. "I'm not born
to forge arms to centaurs,
to give my blood to tissues
drying in the moonlight.
.
I'm not born
fight for my shadow,
or find one day my fists
pecked by pheasants.
.
I came not to hit
nor to laugh at death.
I do remember,
stretchers go,
soaring galley,
knees tremble and hawks arise
on balls fragile and alive.
.
If I look back,
death goes backwards,
indefinitely doors slamming cupboards until
horizon.
.
Death
vulgar laughter behind his green shutters
sucks a sweet English
and carpets are wet with herbal teas.
.
I'm not born,
the beginning there was a great laugh,
at a street corner a plaster doll
opens in sweaty green water rage,
boxes containing only boxes,
and endless boxes.
.
Further, as a heart sucks the blood
a hole in a giant sucking me flesh,
of living walls, red and hot,
drag me by the throat,
I do not want me back ,
that earlier were murdering me
a kitchen knife
between the shoulders. "
.
Rene Daumal, Nausea be in The Counter -Ciel (1930) (Poetry / Gallimard, pp. 145-146).
.
"He ran, he ran, the unfortunate
under the moon and in the ashes, his foot slipped
on beaches and
rainforest tore his hair.
.
He ran, he ran like crazy,
gesticulating with her long black members;
snow penetrated his blood, sand
his brain.
.
In every capital he found friends
the bottom of a coffee suburbs,
they embraced, gave him alcohol,
cigars and women eyed beasts.
.
He stroked their hair,
he ate a plate of soup
and went, his long arms ridiculous
raised toward the sky gray and yellow.
.
Ah! he had friends, friends,
true friends around the world,
he ran, he ran on the roads and beaches,
because it was never that.
.
He ran again, my friends, my friends,
does not look so stupid,
a look too, a nose less,
and each time the table is missing.
.
He runs, he runs, and in bars in the suburbs,
discusses their cases;
stacks of plates fall of the arms of servants,
everyone goes home alone, biting his lips.
.
He turns, he turns, my friends, it
to sever the arteries. "
.
Rene Daumal, The Wanderer in Rear- Heaven (1930) (Poésie / Gallimard, pp. 120-121).
.
I love the poetry of René Daumal (1908-1944). It is time that I find his prose, particularly his Mount Analogue and binge drinking Great. The photograph above shows Rene Daumal few days before his death, May 19, 1944. It was taken by Luc Dietrich (1913-1944) that should also try the city Learning and happiness to the sad .
Addendum: I think that's roaming looks very strong with a song I really like Dominique A: Hasta that cuerpo aguante . Well, it said.
.
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