On the occasion of Poetry Month, The duty, with the complicity of the Office of Poetic Affairs, gives a poem to read each week. For this second of five weeks: The desert islandAcid Ludic.
The desert island
My bed is a desert island
Where my body in more or less skilful impulses throws itself
I roll my flesh on its beaches
Cloth and foam ’til he kicks me out
So I hoist the sails, slip away
But the waves bring me back without exception
And sometimes in a sad shipwreck
My bed is a desert island
I explored it back and forth
I feel on the sidelines
Spinning like a caged lion
I want to dialogue with the monsters below and when we engage
I don’t have the right language
Deep down I’m stuck in quicksand
Leaving traces to all winds in this often unstable balance
My bed is a desert island
A purgatory covered in sheets
A concrete sanctuary lying on a pile of dust
Temporary shelter from the weather
A station without timetable, a microcosm where time perishes
I’m the master of the place, monarch without a subject but I don’t have control of everything
I know the steep paths that lead to sleep and the view is worth it
Of sedentary temperament, I established my camp in a half
Facing the onslaught of winter with flannel and cotton weaves
Sometimes another soul comes to wash up there and we mix up our loneliness
It disrupts habits
This strange bliss
We light bonfires
With a bit of her, a bit of me
Sparks between the fingers
Then the sea comes to take back its rights
As soon as my feet hit the ground
I go on crazy races
Until the hours when the day withers
And if I get lost in the fog of the world, I have an easy mark
There’s always my bed as a haven