A secret accord
a gentleman’s agreement was worked out between
my mouth and the cock of an 18 year old fisherman although
it is stilled tucked away in his blue shorts.
Time air and the landscape around him
Were dimming stretched out on the sand
But I could detect between his limbs
The spread limbs of his legs was shuddering
The sand retained his footprints but registered the
Heft and weight of a penis excited by
The troubling evening heat
Every grain go lighter
– What’s your name?
– And yours?
Since that night, I’ve loved the malicious child
light, fanciful, vigorous
whose approaching body makes water shiver
along with the sky, the rocks, the houses
the boys, the girls
and the page on which I write.
My patience is a medal upon your lapel.
A golden dust floats all around him. Makes him
distant from me.
His eyes: amidst the thistles, the blackthorns
and vaporous autumn dress.
His hands illuminate objects. Obscuring them more.
Animating them and killing them.
The big toe of his left foot with the ingrown nail
sometimes searches my nostril
sometimes my mouth.
It’s enormous, but then the foot
and leg could follow.
You want to fish in the thawing of snows
in my ponds of rings held in
Ah, to plunge your naked arms
in my beautiful eyes
which two steel rows of black lashes protect
beneath a sky of storm and high pines
wet fisherman covered with blonde scales
in your eyes, my wicker fingers
and pale hands see
the saddest fish in the world
flee from the bank where I crumble my bread.
Aspen. At the summit of yourself, balanced
alone, your rosy heel hangs from the branches
the rising sun. Aspen, your murmur
shivers on my teeth. Your broken fingers
comb the azure and rend the bark
making you soft and fringed with snow
Oh Aspen. Construct this torso
wounded deep but soothed by the plume.
My lips force him
When the sun illumes the heather
on your beautiful calves, your slopes, I go
slowly by the rocks where you spoke to me
blond spahi, on your knees in the light.
A serpent awakes to the voice of the dead.
Beneath my burst foot partridges take flight.
At sunset I will see the seekers of gold
labor beneath the crazed moon.
The breakers of tombs draw straws.
What a shadow at your feet, your shiny shoes!
Your frozen feet in my pools of tears
your carmelite feet, dusty and bare
splashed with sky, your blessed feet
will mark my white shoulders this evening
(forests that the moon fills with wolves)
Oh my fisherman in the shadows of my willows
executioner covered with stars and nails
held up by the white arm of the jetty.
On the green tree, erect — bowing your brow
(animal of love, golden tree with two heads)
above its foliage — hot beast entwined
you hang by a single foot
a slow waltz sounds in the azure
from the harmonica, but do your eyes see
an astonishing dawn from the mizen-mast?
Oh naked fisherman with a subtle heart
come down from the tree, fear
my singing leaves.
Farewell Queen of the Sky, farewell
my Flower of skin, carved in my palm.
Oh my silence, inhabited by a phantom
your eyes, your fingers, silence.
Your pallor. Silence
these waves on the steps again
where your foot always brings the night.
A clear angelus rings beneath its arch.
Farewell sun, escaping from my heart
on an atrocious and nocturnal gait.
Go supplely on paths of embers
where treasures of night
are buried beneath your feet.
Peace is with you. In the nettles, the rushes
the blackthorns, the forests
your step sets measures
And each of your feet, each step of jasmine
buries me in a porcelain tomb.
You obscure the world.
The treasures of this night: Ireland and its revolts
muskrats fleeing in the moors, an arch of light
the wine arisen from your stomach
the wedding in the valley
a hanged man swinging
from the apple tree in bloom
and finally, that region
where your breeches
protected by a hawthorn in bloom
are approached from the heart
in the throat.
Through grassy moors
under your unbuckled belt
we arrive near him
our mouths dry, our feet
and shoulders beat.
In its radiance, even Time is veiled
with a crepe above
from which the sun, the moon
and the stars, your eyes
Time is somber at his feet.
Nothing flowers here
except strange violet flowers
from rough bulbs.
To our heart bring our hands
and to our teeth bring fists.
What is loving you? I am afraid to see this water spill
between my poor fingers. I don’t dare swallow you.
My mouth holds the shape of a vain column.
Lightly it descends in an autumn fog.
I arrive in love like one enters the water.
Palms forward, blinded, my sobs held back
swell with air, your presence in myself
and your presence is heavy, eternal.
I love you.
(from the wisdom of the magnificent man who was Jean Genet, probably best known in more recent times for his beautiful film, Un Chant D’amour, he was also a thief, vagabond, prostitute, novelist, playwright, poet, essayist, and political activist)