DELIRIUM

I offer to myself the world in a fantasmagoric
Effort of critical transformation
What is it ?
It is the outcome of a mysterious delirium
That contracts my fingers
On the multicoloured pastels
Which trace the words and the shapes
That burst on the paper like a retarded fusion
Of pachidermic frustrations
Of transcendental relationships
The ramifications degenerate themselves
The stories are no longer listened to
The tales are not anymore tackled
In a warm and re-comforting impetus
We do not listen we look at
We accept with infected eyes
Swollen by the resignation and the “demission”
The ski-lift does not go down
The lifts will never go up
The minds are stagnant like the mirrors
At the bottom of the stunted mountains
The reasons have no more strength to exist
The spring is icy the wither is crumpled
The autumn remains abandoned
The summer does not anymore suffice to itself
We do not know we shut the doors
We go down in the immaculate foundation
Of the fundamental inexperience
Why counting the days when nothing
Will release
Even the last judgment will not happen
Even the weekly crisis will manifest itself
Into a deluge
Of smashed glass of lost tapestries
In the labyrinth of the infertile towers
The gardens will disperse in the frontiers
And the arcades will come to life
Of fervour of grief
Of unexpected change
The trees will rebel
In an electronic storm which will burn
The antecedents and will reach
The hallucinating roots
The blueish fish
Will extend in the impenetrable light
Of eternal mysteries
The elements float in the disintegrated
Matters
The walkers meet the walls
Doorless and openingless
The walkers do not dream
They walk on the concrete
And their eyes collide the spy cells
Which pick up their movements
The bodies are not caressed
They are the geometric abstraction
Of the infiltrations through the shutters
And the frightened colours
Do not shine
However the days are neither shorter
Nor longer
They are no more the time’s consistency
Which draw the marks on our forehead
And which furrow into our skin
Thousands of little dried rivers
Each time they are the morbid dream
Of the unbroken convoys
On the lunar and special passages
The dramas lend like a multitude
Of voracious flowers unexpected
The roses are incredible fishes
The fishes walk like humans
Humans with despair fly
And the birds wait for the end
Delirium Delirium
Delirium


Houria Niati
London 1982