Poésie Anglo-saxonne
Mimi Bordeaux est un écrivain Australien résidant à Melbourne
Son recueil Lonely Street publié par les éditions Minces est en libre accès
Forever Ever or Never
Forever does it exist? Forever is never doesn’t exist. It betrays hearts, breaks bones in its subtle nuances. It takes love, makes it eternal but it’s not. There is nothing just worn down cloth from the gaggery. No one has any right to tell. Love has no name so don’t expect it to deliver your lusty pleasures.
Aphrodite has a mirror_ it reflects your world of despicable lust. Her voice flogs those who use its dance for uppity pose.
Freyja was here with Eros flown away.
I am impassioned with this. Never born_trapped in mother’s uterus_screaming forever. But you released me. This hideous hateful horrid hobgoblin always down inside inner core gutter’s sewer range. Crawling with the dregs- scrags_ slags lovers who have been banished for a dream of sensuality.
Unbeknown to every scab here, I am to see_ relish freedom_ hovering, staggering towards my light, the golden globe I burning gone but not forever as there is no ever or nowhere forgone. Person of steel lifts me out of the gutter- carrys me on her back to the hollowmen hole. I’m gone.
***
Last Night I Made Love With Spiderwoman
Clawlike fingers or are they nails painted bird fell on my windowsill calling my name ‘Felicity,
Felicity!’ I gelled up with some cookie dough between the thighs crunch curse not the CXurse cuntis kvnt open fingers entering oww ooh she nearly bit me neck bite tethered in braces she hovers over my lips sucking are they fangs? Kiss with golden tongue frolicking in
the mouth so succulent her breath on my face lips of sweet papaya mango Mimi munchkin
morning melt desirous delirous galavanting throw me over your shoulder WonderWoman! No
she tells only the most serendipitous sensuous salts steaming from her brow hot legs shoot
from the hip she has a gun it’s loaded pistol on your piston gunfire upload bullet for hire
powderworks hut battle of the she grrls beautiful one last night I made love with
Spiderwoman.
Mimi Bordeaux tous droits réservés
Pour toujours, jamais ou jamais
Existe-t-il pour toujours ? L'éternité n'existe pas. Il trahit les cœurs, brise les os dans ses subtiles nuances. Il prend l'amour, le rend éternel mais il ne l'est pas. Il n'y a rien d'usé par le bâillonnement. Personne n'a le droit de le dire. L'amour n'a pas de nom, alors ne vous attendez pas à ce qu'il vous procure de grands plaisirs.
Aphrodite a un miroir_ il reflète votre monde de luxure méprisable. Sa voix fouette ceux qui utilisent sa danse pour prendre la pose de l'arrogance.
Freyja était ici avec Eros qui s'est envolé.
Je suis passionné par cela. Jamais né_pris au piège dans l'utérus de sa mère_à jamais hurlant. Mais tu m'as libéré. Cet affreux haïssable monstre toujours dans les égouts de l'intérieur du caniveau. Rampant avec ces misérables amants qui ont été bannis pour un rêve sensuel.
A l'insu de toutes les crapules, je vois planer le plaisir de la liberté, tituber vers ma lumière, le globe d'or moi qui brûle, mais pas pour toujours, car il n'y a pas de jamais ni de toujours t ni de nulle part perdu. Une personne d'acier me soulève du caniveau et me transporte sur son dos jusqu'au trou des hommes creux. Je suis perdu.
Mimi Bordeaux traduction Pojar
Hier soir, j'ai fait l'amour avec la Femme-araignée
Des doigts en forme de griffes ou d'ongles peints sont tombés sur le rebord de ma fenêtre en m'appelant "Felicity",
Felicity ! Je me suis gélatiné avec de la pâte à biscuits entre le crissement maudit des cuisses et non la malédiction du sexe qu'ouvrent les doigts en pénétrants oww ooh elle mord presque mon cou la morsure d'un appareil dentaire qu'elle passe au-dessus de mes lèvres en suçant serait-ce des crocs ? Baiser avec la langue d'or qui batifolent dans la bouche si succulente son souffle sur mon visage les lèvres au goût de douce papaye mangue Mimi munchkin
matin fondant désireux délirant en balade me jette par dessus son épaule WonderWoman ! Non
elle n'exprime que bonheur de cuisson sensuelle qui s'échappe en vapeur de son front ses jambes brûlantes tirent avec la hanche elle a un pistolet c'est un pistolet armé sur votre piston coup de feu qui décharge une balle à louer
la poudre à cancon est une bataille et elle fait grrls une dernière fois
la nuit dernière j'ai fait l'amour avec la Femme-araignée.
Mimi Bordeaux Traduction Pojar
Gordon Purkis is a writer currently living in suburban Atlanta, GA USA. His poetry has been published in the small press. His novel Quintet is forthcoming from Black Opal Books
The Eye's Wife
1.
There’s something so sensuous about the virgin
And I am brilliantly displayed over the sky, full of spirits,
As I lick mournful demons about her waist.
Oh God! This sin will go as surely as it came –
We’re all lustful before the gods. Yet
I draw upon mournful brains for the virgin
Whose name I can’t remember but whose touch
I cannot forget. Oh God! The lust will vanish,
Vanish as surely as it came.
There’s something so sensuous about the virgin
And we draw our sexy claws and scrape about the tomb
Looking for what has disappeared never to return.
Awaken, awaken! The fun will come, the smile reappear
Translucent, tired, while the poet stands
At a crossroads wondering if he has the right.
This loss is like having no words left.
This loss is like the foreigner
Leaving his home to walk down those streets
Where he knows no-one,
Clinging to an old passport.
2.
There’s something so blue above the sky,
Something somewhere – where the virgin lies freshly
Freckled, not searching for what lies below in an arid
Tomb. Instead, she’ll paint misty icons and label them:
Time: before the dream and the ghosts will awaken
Amidst the dying inspiration of her words: strange, heavy
Bullshit.
The gods destroy numb rats until the day has come where
There’s something so blue above the sky,
Someplace somewhere – where you poke at hot bugs
Beside the light. The virgin, trusting in the intangible
And fading slowly, with nothing to lose and in whose
Eyes shine the reflection of a face in the mirror,
Wears a face bearing a message to seek shelter, help is on the way.
3.
And we’re tired but happy in our graves,
All God’s scary creatures stirring in the mist as
I stroke, comely, my way back to heaven.
This passion is dying though, dying with
Darkness and blackness in the air.
I met sexy demons under the water who all said
Atone! But the day was good and we lied like
Lovers never torn apart.
And we’re tired but happy in our graves,
The virgin violating her own dream-like spells
Inside the bed the gods made for us.
But this inspiration must continue, make us
trusting yet grieving, sitting
on the edge of the world
an unreliable map in our hands, not telling
with what regrets
the guest
comes singing.
I lie heavy beneath the sea
I am both dark and bright amidst the hidden light.
I prod colorful disasters like a priest before my flock.
Awaken, awaken! I bellow. But let’s be real; the bitch was good.
The virgin lies tired and happy.
You stonesearch for musty diamonds in the mist while
We reach for heaven with dirty hands! The King never ends.
I lie heavy beneath the sea.
I destroy lustful fragments beyond the bullshit.
Alas! The Knave is gone,
flickering, tired,
worn out in another country
with an old passport, seeking
The virgin, in whose heart
the lover
look for landmarks
all through his life.
Landmarks
I’m going,
open-eyed and restless,
lost in broad
daylight, marching
to the sound of
a ticking clock.
To
what end does
my likeness
look for
landmarks
in the late
light?
To
what end
does my likeness
look for landmarks
in the late
light.
(ticking
clock).
To what end
Is my
likeness
lost in
broad daylight
(a ticking
clock).
To what end
(my likeness is
lost
in broad daylight
while I march
to the sound of
a ticking
clock).
To
what end
my likeness,
lost
in broad daylight,
a
ticking clock.
To
what
end
does
my
likeness,
lost in
broad daylight,
marching to
the sound of
a ticking clock,
look for
landmarks
in the late
night?
Colin James has a couple of chapbooks of poetry published. Dreams Of The Really Annoying
from Writing Knights Press and A Thoroughness Not Deprived of Absurdity from Piski's Porch Press
and a book of poems, Resisting Probability, from Sagging Meniscus Press............
THE ACCEPTANCE OF SPONTANEITY
I can smell a slight odor wafting
up from the nether regions.
Caught it just in time before
the much more prudent noses arrive,
judiciously holding forth and partial
to a good cop, bad cop analogy.
My alibi is still the usual,
was sitting when assumed standing.
Then things got out of hand.
Distractions not unlike your tats
their alignment wishful.
Causing me to wonder what
the artist had in mind.
His hell bent paradox depreciates
the next person who sits here.
J.I. Abbot—also known as ⓐⓑⓑⓞⓣ—is a poet, comic, singer-songwriter, multimedia artist, translator, and full-time professor of English and philosophy at a small Connecticut college.
AWAITING THE UNPROVEN THIRD WIND
for Abi, in friendship
I aim to fight limits; I embrace limits. Even
as some music hits my ear I drink it up
before I taste it. But if I’m lucky, it pursues
my inmost taste buds: hallways the mind’s ear
has left empty but rejoices in the moment
beloved notes rush in, borne by a breeze named
memory that forbids the pleasures in today.
Memory: the enemy of deepest listening;
echoing can only impersonate fantastic
slogans of the past, while the wildest,
wisest Muse dreams all things new: glasses
clinking, bells alerting, rejuvenated days urging
out of settled beds each dark complacent
dream holding a border between old & yet
unspoken. What my hands can’t now locate
on the fretboard, She curves into a breath
& I find the third wind: the stuff of legends,
the unfalsifiable yet undeniable Song Beyond
hope & despair—a ship for reaching endless
insights & new views, “Energy” I only half-
believed in. But I’ll concede a win to memory:
that I gave, even on one occasion—one eve
of expected insomnia—a “lecture” compressing
a whole semester into 3 hours: the possibility
of finding that form “Home, Away from Home,
& Home Again”—triptych my too-patient college
dance teacher taught relentlessly—in all craft,
everywhere, in all moments. Even if but 3 souls
half-remember whatever that was, Rant for Life,
it matters to this optimistic singer, to your friend.
