No Way out of Here

For Paul Eluard

Freedom the color of man
What mouths will fly apart
Under the thrust of that monstrous vegetation

The sun a sleeping dog
Abandons the steps of a rich villa

Languid blue breast where beats the heart of time

A naked girl in the arms of a dancer handsome and armor-plated like Saint George
But that’s for much later
Feeble Atlantes


River of stars
Who carry off the punctuation marks in my poem and those of my friends

We mustn’t forget that the lot I drew gave me this freedom and you
If it’s she I conquered
Who else but you arrives sliding down a strand of frost
That explorer grappling with the fire ants of his own blood
It’s the same month of the year right to the end
Perspective that allows us to judge whether we’re dealing with souls or not
19..A lieutenant in the artillery awaits in a trail of gunpowder


Just as well the first-come
Bent over the oval of internal desire
Numbers these bushes by dint of glowworms
Depending on whether you’ll stretch out your hand for a headstand or before making love

As everyone knows

In the other world that will not exist
I see you white and elegant
Women’s hair gives off a scent of acanthus leaves
O superimposed panes of thought
In the glass earth rattle glass skeletons


Everyone has heard of the Raft of the Medusa
And if need be can imagine such a raft in the sky

20 May 1923

—André Breton via Mark Polizzotti

(no subject)

Schreib dich nicht
zwischen die Welten,

komm auf gegen
der Bedeutungen Vielfalt,

vertrau der Tränenspur
und lerne leben.

(trans. John Felstiner)

Don’t write yourself
in between worlds,

rise up against
multiple meanings,

trust the trail of tears
and learn to live.

—Paul Celan

(no subject)

This was posted tonight
on a NY art call list:

We are looking for an auctioneer or actor who can play an auctioneer for the Dec. 30th auction at 8pm. The auction is a performance by a group of Berlin artists in which the work which fails to meet its minimum bid, will be destroyed on stage. We are looking for someone who has the classic presence of an auctioneer, yet can also work the audience a bit. We prefer a middle aged or older male for the job. We would need to meet before the auction and the auction itself should take 1-2 hours. We can probably offer a little money, but it wont be much. Interested people can contact me


Benjamin Rubloff


(no subject)


Elle est debour sur mes paupières
Et ses cheveux sont dans les miens,
Elle a la forme de mes mains,
Elle a la couleur de mes yeux,
Elle s'engloutit dan mon ombre
Comme une pierre sur le ciel.

Elle a toujours les yeux ouverts
Et ne me laisse pas dormir.
Ses rêves en pleine lumière
Font s'évaporer les soleils,
Me font rire, pleurer et rire,
Parler sans avoir rien à dire

(transl. by Samuel Beckett)

She is standing on my lids
And her hair is in my hair
She has the colour of my eye
She has the body of my hand
In my shade she is engulfed
As a stone against the sky

She will never close her eyes
And she does not let me sleep
And her dreams in the bright day
Make the suns evaporate
And me laugh cry and laugh
Speak when I have nothing to say

—Paul Éluard

Tthink of Julie March

Leaving the imperial plastic paw imprint
upon that silken breast,
unsure of why events occur
ere the sun resolves to shine no more.
what became of her marble collection
shared eagerly tween bedsheets, now
a stolen bacillus for love
those royal eyes painted over continuously
unfortunately producing complimentary
shades to desire---more of his mother's
pages spin through ceremonies,
more of your life
is sewn to worthless badges
more of your name is a bestiary
to her lips that existed
but now a pretty shadow
held on by caliph-glue.
how many others you live with
that witnessed such destiny twisted out of shades
alone bound, heaven yet weeps
alone for you alone.
  • Current Music
    marvyn's marvylys matrycyde


from an unopened chest stretches the soft edge of hair

to view the changing: more and more becomes

less and less.

a needle wiggles through more and more of

the ribbon eclipsed by light, as by the closing of

a fish's mouth.

still from the chest, the flat ribbon enlivens to a face

embroidered on glass---selfsealed glass curling majestically out

a door's cliff.

eras within years, the ribbon lead back

inside the chest, itself the cusp

infinitely awaited.

(no subject)

wirft das schlaflos durchwanderte Brotland
den Lebensberg auf.

Aus seiner Krume
knetest du neu unsre Namen,
die ich, ein deinem
Aug an jedem der Finger,
abtaste nach
einer Stelle, durch die ich
mich zu dir heranwachen kann,
die helle
Hungerkerze im Mund.

the sleeplessly wandered-through breadland
casts up the life mountain.

From its crumb
you knead anew our names,
which I, an eye
to yours on each finger,
probe for
a place, through which I
can wake myself toward you,
the bright
hungercandle in mouth.

—Paul Celan translated by Pierre Joris