Les Trois Sœurs by René Char mutated by Becky Varley-Winter & Ollie Evans (Sunday 2 March 2014)
victory is clear
The bird is beached on the tear,
the serpent is the same,
Plato dances in the sky.
The explosion in the noose, the lonely dance inside me.
Folded in sound, how can I comment on the nature of my advantage?
The pulse of a second memory, the changes on my face, the season’s pulse is poor and flammable and our session will expire!
The havoc of slow snow descends with leprosy.
Sudden love, the equality of terror, the dumb hand that sees the cinders arrest, readdress the sun, reconstructed lovers.
Nothing announces existence with such force.
after René Char
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Danger! It is fake fur. It is a false life.
The illness of the future is in the past.
The Sun dominates the drought like it had a permit or some special pass.
Eternity is never false. No one voted for the domination of the sun to drop. If the Sun evaporated, the ones on the left would agitate, discord, supplicate, vomit.
It is futile to pass a vote on the dropping domination of the sun.
Death feeds upon the Middleincome, indecisively, chewing on its fur.
Finally I can live. I shall never rest again.
Impoverished solicitude, if only I shared your absolute voice. Welfare is history.
from Michaux’s Portraits of the Middleincome
Their face is a portal made of chains and voices.
[The chapbook I sent you in the mail is tainted with their yolk. The role of the author in a coup, unburied, arranged, their faith suffers in the mail. A union of athletes escalate a longing breath. This project splits across its speech design.]
Temps! Oh! Lazy temps!
Torch the temps who quit before their time! who quit before we have eaten all their time!
Their illness takes the form of poor bulls pissing into their dreams; their illness takes the form of immovable appliances for the poor.
Applications against the mural, motherfuckers; the mural gives rest to persons who cannot dream, takes the form of a long cord enlaced with ecstasy.
Settled torture. Settled Middleincome.
And they attend, legally aphasic, to the same unimportant moans of bondage where the heart in another dimension applies to serve this lucid meme.
Days, years, of venereal presents.
Settle today for an afternoon of debasement with the Middleincome. Their money dances in the trees; the branches strip skin through sieves.
Their poor flesh is a form of fixed evasion, a death fatigue, the lost dance of the water-pipe; dance of fuel and chocolate mousse, a dance of an eaten-up peduncle.
Drunk on ascension, they will shower the entrance of the Savoy with a crass breakbeat. Life in the nursery, a slow dance with trembling eye.
A suave slow dance with flour.
The infirmity of your butterfly-kicks will never beat the violent aspiration of this bougie surplus.
En suite, they descend upon the racists with a dance of terrible love, abandoning the wealth of their choices when they know that they are lost.
Joy, joy invades us with an inversion of panic.
Joy, like a soup-kitchen beneath the overture.
We made our en suite water-pipes and fired at the state. The earth was soiled with petty middleincomes who, probably lost, fell, dancing through the trees. We will watch their skin detach on the way down.
We are the menace: no encore for humiliation.
Our illness is still dreaming all its horrors. Our skin has detached without pain on the water-punch.
Only employment is a vegetable eaten up with resentment.
The Middleincome is an ignited fuse. The Middleincome longs to be fused.
Come, reverse the dream.
Fear-of-Being parts the meme.
The witness makes its specter and appeals to every last fibre of these tenants in their capsules.
She chants quips as shells hurl past her vote.
In the chant, a car in the east is on fire.
Mace is the fate of unintended knowledge.
Telecast our song. Hurl profanities. Dance with silence.