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Rodica Draghincescu
Fuse (proseintopoem)


I bury my head in writing,
I blow my head up,
I go the speed of words.
I bury my head in writing,
I blow my head up,
I go the speed of write.

I write the wee red worms
that perch on wee read words
wide as a writer's loom
among the wee red worms.

I am the worm in my woman's head.
I am the worm in man's writing.
I am the wormword or woman-man.
I have the way with words of the bisexual worm.

I put feelings in my head.
I pull feelings from my head.
A worm doesn't have feelings,
a word needs itself
and its fresh food.

I write like fresh food,
I write in my full frosty body,
I need me,
I write like "needing me".

Fill myself,
swell myself,
crush myself,
till there's no more
of me.

And there is nothing more.
No shading
because of what
I could be.
Nothing but
my name
looking like a word
that
tickles
and
chews
everything it loves that I love like worms.
So it writes what I write against all possible writing.

WHAT AM I?
WHO AM I?

A name at the speed of words,
a writing in flesh for
the little city earth worms

under rain and under the feet
of people happy or sad.

WHO AM I?
WHAT AM I?

My head floats above me
and I can't find myself.
My head needs all my flesh.

38.5C. 38.6C. 38.7C. 38.8C. 38.9C. 39C. Fever. Late fall, winter cold, fog, mud, gray dogs, panhandlers, homosexual kids, junkies, -7C. In a photo you can live or exist even if you're not... alive. I grew up that way (4 seasons, very hot, very cold, everything that is the not, especially not [...], I have known people, fish, animals, birds, plants, stones, waters, earths, the air and fire of photos. I made love with the first photo, love with the second photo, love with the next ones, love with the camera), love with black glass eye, love with sharp objects, love with warm lines and circles, love with [...] etc, etc, so that now, I don't know anymore if my parents are not in some way the grown-up expression of my age at its different ages, taken in photos or left in the margins or beyond the (...) Or me in love position with my life. No, I wasn't crazy, I'm not crazy, I'm too good, too sad, too well-behaved, too beautiful, too nasty, too ugly, too chic, too docile, I am too, I am another thing, an other EYE.

39.1C. I can light up at any moment, the lack of action, the absence, the waiting, its tests too simple, too slow.

The inside and the outside of a photograph are inseparable. In every life, any life, there are areas and movements that are explainable, areas and movements that are inexplicable.

Dark, light, shadow, limpid void and touched void.

I am naked, unplaited, wet, elastic, curly.

"The beautiful red worm" with little dancer's breasts. In a photo. 1.67 m.

I live.

I am.

Empty and emptied.

I strike with my head the crust of heaven, I give feet to the crust of the earth. If I hold out my hands, horizontally, I perforate the boundary with the world. There remain accidents, mellow wounds, through which I receive letters from the outside, sound letters. Ding - dong, ding dong, ding dong... Like church bells. The big bells ring. Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong (...)

In my head, the bees are made of little wax bells.
My head and the honey of the little bells float over me,
wearied by my loss.

I cry out
and honey runs out between my teeth.
I am a woman with the combed bells of a
hive on my head.
I am a very good woman,
a honey worm,
a word in honey,
a writing worm with the honey on a woman,
a word
writing in depth and in length,
between and among,
neither, neither, why and where
in accordance with,
with the precision of bisexual writing,
to the orgasm of the metaphor of being
alone and alone,
alone as long as necessary.
My love, isn't it not (...) ?
Don't you love me madly, dammit,
I don't, my love!
A worm needs no feelings,
it makes holes, places for the combs in a hive,
places for bells and flights of bees.
I am a wormword in time, a wormword while
in time words of feelings.

I am Eye. And I float.
I float. I float. I float. I float. I float. My head turned towards what
I no longer have. I float towards the other side. And the other side floats too.
In the wild green shape of a green water lens.
Lens heads. Green heads. Little aquatic photos.
My memory is more and more silly, more and more flower.

I write small. And I eat everything that is beautiful.
I write in me, to open out the bee hole,
the honey hole,
the hole in which my head and my body float in
the same direction,
a kind of bog flowing
on the edge of my memory.

I write nastily and
you don't like my writing.
But verse is like that. It doesn't
cuss.
It writes in
the wound,
as if the
pain wrote to it on
pains,
heavy pains, stirring up
cuss words.
That can
understand the words of a worm,
of a worm that takes itself for a woman,
and especially of a woman who takes herself for a wormword?!
Only severely "damned" poets!

I am your damned poet, pardon, your
wormpoet, your favorite.
I am the one
who
writes cuss words of love
on your neck.
Pardon. A worm speaks so well, but
once in its life.
I hope you never hear it.
My love, I love you and I don't love you.
Here, in Vaihingen, on December 14, 2002, I would have liked
that.

I run from one end to another. toddling. tittering.
I turn in
the photo, like the key in the lock.
I open myself. I
feel
nothing. I open myself by writing.
It is likely I write what
I tell sitting in this nest
of flesh that moves to its
own music, but that
is not capable of feelings.
I see my hands bigger and
bigger.
My hands like
Jack's beanstalks,
grow and grow
towards
heaven.

I put my fingers in
my mouth and I write in my mouth,
I climb on my saliva, I go
into the writing:
up,
down,
and so forth,
then
further
and nearer.
I put my head into writing.
I lift my head from the writing.
I go the speed of
love at first sight.

I write till there is nothing.
And it is so
beautiful and clear nothing!
I can speak freely.
And I can speak so
well,
I can speak freely,
I ca
n spe
ak
free
ly!

Above houses there
are
crows.
Above crows, a
red sky.
If I wasn't writing, I would say "black and white sunset."
And the belfry of the church of good cheer.
And the light fine rain, frozen in
the shape of needles.
And the fir tree in the
window.
And the pine cones and my
photos in pieces,
hanging from the fir
branches.
And,
especially,
the crows
that
fly squabbling,
talons dug into each other,
like pieces
of a puzzle.
And the little
red worm non-existent, non-existent, non-existent,
little non-existent, red non-existent,
Word Worming the Way to non-existent.

39.1C.
39.2C.
I haven't
forgotten
you.
I haven't
forgotten
you.
You told me many times:
"You can't have a good relationship with that worm,
with that word thing!" And you turn
your back on me.
"I'm afraid,
afraid of listening to you!" - under your breath,
before
going to sleep.
And you will never know anything about the
wee red worm.
Goodnight or good day
during your night!

I think I have 39.9C. Cabbala plot? No,
as a poet, lucky numbers:
39, the number of
my father's house,
9, in school, my
favorite mark,
I think that,
I
no longer climb
further
higher

I write in time,
I write like a drill in the navel of heaven.
There are no steps, nor stops
my writing is not inclined.
It's okay! I am the wee red worm,
the guinea pig of my writing, I am the
little red letter that gnaws on steps:
I come, I return, I implant shrill letters
in the stalks of
my body, I climb down, here I am
I put my
head in my head,
I put
my body in my
body, my head in my body
my body in my head,
here I am.

Translated from French by Howard Scott, Montreal

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