Isthme : un livre dépasse de ta poche
Confort Mental, Paris
06.06 – 18.06 2021
Speech in the air on the bank of time.
Pattern of an encounter: a book sticks out of your pocket,
seated in a maze of concreted flowers,
boots on our feet, the sweat of friendship.
Ruins of an already forgotten street, this is an isthmus
between two erected glass walls: reciprocity.
The outside goes through, the fog envelopes you.
We wander, following our intuition,
oriented obsessions: we collide with objects.
Liquid machinery, he’s cooking ellipses.
Fusion 45 = it melts
Fusion 1000 = it replaces you and freezes us
Alloy of metal bodies with metallic skin tone.
Sealed: fragile and invulnerable.
Collision of the failure and illusion of modernity
The expression of our hidden faces,
falters under our armor.
We suck the wing and carcass until we forget
the taste of the blood
in our mouths.
Shit! I feel trapped in a novel:
We sink into plugged architectures
Dissonance of the city that arises
immobile and animated facades :
they piece together fragmented voices one by one,
Under the greenhouses covered in black metal sheets,
affects dwell without gouvernance,
we lie down below.
It’s getting hot in the car factories
The tarmac’s soft tongue tastes our steps
We are burying time into mute and brutal material
She picks her substance from the earth
She lives, she breathes, she “works”
Reciprocal vision: affective nostalgia
in the essence of shapes.
Natural link between verb and spirit
ghosts of punctuation interact with one another.
She floats, permeates the cracks
spreads through the skylight and keyholes,
Short stemmed amphorae oscillate,
make blue smoke circles.
She sleeps between bistro tables
in the hazy glow of a street light
when no human gaze searches for her.
An unspoken word demonstrates the presence of silence
: your freedom.
Re-imagine yourself in the face of rejection and failure.
Should I feel more poetic?
We invent a space for meaning that wasn’t there before,
the vocabulary waved in the troubles of human moods
embalmed by rain on the summer’s hot concrete (petrichor)
Why there is no word for the way rich people smell,
or the humidity of the caves?
Writing accompanied by the thoughts of Martin Buber, Roland Barthes, Jean Baudrillard, Anne Dufourmantelle and works of Jules and Raphaël
Photo : Charlie Boisson