
your hands over the luminous breaths
release the bombs of your vains
stop the pendulum at noon



Stop at the edge of the cliff
leaves of men
flowers of evil
stop at the edge of the cliff
your cities thorned of skulls
your chains hanged by the hands
stop......




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I am going away......

I go away to the back of travels
waste my passed nights in your couch
I go away in the balls under surveillance
absent of these dreams of girls
all your lies and your fainted loves
burried in my hole
among the roads of neon lights
over the slopes of countries suicide waters
dying over a galaxy
a night it will be full moon
love in carriage guillotine in the wind
I will take you by the faucet of your eyes
a night of cocufied sky.


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I like to hang......

I like to hang up my face to these irreal images
I find there in refrigerated oldness
troubling marks of others' past
I like that it hang up to the remoteness of others
policeman of their mad inconsistencies
than I arrive like a denominator
scuba-diver warrior
perceiving the distresses of parasols
imagining the germinated sufferings
sculpting your scandalous moldings
awakening the audacities of lightnings



This is how I am born
from hammer to hammer of the predestinated
apostrophy of a mole life
gardian of the frayed fate
gesture of celestial dungeons
ammociac vestal
strolling player of the understanding



I arrive knocking on your dreams
garnished of my sole reason of vermicelli
I arrive jumping over the gibbets
armed with my sadness
organise your dreams in just diadems
to consolate the mother
whom which departure imprison in the heart
the storms of blood and the inconsistency
organise your dreams to the return
gain of rememberings to resell.


Marco Polo or the imaginary journey (poésie: Routes, 1970) © 1996 Jean-Pierre Lapointe


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