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SIXTH BEND

from Green Night of Labyrinth Park

tr. Lou Nelson

life is in the mouth that speaks

multiplying ideological anchors, escapes ahead, syntheses, feints, and perspectives, always seeking a mirror, drifting on a word, butting up against another, obsessive or distraught, thought remains the most modern of the language games that unleash desire. In one’s mouth, thought is living proof that life is a statement that experiments with the truth of je thème.¹

thus, the lesbian I love you that unleashes thought is a speaking that experiments with the value of words to the point of touch, stretching them out so that they can simultaneously caress their origin, their centre, and the extreme boundary of sense.

in the lesbian mouth that speaks, life discerns itself by the sounds pleasure makes as it rubs up against a speaking.

NINTH BEND

from Green Night of Labyrinth Park

tr. Lou Nelson

I am breathing in rhetoric

i am writing this text on several levels because reality is not sufficient, because beauty is demanding, because sensations are multiple, because putting a great deal of oneself into language does not eliminate the patriarchal horror, does not explain the composition of my subjectivity and all these images that move like a woman in orgasm. Energized by the raw material of desire, I write. Word matter, when it is too cold or too soft or so crazy that it is hard to contain in our thoughts, this matter that is eternally contemporary with our joys and energized bodies, murmurs and breathes, opens us to the bone and sews in wells and depths of astonishment. I exist in written language because it is there that I decide the thoughts that settle the questions and answers I give to reality. It is there that I signal assent in approving ecstasies and their configurations in the universe. I do not want to repeat what I already know of language. It is a fertile ground of vestiges and vertigo. Depository of illusions, of obsessions, of passions, of anger and quoi encore that obliges us to transpose reality. I am even more unwilling to retrace my steps since, in this very beautiful fragrant labyrinth of the solstice night, I owe it to myself to not erase the memory of my path, to not erase the strategies and rituals of writing that I had to invent in order to survive the customs and phallic events of life.

1992