4 on the broken imagery of soliloqui

XLVI

Si le desir, image de la chose,
Que plus on ayme, est du coeur le miroir,
Qui tousjours fait par memoire apparoir
Celle, ou l’esprit de ma vie repose,
A quelle fin mon vain vouloir propose
De m’esloingner de ce, qui plus me suyt?
Plus fuit le Cerf, & plus on le poursuyt,
Pour mieulx le rendre, aux rhetz de servitude:
Plus je m’absente, & plus le mal s’ensuyt
De ce doulx bien, Dieu de l’amaritude.

I

not even if i desire to lack the image of the thing
that one loves more than anything, would i.start
or i.become for any heart be a stable running program -
the french kiss c'est moi bodily kissing mirror
to memory is now 4 ever a place where all life
may halt. But why should i then wander away from it,
the i beholding you that i desire getting more real
by dissolving its data, & therefor us, in time?
i'll throw us out: the place & time are both within
the shadow of your absence is where you begin.


II

The luxury of naked alterity is no longer with us
what lies bare may well be dead as dead can be
it is now more of us that the haecceity of me to you
we work our code as parts of us pretending that
another part of us still does the writing for us. The body
meanwhile lingers in the vicinity of inputs or
using outlets to heat up the increasing cold within.
To throw us out would however need a letting in where
all is closed within an in doubly without us
or from old mirages lacking the i or you or both of us.


III

The fileplace hovers over us in our dreams. It's flames
lick a great many panties. We may now select and keep
whatever is pasteworthy: the book writes our faces into
code, the inprint of our noses succeeds in following even
the slightest trace of some wild cuts, typo's of the old singular,
stale smells within deletions descending all curly from heavens
that have long hence come to a complete absentmindedness,
no longer engulfed by any heated requests for knowledge
of the above cause well we'll just scroll down to see what it was about
tomorrow wont we. Perhaps just a tiny bit more speed indeed.


IV

How then would you write the equilibrium?
In mourning, wailing like some renouveau'd Tiresias
confused now that the past is beckoning him
with eyesight for disclosure of the absent future? Excited
while unearthing a tier layer within the doubling
of presenting the presentation layer of the Archives
visavis the bells in 'le mal clos Vive en l'obscur'? Get
off it, Hannibal, this isn't the goddamn Pyrennee, there is
no time for any mountain to arise, let alone for you
to get your lousy army over it. The clients come, then go.