Poetry month: “Wasteland to defend”

On the occasion of Poetry Month, The duty, with the complicity of the Office of Poetic Affairs, gives a poem to read each week. First of five.

Wasteland to defend

at the end of our traumas there is a wasteland and in this wasteland an iron box contains the sea

we cultivate it in secret

forever lukewarm children we are made of pink skin

moist and tender as the inside of the cheek

our arms yearn for thinness

railwaymen’s caps on our match heads mixed hair or birds’ nests straw dolls ready to burn

under the sun of an end of the world that we postpone

we french

when you make an effort you hear the frogs

we transcend the emptying we blur the edges

orange cones are ducks syringes are ripe fruit destroying is no longer an option and weasel chaos is king

our boots no longer take on water

our throats no longer slit

when the joy passes

we let ourselves float between the blue seaweed muddy undines

replete with fetid water and dreams we simmer our myths

imagine a beast

built of plots of refusal

proud beast with heavy bones open wings soft muzzle

to lay our heads tender beast with erect ears where to flow our voices in prayers

we draw in troubled waters an indomitable beast

because our bodies scream at rest

in the aqueous present our swims lengthen

we find our herds invaded by moss

we are young and wrinkled, heirs to a rusty memory haunted by the melancholy of railways abandoned by the hoarse song of dying objects

we come down from the drought

a pity of sand as a mouth we had to dig for a long time

chasing our ghosts on motocross

mine our soils to extract our voices

now we know

resistance is learned through heat islands

she belongs to the offspring of dust

let’s run

let’s run faster to convince ourselves we are locomotive and under our feet the rails fly away

we join the drones the seagulls the angels

before our eyes the wasteland grows

chews up the asphalt covers the walls erases all traces of violence

the canned sea soon swells overflows swallows the walls

our immense little sea unfolds its beach

at the top of the mound the beast stands

solid on her legs she will not move

The author

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