Читать книгу Avant Desire: A Nicole Brossard Reader - Nicole Brossard - Страница 19

from White Piano

tr. Robert Majzels and Erín Moure

stubborn backbone

that chafes the depth of thoughts

in the plupresent of fear and ecstasy

in the simple present of our intelligent tissues

anon a landscape that rises like an ancient beast

flexible from throat to sex capable of flight and sudden

plunges of inebriate blue

the present wants the present up to the ears

then pain marks who is present; in the distance, cicadas

phrases unfurled 2ice without infinitive

at the time of the best sketches of solitude

versatile migrant pauses

to talk no more of coffins and repetition

laments language or quick the eyes above all

to displace the wind, the chic distresses. No one dares

laugh at themselves now because of fragile pronouns

with all our being we head toward elsewhere

to dip the alphabet in new mysteries

simple certainty of shadow

forever in the breast we carry a species overwhelmed

the pain of sincere wishes exchanged in chaos

so we clean the keyboard with our fingers

we disperse slowly solo

each crevice each key certain evenings

to speak in prose to speak dissipates the drownings of origin,

you’ve seen there are rhinestones

breezes too I was saying who

camouflages what

everyone wanted to enter consciousness

to meddle in the tiniest atoms of frenzy

on the brink of death everyone rolled their anguish

auto marble dice voice the same voice in a loop

to the end of love

here I started to think again of Venice,

of ordinary scenes from Tiepolo, life of clay

piano and wise songs of water

amid touch screens where

question of instinct

we had to mix tastes,

languages, silks linen

tissue of intrigues

in the evening dig into the universe

cascade of ubiquity

no accumulation

a single longevity

maybe we’re true, maybe on the contrary we’re tomorrow

how to know if what comes

arises from deep in the throat from a double carnivore tumult

from a supple wrenching into the energy of the cosmos

maybe we’re true. The pain is still whole

nervous depth of sensations

from the anecdote to the others, time flays

we live in the flow of time, don’t we

all these sofas sheets and beds where bodies are laid

Piano blanc

2011, tr. 2013