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Image by Noah Buscher

There is so much

There is so much of the world thought artificial without the horn it is our wall that goes sideways you follow it as your reflection follows you at every step desire is a plant and yet not and yet it is a piece of limestone that you have torn from the wall a piece of plaster something that does not really have something that doesn’t really belong to the statue and you almost feel its flesh it’s almost the mirror of the statue you would have to go back to try to understand at what point you left the wall at an angle and went back on your steps you crossed yourself again in the form of a look but no, this is not the case. Yourself in the form of a look, but no, it wasn’t you, it was someone else who looked exactly like you, it was almost your portrait escaped from the painting, but not really him, because your portrait had not been painted in oil, but in another material, in a more secret, insidious material, a material close to that of death. Yourself but concentrated like a spiral that winds around a tornado to form a cone, but a cone placed on its tip, this cone without passing through the ground would come out on the other side, not on the floor below but still in the basement, that is to say the zero point, what we would call the zero ground, the zero balance, the mechanics of the zero, that is to say something that subtracts itself, not to become negative but to become positive. Not to become negative but to keep a form of consistency to keep a form of semblance not the one of the reflection of the mirror but the one of the other one who just preceded you in the street when you were passing by and who entered a building without you noticing it is another man it’s not you it’s almost the double coming from his sphere it’s a kind of infinity it’s something you’re not going to really apprehend and that carried away by the car that leaves just to the left there the red car the one that has just turned the corner and that goes far away it’s this car there that you have to follow it’s the one that will guide you just where you’re going to go that is to say not on the other side but just next to you not on the sidewalk nor in the street but still on the other side not this street the other street you see you cross you turn there you turn left you go straight ahead you enter this store you cross it you come out in a courtyard you turn left again you go back on your steps and there you will see this mirror not of chalk nor of plaster but not of night either that is to say almost a dream almost a dream under the sun. That is, almost a dream, almost a dream in the form of a square, a reflecting square that would reflect not your image but your light, thus your light caught in the square without wreckage, a mirror that has become a cage, but that still remains something that is about to give you back to yourself what no longer belongs to you, what has already been boned, that is, that somewhere has been eaten away from the inside, not as if by a disease, but as a kind of excuse, that is, a pretext, a pretext for going on to something else. That is to say, just at the point of the target where you have become not a reflection but a look, you speak without admitting what you have just said, that is to say, exactly the opposite, so that this passer-by in the street you follow him, he waited on the left and then on the right, he crossed the courtyard, he crossed the mirror, he came back to the street, he crossed the store, he became himself again, he became another, he came back to thought, he became tall, he became a reflection, but no, it is not himself anymore. Himself it is someone else it is already you it is already what you have drawn on the portrait not with chalk nor with plaster nor even with limestone but only with the help of your hands full of shadow your hands dripping with sweat and your hands full of ashes your hands full of fires those arborescent fires that you let burn in the fences at night when you fall asleep alone because you are always alone because you are always without hands because you are always hungry for yourself a little bit like a wineskin or a bottle of wine. A little like a wineskin or a den or a sceptre or even if not the sepulchre of a seer outraged by the sun

IVAN de MONBRISON was born in Paris one century after the birth of the painter Matisse and just before some bald apes set their feet on the moon, and put a flag there. Himself is just a poor fellow plagued by psychotic disorders. He has found in poetry a medium to conjure his delirium into, if possible, meaningful words. He writes in many languages because none of them is really his own, probably as a consequence to his autistic tendencies. Back in school, most teachers thought he was a total idiot, maybe they were right, but even an idiot has the right to write, he guesses.

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