C'est là, défini, tout ce que je ne peux pas exprimer, ni même concevoir, parce que c'est encore trop tôt: tout cela qu'est négation, négation puissante et pleine, négation sereine, tout cela c'est là. C'est la part silencieuse de ce que je suis, c'est la part mort de mon être vivant. Impossible à dire complètement. Impossible à comprendre jusqu'au but, cet espace blanc, cette identité, sont dans ma distance d'aujourd'hui. J.M. Le Clézio.
An endless desire to abandon this fucking place, the sooner the better; since my fifteen or sixteen, not a single day I’ve stopped thinking about suicide, unique lucid retort against this decayed world. And I planned to do the final cut before my thirties. However, I will turn forty-three in a month, and here I am, trying to explain myself with these words, trying to portray as precisely as possible this vicious ego.
First of all, I’m no longer aim for a Paradise. For almost ten years, I have decided to say NO to almost everything. Even if I keep pleasing myself with small illusions: a girl’s ass or eyes - I still need be bound to a body - the most recent advances in quantum physics, and not much more.
Singular autism, stuck in this pretentious valley, hostage in this sordid country-jail; which has always been governed by butchers/beasts. Where unfortunately I was born, but I expect don’t have to die.
Absolute master, finally, of a definitive NO, NO to all homelands, I refuse to put one on my face. NO to all social interaction, nobody can count on me to strengthen their existence; I never frequent my so-called peers, I avoid those places where such little turds show off their misery, their made up solitude, and applaud each other for their irrelevant self- publications. Tiny devils screaming their mini-nirvanas; greedy opportunists gambling their vacuity in the toxic literary circus, trick without which it would be impossible to them extend their despicable lives one more day.
I even say NO to lovers’ love, two persons rubbing each other their shit-lives, as if this was a great thing.NO to all kind of jobs, even the intellectual ones, except physics, but I'm completely inept in that field.NO to the whole contemporary art, huge fraud. NO to my own pale poetry or from others, anemic music, dying light that nothing illuminates now. Current poetry is like porn, there is nothing new under the sun, everything has been done already.
I also say NO to unnecessary possessions, I don’t have a car, a bed why would I buy a bed when all that I want is sleep, the poet Robert Lax said one day, or a woman, nor a personal library, I always wear second-hand clothes, I don't even have a dog that licks my life, Isn't a little fascist to expect the unconditional submission of another being? I'm talking about dogs' adult masters and of course I don’t suppose to have a coffin when I die.
I say NO to procreation, abominable crime, but long live the lust! .NO to the certitude of the daily mirror.NO to intoxicating paradises; I have finally embrace the emptiness, not the Buddhist one, frail zenith; but one made of flesh, truly, vivid, without utopian ends; every morning my morning, every night my night, each start an uncertain end, plausible way, a tidy hell without a schedule: alone, on my own, wearing a white bathrobe, wishing to be nothing, or at least return to the fundamental atoms, in which I had believed to exist, and disappear, at last, into a black hole. End of this Big Bang, which is just our Big Bang.
It has been foolish divide us into national tribes and ties our identity to them, by waving colored rags, the ridiculous flags among other non-senses. We remain attached to the noxious anthropocentric archetype, which most pernicious after effect is overpopulation, an idiotic way to destroy our own habitat. Our cognitive progress is so slow, and those who govern us, a gang of rogues and clowns; the extinction seem inexorable.
A world mostly monotheistic the fanatical polytheistic hinduism isn’t better that obstinately worships a sort of fascist king: Jehovah/Allah, a phantom presence that is supposed to explain the destiny of us all, and whose obsolete axioms are simply written verbiage no book is sacred such neurosis this is how Freud called religion has not brought any benefit to humankind; we are, therefore, far from attain a wise humanism, to be truly civilized. Thomas Bernhard said: Ausgerechnet der Mensch ist unmenschlich.
I magnify the NO to extravagant levels, says everyone who hates me. I can't stand brotherhoods, I'm always ready to leave, not to share, I despise all commitments; nobody can count on me to strengthen their existence, I feel sorrier for the death of an elephant than for all the American casualties in the well-deserved 2002 attack, for example, or the devastating tsunami in Thailand two years later.
Although I have always felt more empathy for the less fortunate, I wonder if I won't end up as a bum myself than for the wealthy people. A fact proves my misanthropy, with some regularity, vultures-looking for food- destroy the garbage bags placed outside my living- scattering its contents everywhere; I have felt compassion for them, however, I tell off the hobos who do the same.
I only feel sympathy for children, their spontaneity, their frankness, I see in them –for sure erroneously-the possibility of something new, but adults disgust me a lot, especially the very old ones, pathetically stuck to their bones, to their perished dreams.
Depression is the psychiatric diagnosis, easy answer; a more precise reason could be the anosmia, which fortunately has accompanied me since my early years, fortunately I say, because it has helped me to be less vulnerable to historical- hysterical conditions. I have never felt nostalgia for the idyllic past of childhood: the smell of my mother, the neighborhood, the food; it has been easier to leave family, motherland, religion, language, and without a great effort, to get rid of the “cultural imprint”, implicit in those pernicious institutions.
Therefore, I can live in any corner of the orb, eat any sort of food, speak several languages, but it has become harder to bear it for longer; even more so if long ago the carnival has stopped, no more laughter, the mundane caprices are gone for good, goodbye to the soft skin of the girls and their stormy tenderness, memorable fucks, so, now I'm a lonely dice, a trivial renegade; an ordinary mask hides a real nought. But I’m fed up with any action, a strong daily desire to disappear. The asphalt forces me to neat up clothes and hair to tolerate the awful fate. I join the crowd, devour each street; the small city repeated in every look, colossal farce, worn-out décor, there is only one thing to do, shut up and wait, time will eclipse everything. I will spend my last bones abroad, hit by other winds, and before being sixty, that's it, enough, the whole shit could end abruptly, with my brain exploding. But please, no ceremonies, nothing more pathetic than the vulgar presence of a corpse, it would be great don’t have to leave one. Only worms will be welcome to the closing charade; a finale without masses, without muses, without priests, without tunes. And the " je ne regrette rien" quelle fanfaronnade! , je regrette tout.
The words that come from nothing and go to nothing and serve nothing, as we know and keep secret, the words to which we cling because our impotence makes us insane and our insanity makes us despair, these words merely infect and ignore, blur and aggravate, shame and falsify and cloud and darken everything. Thomas Bernhard
The ambiguous challenge of creating a poetics that annuls itself, is almost an imperative for some contemporary poets; my approach is similar, but different the purpose. Firstly, for me, being a poet certainly doesn't mean being a writer, someone committed to write an 'oeuvre’. I still find it strange to evoke myself with signs that perhaps are too far from the real me. Why write then, I wonder, how to tell this dream flesh, I am aware of the minor truth that all literature means, of any language, therefore, it is useless to continue with this forced prosody, knowing in advance that the prolongation of the “coup de des" is nothing but a linguistic artifice. Poetry tells us wrongly; but in the vigil, the vulgar ego easily opts for an aesthetic triumph, in detriment of the full experience that may have preceded it.
So, it is not only a question of renewing the inherited language, alter its syntax, with the worthless illusion of finding a personal voice, but to avoid any pronounceable alphabet, tame the haughty howl, I aspire to a tangible “page blanche”, to a wordless poem, aesthetic of the silence, the song of the end. So, from now on every gesture will be a laconic act, and each form of writing, an anticipated failure, a no future. I assume then my paradoxical choice, to be a poet without words.