|To have or have not an innate intestine Kansian|
perception of the Kantian plains
glutted with the inner sanctums of an old meteorology.
Fresh plaint In the clotted clouds of blood
Near active friction of the blade
Does their bidding in the shade
Where warm balls of fictive light used to flood
The enormous room evenly hosting the telltale spots in the sun
Of creation now makes doom for factual reports
Half-self-baked, al dente, al forno, in the beak,
At the bill of what the nighthawk writer purports
To be the dark heat of the story that lies in some weak
Crazy Californian girls' oven-omened mind,
literally (too sublime to notice for us people blind) :
A tragic amorphous, burned to a cinder, mass of a charred mental bun, a sword that would be large bore literary gun.
He's Laëticia Perrais, We're Agnès Marin, have all something to glean. Let's walk into the forests of smite and not beat around the bush of their fearful symmetry through which phosphorates the shrouded crime of the last repast, the ultimate scene. Armed with Madame Bovary's knife, everyone should feel safe, parce que ce furent elles, parce que c'est moi maintenant, nous. Our throats shall stand uncut like the pages of a book by Corti, dull and null, a good read that will not cast any gloom remnant of a foggy strafe, a perfect unity of style devoid of any asperity. Hot slit pizzas of news items and parchments, fornoviolence for the able little people with no evil skull. Where the rejoycing reader meets the jubilating writer and gets his fair amount of baking powder to mull the plainness of facts, cull, if need be, their insignificant floury little fictitious animals. That's what Michel Foucault thought important, a plunge into the real, like a wild burnt offering, (the tradition certainly went back to the dawn of time, around the telling fires of legends that men and women gathered in the caves), when he took us to the bank of his Rivière. Today the hermeneutic pleasure is far gone (en attendant, lecteur de romans, tu pourrais faire le gros dos et te mettre dans la peau de Jean-Lino ou de celle de Lydie au jardin de Babylone), the allegoric side's vanished into thick air, eviscerated, tout-cuit de la crue, focusing tidal fluids of the flou, the guilt-ridden intellectual seizure surrendered itself to the filthy festivity of some strange and feeble complacency. Expect an epic decryption of Father Hamel's beckettian murder in the Norman cathedral anytime soon, with hundreds of transparent Hamlets unhidden in the closet recounting his shadow's bits of slough and deciding the dead issues left by the darkest assaulters of his night rats. Signs of the narrative non-fiction (en français dans le texte) written, while swimming, or basking, in blood, by our Literati salmons. The imperial transliteracy of some subliminal new liquid sphere.