Portrait of the artist as a schizophrenic / Leçons de ténèbres

One pill.
Two pills.
What, who
will teach me
how to step into the dark
without losing my crystal shoes?
One pill.
Two pills.
The night’s a car
that is ready to pick me up.
One pill.
Two pills.
Everything’s quiet.
My clothes sparkle.
One pill.
Two pills.
Oh what will remain
when all is taken away
when I’ll have to walk
alone in all this cold?
One pill.
Two pills.
I don’t hear voices
not anymore. My hair
is damp. Is it with rain? Is it
with God’s tears all over again?
One pill.
Two pills.
What teacher will be patient enough
for me to follow through?
One pill.
Two pills.
I know they’re plotting it
revenge tastes sweet
but all I know is bitter medicine.
One pill.
Two pills.
The last streetlight
has passed away
so many nights ago.
One pill
Two pills.
Oh, where is my teacher?
Collecting what’s been lost
long lost.
Death watches over me.


That’s it. I took
all of my pills. Will justice
ever glow? Who will teach me
not even to dance darkness away
– this, I know, would be unreasonable –
but to walk, merely
without spraining my ankle?
That’s it. The box is empty
I took all of my pills.


« Poetry must create pictures »

Ideas. Pictures. A bait
of pure silver
that barely scratches skin.


Words, though – a panther
I chase, that chases me
too. Fishing for ideas
lets you find the alien, overhanging;
lets you play the good part,
the lucky one, you discover the rarest of fishes
with minimal effort – a picture
is your reward. You can show it off
while it dies slowly. Take a picture. Your hands are clean
and the fish is dead.
But I
unexperienced hunter
but I
let the panther circle me
the word is all around
it claws it will claw it has clawed
its way into my body


Body merely a sheet
for past felonies
(you can’t call a crime
what is barely a nature)
Still – I hunt for
the panther
that roams around, sleepless, lawless,
– Ideas,
pictures, away from me –


The word’s embrace dilutes skin
I’ve known it. True victory

is to make the frost statue bleed.

Venez me voir le 22 juin à la Comédie-Française !

Bonjour à tou.te.s. J’ai eu le plaisir de participer cette année au Bureau des jeunes auteurs-lecteurs de la Comédie-Française, et nous lirons nos textes à la Coupole (salle Richelieu) le 22 juin à 17h ! Si cela vous intéresse, envoyez-moi un mail (carmine.g.denis@gmail.com) avec vos nom et prénom afin que je fasse suivre pour obtenir les invitations.

En espérant vous voir nombreux.ses !

Men are speaking…

Men are speaking, softly,
in a language I don’t understand; is it Russian,
Polish, or Serbian maybe? They lit some fire
and the smoke is rising, like the moon
we don’t get to see in the city. Are they seeing
how yellow the light is right now, behind dark clouds? It’s been
raining for weeks and still the rain comes, fresh everyday,
as if for the very first time. The men are talking,
as a single ray of light
greets the ground –


I’ll close my window. It’s raining too hard tonight.

Little beast…

Little beast is all scared
Hidden behind bushes –
Little beast’s eyes are closed
For what disaster, what have they seen?

The fur is tangled, and the claws are gone;
Little beast shivers, trapped behind
The deafening burn of silver
And the gentle buzz of weapons.

Bedbugs And Other Friends

Their favorite hour, at night –
Nightly dawn, around 4 or 5am,
When we breathe, as peaceful
As the calm city –

Their favorite hour – they teem
Around you, over you,
By teams of five or six maybe,
They know you better
Than does your own mother.

They have sharp little mouths
And drain your blood – don’t worry,
Not enough to make you sick, only
The gift of their coming, the mark
Of their election: small bites
Nicely ranked, red
That itch, that you scratch
At day and night. Then they leave
Hiding – they’re very good at hiding
We have no idea how clever they are
When it comes to hiding! Then they leave,
For now – and will come back
Next morning, without mistake.

But for now,
They’re processing your blood
To feed their young.

A metaphor of some sort, probably

at times i find
it fell asleep
in the corridor


maybe tense, a bit more
when the weather’s stormy
and warm days are over


at times i call
and it doesn’t come


it’s like a puddle
with ever growing circles
that i can’t seem to erase


at times i recall
its former growls
and taste for meat and bones


and i fall asleep,
too, in the corridors
of disgust.