Archives des articles tagués boulimie

16 ans, toutes mes dents dehors

et la sagesse à moitié à l’air,

à chaque pas la taille basse en marteau-piqueur

et les seins strappés en une seule poitrine

faussement dure,

laissant dans sa trainée

une poudre de mia

 

je m’en allais à la maison je m’en allais à la perte

d’un bout de moi

 

quand les poules auront des

orgasmes dans mes oreilles parfaites

quand les gars cesseront de

remplir leurs briquets de pets je

serai belle;

plus le monstre auquel on lance

des jetons de casino

dans sa propre tête

va jouer

dans le trafic

poudrée en parchemin

roulée

pour l’instant je craque

claque grasse dans’ face

que je suis donc laitte et

que j’ai donc ben envie de biscuits

 

peut-être m’en allais-je plutôt au gain

d’un bout de ventre

 

de mon futur diplôme

de bonne vivante avertie

 

verre de lait, biscuits

après le dur gardiennage

redevenir enfant

 

2 heures, 24 biscuits et 1 bleu nuit

plus tard, le mal de ventre

comme quand je m’étais dit

"plus tard, le mal de ventre",

avec les affres des tampons-cactus

prises

blanc plâtre ou blanc souris

toutes griffes dedans

plus tard, les larmes

pour la part

de gâteau

des anges qui ne me revient pas.

ce que je crache a des ailes, a du ciel,

a du mont en neige

 

non je ne suis pas enceinte d’un playtex

noir de monde,

ni d’une boite de biscuits

oblongue

et d’un ange short cake

mais ce que j’ai au ventre

est dur pour vrai

 

sous anesthésie

on peut enlever bien des choses

même quelques biscuits

 

pris dans un appendice.

je le sais, le médecin me l’a soufflé

en même temps que mon guts

 

je ne m’en vais plus à ma perte j’y rentre 

et j’ai déjà quelque chose

de moins que tout le monde

 

***

Ce poème a été écrit à partir de deux listes d’objets perdus énoncées dans des sketchs des Appendices ici et ici (Objets perdus 2 et 5… à voir!). Je voulais essayer de passer par-dessus le caractère absurde de ces objets et les introduire dans un poème racontant une histoire qui fait sens (en elle-même et avec l’absurdité des objets). Voici les listes rassemblées :

x deux poèmes sur le thème des biscuits
x un cactus dans le plâtre
x les larmes de Michel Dumont quand qu’y a appris que La Part des Anges ça revenait pas
x une impression de déjà vu (x 2)
x des outils habillés en putes
x de la poudre de hip-hop
x une brassière monoboule
x un certificat de l’académie du bon vivant
x des jetons d’un casino qui existe juste dans la tête d’un monstre
x un CD d’orgasmes de poules
x un vieux parchemin sur lequel c’est écrit "t’es laitte!"
x un briquet rempli de pets

***

 

 

This short story was written with the following prompt in mind: Write a scene that makes no sense at all (even though this story does end up making sense somehow). For more writing prompts by Sarah Selecky, follow her on Twitter (@sarahselecky) or see her website.

***

No sense. Nor good, nor bad. Just a plain, short, bread story. Of a girl trying to automatically type things in a foreign language, thinking of doughnuts round her head, vomiting words on a too clean screen.

She would be the kind of girl who keeps avoiding cracks, even tracks. In fact, she would be avoidant of anything. The mirrors had all been wrapped already, as if a stare would put her at stake.

A steak. What about cooking something? Anyway, mom would call soon. And she needed to be stuffed to be able to talk to her. I mean, to listen to her.

Now, to her grumblings, her stomach’s.

What was I writing again? Ah, yes, being a good dough. Being tough to myself, though. Punching myself in a hole when full. Scraping myself when in need. Nothing really wanted, nothing really lost then. Nothing gained either, just pain, and food. And life, maybe.

I gotta breed. Uh, breathe. These haspiration sounds are ‘ard to make.

The call came. She wasn’t stuffed. She couldn’t stand it but sat down anyway, and lied. Even her tiny yesses were full lies, flies biting her mom like a filled doughnut. You know, the ones you eat and then you get all this whipped cream and custard cream and whatever-it’s-called cream all over your chin and nose, so that you can’t breathe anymore? Let alone talk.

Leave me alone. Talk.

That’s what she would say if her mouth wasn’t already chewing and squeezing. In fact, she was just squeezing her teeth together – only her saliva’s dreams were chewy.

There’s a plot in there. Her life had to be more deconstructed, and going nowhere.
Did I ever mention the bread?

Well, the birds did it. They crawled on her while she was panting, the phone hung around her neck, her mom’s voice violently crying over the tv’s. She had goosebumps, which looked like breadcrumbs to the birds’ limited eyesight.

It didn’t taste any good though. And it didn’t make her any good.

This conversation – would aversion be a more appropriate term? – could go on forever, and she wouldn’t even know. Her eyes were screwed into a screen, apparently moving, but not going forward anymore.

It looks like I’m seeing my whole life all over again. Like I’m losing track all over. I’m giving all.
In: A mess. Too much crunchy bread soaked in wine. Is this what we call luxury?
Up: A god, maybe. A mass for her in Heaven, with the birds dropping crumbs on her as she walks up the aisle.

She wakes up, always too late. I almost ate the receiver, she excused herself, dabbing and pampering the phone with a napkin.

Oh, that’s a word I had not expected to come out. Or to let out. Whatever the subject may be.

And there comes the banana. Underripe as her soul, overripe as her body, stained with goosebumps. She had better put herself in the freezer immediately.

But her saliva would freeze around her mouth if she did so.

No more sensation. No more sense. No more!, would she cry, her eyes and sensitivity uplifted.

She lifted herself up on a stool, and reached out for ingredients to season her life: Every single one had an exotic name and she didn’t want them. Paprika sounded like paperwork. Safran, like suffering. And cinnamon, like sour lemon. She would have preferred strict acid, that is to say.

Where was the mom? Lying on her floor, somewhere, on her round belly, not seeing her child doing foolish things again. Was this child ever born anyway?

I gotta not listen to anyone ever. Anything hardly makes sense anyway, she kept lulling herself, standing on her not-made-for-rocking chair.

A sense? She finally found some vanilla. Essence, that’s it. That’ll fuel her, that’ll give her gas.

A car came pulling at her. She felt it rolling inside her, actually grasping her side and stretching it out, out, out… Her skin was already flying outside, while her pain remained whole, not so refined after all. She felt like a pouch, a pouching bag.

Can a punch fly?

The questions in her head were burning incensively. They were too slow, too sticky, too antigravitational. How strange was it to feel like a hippy while simmering in a pot. Her hand got caught and slapped in a jar when she tried to pull at her turn, at a car-shaped biscuit.

Her mom furiously shouted something about colourless green ideas sleeping. I know you!, she answered. There’s no use for a non-American name!

A tree dropped its branches in a cascade from her head, all her words purposely running to their proper place. The words sounded like a thousand syntax notebooks dispersing themselves in the years. With more hard work, she could have bloomed out of the cement. But instead, she has been eating cookies, as her books have kept the secret in the shape of brown stars squeezed in between pages and words.

She was still as unripe, as green as her ideas. She would let them go before she even tried to tame them. Too many vibrancies where rushing through her, using her body as an instrument to fulfil their dreams, too loud so she had to fulfil her stomach. And then peace would come, in the shape of a bird song. The bird wouldn’t fry; instead she would steal it and fly.

What about the mom, crying over an empty phone, left out by herself while the kitchen was being taken control of?

I don’t know. I don’t know of her, yet. She might take care of me, and not just control. But I gotta roll with it first, let pastries pace my days and paste a devastated picture of myself on my wall.

Her mouth was dry. She had run out of substance. The birds had flown away with the jar, full of words.

Tonight I needed to start on a quote (Interpol, Memory Serves). Memory serves me, and I’ll wait to find if it serves you too.

I don’t know how my soul is served when I drench it back with the Sea of Japan, my own see of Japan, that is to say a cover. A crossover. A mix of filling music, and quenching readings. Quenching livings.

My stay was a whole lack of words.

Now I’m listening to its echo, glistening echo. And as I somehow feel it has come to a halt, I remember again, buckling up all these wineful tears. A bucketful of these.

Music serves me: It triggers a reaction in my soul, the same as I used to have. A reaction in my soul, the same as I used to. Have. An unused word.

A little more wine. A little more food. All the same, you fool. Me fool.

The bucket is not full to the rim yet. Try it on, cry a little faster, cry a little further, down to a place where there’s nowhere to stay.

How can a music crave its way so hard to my heart? How can I love so deep that a whole country in me shakes? How can sounds can move my body to a place it doesn’t belong to at all? How… can you love this shakiness in me?

How can I still be chasing my damage at the same tunes?

Maybe because it raised me.

Alourdie dans mon lit, je cherche le soleil. La pluie gicle toujours sur ma ville, de l’autre côté du verre, dans le verre, dans mon ventre.

Le tambourin se fait l’écho de mon coeur plein. Le chocolat a parlé un peu trop fort, et les cigarettes avalées en douce n’ont pu le bruler. Résultat : j’ai l’estomac en friche et la tête en chiffe. Dure. Dure la nuit qui me rend ces heures perdues à dormir.

Le calcul des heures négatives : s’en foutre ou s’en faire? Faire résonner les chiffres dans sa tête. Rien ne fait le poids, sauf moi, qui le fais sans doute toujours plus. Celui que je ne veux pas.

L’insomnie est une arme intranchable. Seul dormir en guérit. On ne se refait pas. 

Entre dormir et résister, mon corps balance sans cesse au bout de mes bras. Il y a la passivité et l’agressivité. Le laisser-aller et le parti pris. L’insondable et le resondé, encore et encore. Le jugé d’avoir pris la voie du jugement. L’impossible satisfaction sans qu’il s’agisse d’une récompense. L’impossible récompense puisque rien ne la vaut.

Je cherche en ma tête d’oreiller un endroit mou, sans rancune, une trace de féminité. Je cherche l’onctuosité d’un amour de soi mais je ne trouve pas.

Il doit être dehors, sous la pluie, à secouer ses plumes.

Suivre

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