takeout takeout poetry launch Excerpts chosen norm in that it is custom, the takeout No poetry, 5 launched a few weeks ago. The takeout poetry, as we remember, a group of texts read or unpublished evenings Password which we will celebrate the second anniversary in September this year.
hello Bobb
BACK COVER:
You put the animal world head , bloody pathways by which they pass logic at bay .
How?! Do you not see? To show like. Exercises.
THIS is an unstoppable parade-ie, random. Out, the masks for the occasion, which, from a brothel junk-cluttered her eyes which, for most, which still fell asleep on the rubble of the wind ... Poetry leans to the mirrors, but you do not believe; drowned in his mirrors and there is no resurrection; they are alone, and with it, we are alone, and with it, there more parades; offered full nudity, which defaces. What does it take to discharge the lyrics?
"For the facts! "
They come, they come.
-short, blablablablablablab ( " Bis) Do you understand now, all these bloody heads have d'avoir-day, one more day , unable to defeat the time?
MAKES THE HEART OF DUTIES ON THE SIDEWALK
Robbert Fortin, Rue Saint-Jean, Quebec
See passers breath of night like stuffed peacocks
young brains stuffed
freedom hurts so drunk you
never to see her shivering in your teeth
strangely the same routine mechanical
Gossage spine of many small life Pistons for all you have nothing
products ephemeral
to cut short the cowardice
to show your true face
hell it will always be other
you feel doomed to miscellaneous
bowls with pride at the tables look
you eat the cuttings of your nonsense
it gets worse for those who are already hooked
accessories
skin in the core operating
made stains on the sidewalk
it gives a little cry effoiré between the cracks
nobody reacts because there are centuries
that you do not know what it looks like a cry of
man defeated by on inside
and if I tell you stop-light red
you to disguise yourself as you refuse Bukowski
disenchantment
ostrich bad night
you pierce your dream through the carbon layer
or almost cleared your body will become the ghost
nibbling his suspenders
TEST ARTIST
Robbert Fortin, my first recital, The Hobbit Cafe, Quebec
Whenever a fire overnight on approximate skin left
Respere take scripture the form of a passion without further
devotion to behave like a
fiber which would push the audacity to strengthen our obsession
cause
under the shock of our effronteries
our wanderings driving
we let each phrase
mention our fighting spirit to overcome our revolutions
without knowing that he had bitten into it or breathe it
that was triggered us to other sites
light show each relaunched a
support a lever pointing travel
our cries like a sling
had been awake
the intimate presence of a resonance fragility
rustling prints with a language where
stand between constancy and pitfalls
elevation
we measured in the poem rose nearly unfathomable
what turns the sound of breath being fortified
did we know the hope now he had
learn to conquer fear and drudgery live
we were the new poets we said
cheeky knowing that shadow and brush
our hearts should also face the tub water
we would doubt our courage
THE ANGEL OF BLUR DESIRE
Robbert Fortin, before the paintings of Francis Bacon, Tate Museum, London
You do not need body
to bar the way to thunderstorms
you've already set
transforming the smallest flaws in
mirrors
pain as if a strange beauty to which a sickly
cry
stands up to the world at the same time declared itself powerless to
spit out his empty
why did you get in this house
the corners broken
flayed from insomnia and dementia
your burning suns of madness before protraits
it is true that no response should
to your heartbeat
offal
all voices that have made you darkness
at least you can wash lightning
made you nailed hand to anger
you will become the angel of desire
blur on a foundation of neurosis
LOVE-SHEET 2
-MAYOR PAOLA GRIMALDI
[...] I shake And you
shrinks
You're not a rabbit
And the snake that I'm
Wrapped in your body red eye causes you to
background water.
'
As the horizon moving
On the body of a woman is peeling oranges
looks at herself in the eyes
It rained gold on
our love perverse.
'
I'm leaving. I'm traveling
Visit the rest of life without you
Where Every second you do not exist.
Believe me, it will be long.
'
Desire: Te
beheaded
And cuddle me in your arms.
Sometimes I also loved that bad
[...]
WITH MY ARMS
VIRGINIA BEAUREGARD
I will not open the door
you personally for the buck of blind love
reread the sidewalks
daylight and blue sky kissing lightning
I will break my phones pink hammer
in the thunder the sound of memories
I dreamed that bombs exploded
lick evidence as the cutting edge of a knife
what remains of our heroic
ulterior motives attached to the front line
me back safe and sound with my arms
BELLE
VIRGINIA BEAUREGARD
I want to sleep and wake up tomorrow as a beautiful
first day
land between the teeth
skin in the sun the wind
weighing on the fingers dried
future starched
wax my shoes
Europe was up early that day in the sun
Sabbath songs by a core of women
a crinoline grazes shoes without soles to smiles
kind
skinned feet that will not hurt
LEGION
RENE THE FLOWER
Always uniformly immersed in vines on vines of phagocytes
Still wasting organic separation Always progress
reduced to begging a background of reduced air
Always
Always knowingly underfed
Always scalped before reaching the valley running down the dune
Always torrire without boots and without feet
And Never Never respite
of Valhalla at the end of death and dying every day
Never rest between the hammer blows
Never ever break the tightness of the aorta That never
acid mixed with blood
That beat the skull beneath the cries
Hard white balloon that compete for the whores and the players laugh at fat
(ED) FINISH 2008
SEBASTIAN BOULANGER-GAGNON
When architecture no longer a profile of a ram in a brick wall still standing, the eagles have landed their big wings on the ground and planted their beaks in the ash. The time breathing through the throat on the shoulders two kids who lost their mothers. A memory hovered over the disaster and gave up the ghost in a fever.
DEDICATION
RODNEY CHRISTMAS trd. mrk. co.
see towers strings are divided bones
your mirrors divert the time I'm
circles their surface
MEN APOCRYPHAL
RODNEY CHRISTMAS trd. mrk. co.
anthology gestures dying destitute state of the tower reed twisted liquid to the space the dead multiply the body where I live where I do not live (these masks are beginning to look like us)
soon need a new balance of mirrors
notch net
a snag in the rain too broad
coda
me the weed countries where the feet do not hold men in straw
fetishes
consequences shells inexplosive
TWILIGHT OF IDOLS
RENE LAFLEUR
cherished idols, in which it was hoped so much, why were so many broken links, on whose behalf it was stale and burnt futures yet tender, become now in this silence, in this light, what we were always said they were: gypsum, forms, ideas around which rally one day before dispersing, as silent spectators after a defeat.
BUILT
RENE LAFLEUR
soon
the world
The word
Sinks
Stepping
Lowest
effort
Disappointed Not To join
Lesser
Relay
New Allies
Always
Puffs
As
As you pull
Milk
Candid warriors
obediently lying
Through patience gun shop
At infinite spirit
Currency
The foot gets stuck
(UNTITLED)
François Gourd
I participate in a hurry to an edition of words spewed into the pot of old.
I am already an old but still alive.
I hide in a bath of hens for eggs which are asleep.
I hide face like a bandit or a Muslim woman.
I hide the face like a bandit or a Muslim woman.
I hide because I've been afraid of life.
I hide behind a smile moron.
I hide because I do not want to be aware of. I
reaches out to the corner in a street on petteux Mont-Royal.
I hide because I have nothing to say except the silent suffering of not lucky.
I hide to find inner peace.
Because I do not feel good on this earth filled with people who can no longer live.
I'd like to change this humanity, but I do not know how. So I die a little each day.
I am a descendant, a hole in a condom.
A mishap, an unwanted embryo.
I'm alone, I do not know anyone except an agent who makes me sickly morality.
I'm alone and I became invisible to good people.
I'm a star and I shine sick in my coat. I meditate every day on the corner of boulevard of broken dreams.
I'm dirty and I stink. I am a poor devil disguised as a monk. I am nothing.
I await the end of my life with the patience of a craftsman.
I'm knitting bits of road and the lace of chance.
I'm patient to the hospital for insane. I
seeker at the corner of your street.
I could change the world because I am god, but nobody sees me.
I am the misery of poor people.
If you want to live, give me your hand I'll give you the missing pieces in your life.
I give you one last chance.
mouse so that I you can recognize me.
I bear the weight of your sins on the C minor symphony lost.
You're all dead in the infernal race this modern life.
Come see me at the cemetery at dusk. Hi
The Phantom of the Opera
(UNTITLED)
ARTEMIDE
and Door Still
border posts and more and nowhere to dump
the void in my life
Strolling along the sidewalks
In the solitude of the world
I left the mainland capitals To return to monopolies
capital
And now I come back I'm afraid
Can anything that moves especially when nothing moves
Fear my dreams
And bore me to continue to exist, wedged between the life and death
Fear of being stuck like a scrambled egg
And not to be, nor feel my skin that covers
Fear no longer feel pain, to sit on the floor
And having more nothing to cause the sky to join.
(UNTITLED)
RAPHAEL GASPARD
decor extends straight lines and wasteland
River mouth to your
disorder of everyday
inoukchouk sugar for your coffee
your panties in my dirty sheets
these small victories that are kept when alone with
tomorrow
Architextur
RAPHAEL GASPARD
when you overtake the walls peeled winter
it straight through
without looking anything but the moment
horizon decor
you the silence of the empty spaces around the forehead
noise of others who stuck with
the texture of the voice prints in light
pieces altitudes
fists to shelter in the morning
and music to lie
the promise of wind that unfolds in the dance
EROTIC DRAMA IN B FLAT MAJOR
RAPHAEL GASPARD
Act One
Intermission
First Violin:
As several studies have contradicted the recent success, * on its claim to write The literary editor reports on a burgeoning literature in full.
Choir, accompanied by the orchestra:
What remains fuss about us ...
The rest is illusion.
Final Act
Public Release.
Columnist:
His hand between my wet lips the tip of his slides in my mouth.
Ah.
Already in her sex.
Explodes.
again.
End.
Notes: * Latest
success the last, ultimate; term used by the journalistic reporter who seeks to introduce the emergency. Expression responsible for folding the game.
The author would like to quote from the report, detailed at a conference on the state general of the main theme of the cultural weekly Montreal area, as part of the Symposium on Arts and Entertainment:
"The pamphlet.
Space is a divisive element, it is advertising. "
perhaps a few more excerpts soon follow soon ...
