the uncertain country
poetic ports


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Diverses poetic ports:

The sad country.

The country............................................. Speak

We will start over again........................................................... The sooth-sayer

My mother...................................... The mother.

The unilingual machine.



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The sad country

I wander among the beasts
my intestines stuck to the branches of heaven
magisterial strides towards the sun
the jaws of crocodiles to the horns
I dote prayers to the wind
wind of veins to the disgarnished morning
gargarism of saxophones
rains of soups to the travel
stop of feet to the put? sharing





I will go sleeping over the blueberries the night over my naked prick I will go thirst sadness to my ass the patern of hand knife to my earth I will sleep over the bluberries the belly open to the moon's blood my hand hanged to the dream's stream I will go dying to the sad country dying in the ropes of the dream.




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The country

I would have like to tell the country
to relate it or let me hear talk
I would have love the country
I would have love to tell it
but the country do not belong to me
and this contry do not know me
I am citizen of Irak
citizen of eqypt of israel
I am turc mahometan
black from the Rio grande

noir du rio grande

I am from over there
not from here
I am from anywhere
not from here
I am a stranger
not from here
and however I inhabit the country
that is not my country
I inhabit a country





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Speak




speak not to let the words
reproach to you
to empty your tripes of
your anger
speak with the yankee tune proprietary swallower
of spaces
speak over your hunger the right to work to walk over
your soil
to choose your ennemies you morality the language of
your blasphemes
to choose your way of dying of fattening of measure
your pastes
speak



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We will start over again

lif will take over from here to there after the fritting out of the contradictions after the collapse of the semaphores life will born new skin tomorrows perled tomorrows perled we will take over the yankee shores







pulled away from the look of our fathers we will take back the grass under our feet our adultary wifes to the Nefertari dream our tortured to the Pharaon's dollar our mutilated to the shield of their Queen we will take back our sheep eaven if we cover our corpse up to Harlem neger to the tiles.






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The sooth-sayers

Let them talk the sooth-sayers
they cavil our tomorrows
the killing of clubbed Sundays
sooth-sayers
the rows to the glory of God the Father
let our elders speak
the clubbers of flowered Sundays
Our well-seated in the glory of Her Majesty
Talk the ballot daddys
mamas in tears
morality in panic of prearranged elections




talk talk
Junky Democrats
Fronters talkers moralitysers
religiousisers
children of Marillards
preachers
regulaterisers
tell all your guts
scream your purities of guts
One will bury you that better



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My mother......



she's beautiful the mother
beautiful with a dawning smile
credulous and naive
plaintive and module
the mother
the mother of rosaries
with her wrinkled fingers
the mother of tenderness
tender mother
archangel
mother of tears
and joys
Mother of lachrymas
lengthy and unnecessary
the Divine Mother
and caresses
the mother from here
my mother.


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The mother......


the mother who cries alone
for the child of her
the lovely lady of God
elsewhere on the prayer-stool of heaven

the mother of rosary's fingers
to the angel's prayers
the lovely naive prayer
that attracts the angel of heaven.

the mother of extasy lips
the mother of God
the mother of those who sins
the mother of us all.





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The unilingual machine




I speak and suddenly everything stops the machine stops she nurrish herself from another language I am the language that do not nurrish I am the motionless machine I am the death language Some speaking my language refuses this situation they claim a machine of their language a machine according to their language they rebell against the existing machine they destroy the machine



But the machine protects itself she barricade itself she nourished itself from her language or from the blood of the other language it is a powerfull machine speaking a powerfull language the yankee language Some others speaking my language support that state of facts delegated they are by the powerfull machine they imagine as a strategy the machine nourishing itself from both language without changins its nature



Thus we learn the language of the machine beleiving we serv it in both language we nourish it in its own language until the day we discover that she assimilates only her own we forget our own language Also reestablish the situation or I would have shout for nothing....





Marco Polo or the imaginary journey (poésie: la machine unilingue, 1960) © 1996 Jean-Pierre Lapointe


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