Confessions (Poem)

My dreams loosen their individuality like bad teeth.

Dream Interpretation Teeth

I'm talking about

My interminable demurrals and my uncomfortable silences,

About my false starts and my apologies,

I'm talking about clearing my throat.

Why did I ever say I would do all these?

They always turn out badly.

I have read French and Spanish fictions,

More exactly, I've read two books with 'banging doors'.

The languages have taken precedence

Not only before the books' meaning,

But also before myself.

I was loosening myself by intoxication.

I am hungry,

I don't know why

The surrealists are always beyond interpretation.

I have nothing new to say.

When I was in Paris, I lived in a slight hotel.

All the other rooms were occupied by Tibetan lamas.

They had come to Paris for their congress.

I still don't understand these reincarnated identities.

It's an unexpectedly gorgeous day,

I live in a glass house.

I heard that it is a revolutionary virtue 'par excellence' to live in a glass house.

It is also an intoxication,

But I badly need this moral exhibitionism.

I learned to take love seriously and to recognize myself in it.

I still crusade the 'profane illumination'.

I took a great interest in the epoch of Louis Vii,

I need that time of the 'courts of love',

I have read about the Surrealist view of love.

I still crusade a feeling like a secret bond,

That determines the inner and the outer life.

I'm mental of the dialectics of intoxication,

I'm mental of all the ecstasy being existent in this world

And of the humiliating sobriety.

I heard that Breton was bound to a telepathic girl to make her chastity

Become something like a transport.

I still don't understand Breton and this world that borders on tombs.

It's still an unexpectedly gorgeous day.

I perceive the revolutionary ideas that appear in the 'outmoded',

In the old installation buildings,

In the earliest photos,

In the objects.that have begun to be extinct,

In the grand pianos,

In the fashionable restaurants, when the vogue has begun to ebb from them.

In the poverty of the habitancy being enslaved, in that enslaving object

That can be suddenly transformed into a revolutionary nihilism.

In the first discern straight through a rain-blurred window,

In the heavy forces of the atmosphere.

In all the things mentioned here to the point of their explosion.

I'm still loosening myself by intoxication.

I think I have no occasion to survive.

I'm still a dreamer, although my dreams loosen their individuality.