English (trial) poem

English is my tongue of loneliness

English is my out loud tongue

When I speak my language I never speak up :

I explain, I ironize, I tell, I lie

I explain facts that my brain can fluently translate into stories.

Everyday life is stories.

I don’t like to speak English with people,

It makes me French, so fucking French.

I can’t try to make my accent better,

I can’t speak without the knowing smile.

They know, I know.

My french English gives me confidence, I am who I am, I don’t move. People in front of me hear that, they want to hear that, strangers and other French people in attendance. It gives us an us and a you. It gives us trivial curiosity. It’s pleasant, I like it. It gives us the feeling of being part of high people, who meet strangers to discuss with, with a still glass of still alcohol, with a cigarette, with whispering music in the back. It is sentences ahead of our bodies, with our ahead bright uncatching hands.

My french English is everybody’s English for everybody.

But,

English is moving movies

English is crying songs

English is also Meryl Streep wiping and dancing The winner takes it all.

English is my tongue of loneliness

English is my stumbling tongue.

My english has the speed of my tremors.

I need to search for its words and mines,

Mines for bombs I have to dig up and fight until they explode in truth.

Or just in explosion.

English is frustrating, English is fantasy.

Words are not easy with a stumbling heart, uneasy words are the only possible words for a stumbling heart.

English gives me the unease that I want more and more - and with the sweet lie of aloofness if you read me.

In English I can say I’m dying, in English I can say I’m dying for the death and the deads, in English I’m dying for death and good. Good. And go fuck yourself you fucking idiots ! Fuck Fuck Fuck !

In english I can repeat myself and again with sadness or with joy until other words come.

Idiots or Idiot.s

Truth is singular scrambled in generalization.

WHO

IS

HIDDEN

?

hiding ?

Hello dear one, the only one,

Thanks for being here today.

I need to speak to you about what was your vanishing or whatever you may call it. But yet it’s not a trial. Or yeah ! it's a trial if you want, it’s a trial. This is your vanishing trial session, yeah.

The parts are you and me. So, hum, you vanished, I stayed. I stayed cause I had nowhere to vanish from you. Then. I would have loved to vanish myself too, to let the space entirely empty. You leave a space, I leave this space too, and the space is empty and the space is us because empty.

So that was the thing I wanted to say. You, me and a space.

I have no conclusion. It’s a trial or nothing, it’s a trial overflowing with unsettled and infinite present.

I would love to write an entire poem about you without you.

I would name that entire poem The Poem from scratch.

Dismissed.

(L’Hydre de Lerne, Gustave Moreau, 1875)