A Poet Is Done For (a text of Arthur Teboul translated by Vadim Bystritski)

. A poet is done for. In a big flower pot, he stands for his end – a small imprint, bye, adieu. In a sculptured clay, he is but a distant murmur. Haunted… Continue reading →

A Wandering Thread (a text of Arthur Taboul translated by Vadim Bystritski)

. Finesse arrives from beyond the fog. A threat is falling from the sky. Let’s follow it with our eyes. A cloud hides its other end. There’s probably nothing there. Anyway, it’s pleasant… Continue reading →

Who Do You See? (the text of Ghérasim Lucas translated by Vadim Bystritski)

. We see nobody. Sometimes someone we see otherwise it’s like the one that one sees at least when she’s occasionally seen So sometimes we do but in general we see nobody Even… Continue reading →

Light a Fire (a text of Thomas Vinau translated by Vadim Bystritski)

. With your hands, build a fire. Light it with your breath. With your muscles. With your wounds. Light it. Light a fire with your belly. Light a fire with your eyes. Light… Continue reading →

Behaded (a text of Ghérasim Luca translated by Vadim Bystritski)

head to head the beheaded couldn’t make head or tail exchanging between them their destiny as the head of the headless rebellion in exchange for chaos isocephalic and headless and heading to  a… Continue reading →

Folding Papers for Kerouac (a text of Carl Norac translated by Vadim Bystritski)

. What needs to be said is always  against the flow of the sky this one too many hotel where we drag our heels in the mind dust  all of a sudden we’ve… Continue reading →

Since There’s No More Land (a text of Ludovic Janvier translated by Vadim Bystritski)

Since there’s no more land how about grass no more grass how about milk instead failing that are there any sheep stubbornly mowing the meadow those stupid sheep relax you unaware let’s open… Continue reading →

The Tiny Pockets (a text of Thomas Vinau translated by Vadim Bystritski)

. I write on a full stomach, wearing clean clothes, close to a cup of hot coffee, with a roof over my head, children not far, and a princess even closer. I write… Continue reading →

Words (a text of Thomas Vinau translated by Vadim Bystritski)

. Words made of sawdust. Bark reduced to powder. To a dog claw. Words made of fur. Of drool. Of mud. Of a frozen window pane. Of piercing sun rays. Of mixed smells.… Continue reading →

Dead Wings (a text of Thomas Vinau translated by Vadim Bystritski)

Burned-out eyes against the window. They are looking for a breath of air. An ass. A cat. A crow. A candy wrapper. Anything. A speedy and proper escape. There are still four hours… Continue reading →