I separate silence into parallel limbs. The dead are entangled in a nightmare awash in crackled signs. To understand this neighborhood, beyond the flash of sheet metal and tires, is to parse the pubescent star from among the detritus. My neighborhood is written in streaks of tar, like a foal shakes off its harness, unfurls its mane. I am naked on the precipice, bold as stable hands, I rival the moon in mystery, I adopt the water lily’s violent stance, I concede my breath to the drums. Thrashing foliage, grease pit tenderness seeps from the horse’s flanks. Souls are sweet. Sugar hypnotizes sorcerers. They still serve coffee to those who have collapsed
I fasted a thousand clouds, the plague of seasons lashed my back. A section of city couples with common stars. I perceive the sorrel pulverized along the refuges, the restraint of waters and the rum bar taken in tenure by the devil. Rattles and tambourines to clear the way. In green savannah, my cigarette was burned down, a man devoured his progeny, fanning a blaze of fabric among the bones. In green savannah, a lion fell in love with a thousand-year-old tibia, termites crowned the days of sowing: arduous hatching! My Ramadan jewels, golden torrents of my lunacy, were justified by the equinox of a continent burned alive
Saliva pronounces its sentence. A butcher hides under the wrinkles of a feather seller. Children with neither father nor mother warm their bellies with promises. A shroud engulfs the road. The hadiths are a firebrand for the heart. The ardent stanzas of my dolls’ black songs come back to me. I won’t save the world. Volcanos nor torrential rains will return me to memory. Skins inhabited by desire without shame; the sheep plunges its raw wool fleece into the fire. Rounds of breath resonate wearily. The monkey bread weighs heavily on the tree. And I’m stricken with blood, riddled with dates. The flowers have devoured my life for too long
Original text: Julien Delmaire, [“I” “III” “IV”] from Bogolan. Montreuil: Le Temps des Cerises, 2015.