dimanche 8 novembre 2015

Today marks the joyful release of my first ever book of collages :
 « C’est du joli ! ».

I followed what seemed to be Bill Callahan's word of advice, "Have faith in wordless knowledge", and dropped the world of writing for a bit to focus on images only.

This book was self-published in a limited edition of 66 copies in November 2015 in Toronto.

24 pages of wacky visuals in full colour and big scale, made up from found magazines and books discarded on French and Canadian sidewalks.
Silk-screen printed cover was made by Ruin Comix in Toulouse. Graphic design for both the cover and the inside was done by the author.

+ + + + + +

You can order a copy right now, or find it on my table at the excellent Expozine, Montreal's smallpress book fair next week-end in Montréal!

samedi 7 janvier 2012

I wish y'all a dreary Christmas and a sappy New Year!
Just unearthed from the bottom of dusty drawers translations of old French poems from my talented friend Jillian Roberts, thought I would share to celebrate the celebrations.

this party’s too much

the wine was tepid
and the beer was cold
the blood was hot
under faces dulled

then me I was watching it
right in the white of the eyes
she who was laughing so loud
that she laughed as if twice
saw how this all was dead
in a way, for the best

but here, the silences
were not so uneasy
thanks to the tour de france
pedaling on the screen

that night, we were
a small committee
in the genre of five or six
and I played tetris
one sacred flat
with enough booze
a good twelve pack crew

hands in our pockets
butts in the beers
our wounds were wretched
all good for the stretcher

me, always, I would observe
the movement of the hands
that poured the cheap wine
there, on the coffee table
of pine
from ikea
some time one sentence or two
came to cut short
to the earthly repose
that turned us around
like a heinous mosquito

- uh, guys, you wouldn’t
have a cig to help out
even a rolled one?

- don't worry, we put plenty
of cartons in Andorre
in the snow jacket case

they said full of spirit
while the clown
fell asleep in its corner

i had come with empty hands
i set out once again
a livid glance
a heart full to the brim

completely naked

i wasn’t really naked
cause i was by myself
to wash myself
to go to bed
to touch myself

i was completely bare
when naked with you
under the light’s glare
i drank your voice

naked as a line
of ancient poetry
you took a breath
i took yours

the gravity of eyes
the levity of fingers
revealed only a slice
cause some’s still hidden

naked as an infant
naked as a man
naked in the breeze
naked on the sand
naked and at ease
naked comfortably
naked in the open air
naked in the freshwater
naked as bait
ready for the fish

i wasn’t really naked
cause i was all alone
i didn’t want it
few men want it

from now on
i fill my little ashtray
with useless things
i scan the clock
and the calendar

i tremble and sweat
at the crazy idea to finally
undress together
aided by our hands
each other’s
in the joy of morning
a torrid repetition !

from now on
i fill my little ashtray with junk
scanning the needles and the calendar

vendredi 2 septembre 2011

Grounded at home in Montreal for the steaming summer of 20eleven, i had no reason to write postcards so i made a book of semi-imaginary postcards sent to everyone. It turned out to be the exciting "Cartes Postales/Postcards", a bilingual poetry mini-book consisting of 9 poems in English and 9 poems in French.

This is a true Frankenstein of a book made from gathered poetic pieces put together to create a book wholly dedicated to the travel theme. Weirdly enough, I realized during the process that New york got written about in the West Indies, Croatia remembered the best in the thick of Wyoming, and other odd parallels. Don't ask me why, there lies the beauty of what i like to call "random memory activation".

These 150 limited-edition minibooks are kindly hosted by the Distroboto machines of Montreal, which before distributing death in the form of cigarette packs, are now providing slices of life, in the form of miniature artistery. Find out where the machines are located in the city and more about this amazing concept on distroboto.com! You will get a copy for free for every copy of Word Is On The Street ordered before Christmas!

The size of a cigarette pack, this tiny book will fit perfectly in any pocket and hand. Other titles considered for the collection were: diaries of the dust, two-faced ferry tales, deserted souvenir store, snapshots of the otherworld, photoalbum in words, unsubtitled. I am very glad to propose at last a bilingual book, very much to the image of where I live; like a bum told me on the corner of Henri-Julien and Duluth once:

Montreal just does that to you, it splits you in half”.

mardi 30 août 2011

Attention, readers!

"Word Is On The Street", my first book of poetry in english is available at last!
40 pages of diverse and fun poetry bound in a silk-screened cover on gorgeous recycled paper !

Order it now on my blog through Paypal before August 15th and get the brand new bilingual poetry minibook "Postcards/Cartes Postales" for free!

jeudi 25 août 2011

when middle-class families rent Hummer limos to get to the hockey game,

how can they steal afford to buy poetry to their children ?

: : :

i felt disturbed in this suburb

of the us of a minor

i never get what i order

it's poetry in a diner

i stopped looking for a word

that could describe it finer

: : :

out of nowhere

(this could be your tuesday night)

something feels wrong... what is it though ?

. . . every inch of the floor is properly vacuumed

. . . the hair of the dolls are all neatly groomed

even exhausted from work, i perceive something queer

. . . the bathroom is nicely perfumed

. . . the music is tastefully equed

the feeling is still vibrant...i definitely don't feel comfortable...

. . . the cats have delightfully mewed

. . . the old TV has been renewed

how come I still haven't put my finger on . . .

oh, i get it now : you're gone.

vendredi 15 juillet 2011

get your freak on, get the freak out

sidewalks are crawling with words spoken

in the coded language of longing and lust

modern life welcomes us to lend an ear

to those mumblings, whispers and shouts

so why not crack open a window

and leave your headphones home for once

there surely is hope

(but not that one with mandatory bedside prayers,

ashamed confessions and golden crosses)

some sort of ancient wisdom to suck out

of those confusing and scattered phrases

word is on the street, people

so let’s get out of the house

punish yourself

when the cold november breeze finally drives all the mosquitoes away

when kids like to pretend that they’re smoking

blowing their winter breath in each other’s noses

i will kneel down every morning on the pavement in front my house

dive my hands under a pile of snow and count to ten

and think so strongly of you that my skull will feel too small for my head

this will serve as my self-punishment for not answering your late-night call

months ago...years ago...centuries ago

accidents happen

the bloody feathers stuck to the kitchen window all afternoon

everyone in the family noticed the mess

but no one dared to make a move to wash it off

around dinnertime, the mother got pressured by the disgusted kids :

”ok, ok, i’ll do it soon”, she promised.

when she finally came to it, water wasn’t enough . . .

“death is a tough thing to erase”

she said in the lowest tone of voice they ever heard from her

something was serious from the look of her face

her body was here but her eyes lost in space

“death came to us”, she said in a whisper

“i cooked the bird for dinner, who now will say grace ?”

who nose

i wiped my muddy feet on your welcome mat

your nose was so long that i could hang my hat

was it from all the lies you told as a child ?

was it from some kind of genetic issue,

do long noses go way back in your family ?

...then your family tree must have noses for branches : monkeys can play on it, sloths can sleep on their

soft skin, businessmen can hang themselves on it,

squirrels can hide their little nuts in the comfy hairy nostrils for the winter.

what a convenient and peculiar tree that must be !

but enough about your big nose, it's good to see you again!

same old, same new

if work reveals the best of yourself

how do you explain that i stare uninspired

at the concrete world from my office window for half the time

us cubicled people take life so seriously

i get especially frightened by those who are only young on the outside

who cold-bloodedly decided in all consciousness not to use the advantage of their age

i polish my shoes with my spit and aim my sneeze at my white-collar

the snot then dries up and rubs against my two-day beard

(i would do well without self-inflicted nostalgia)

it’s easy to come up with your own scaling tools:

space can be measured by the distance to the closest wall

time can be gauged by the hours left until the beginning of the next work shift

love can be assessed by the amount of more than 3-second glances i get from my female co-workers

boredom can be quantified by the number of times i checked my e-mail in the last hour

if work is decisive in the affirmation of my identity

how do you explain that i stare unsurprised

at the definite world from my office window for half the life

whatever sells

special offer, only this month : when you buy a hummer, you get a box of 125 condoms

with an assortment of exotic and government-approved flavours

such as cherry & pecan, banana plantain, peanut butter, bacon & cheddar...

because we know that you know that you’ll be needing a lot of them now. big time.

chocolate lab rat

the merry dingling of your keys at the front door must sound like the dingling of the chicken nuggets hitting the dog-food bowl to a hungry drooling dog. your presence is my food, nourishing me with your mere existence in the same room as mine. i’m your chocolate lab rat obsessed with being fed. i’m your puppy peeing from excitement. i’m your messed-up doggy shitting his pants from stress of abandonment.

come clean me up and take me for a walk.

or i’ll go through the garbage again.

we’re all countries dependent on foreign oil

we’re all countries dependent on foreign oil

begging for caring and regular looks

from our beloved, ex-loved, soon-to-be-loved, hope-to-be-loved

as much as we want to be able to isolate ourselves, we have to get out there,

shake hands with the unfriendly and the ungrateful

shave for non-kissers and put make-up on for the blind

as consistent tenderness constitutes the fuel of our routine,

this cherished gasoline helps us reach the required amount of energy

to get through the expected ups and downs of a regular agenda

we pray to avoid the crowds but still have to pick some random person

to get acquainted, exchange life stories, share a meal, a movie, a bed, even a life if the sex turns out to be good.

then comes the time to buy cookbooks to host dinner parties. socializing is expensive. but solitude can be dangerous.

we could all clearly see that

there was a ketchup stain on the wedding gown

(the only remaining proof of an earlier hot-dog tragedy)

but the bride could care less, crying (of joy?)

in the midst of the brutally cheerful crowd

i felt like spectators were mainly happy not to be the ones getting maried

the house band only played covers for the show

my friends told the same jokes they told years ago

i had an awful seat at second row

there was a lipstick stain on the bride’s collar

(the only remaining proof of an earlier unreligious sexual intercourse)

but his lovers could care less, crying (of joy?)

in the thick of the suspiciously enthusiastic crowd

i felt like spectators were mainly happy

that those two were getting maried at last

i long for the creature

i long for the creature

who bites off my skin

to make a turkish rug

you can spit on