TWO POEMS
IVAN DE MONBRISON
* TW - Morbidity, foul language.
POEM I
THE FIRE THAT FOLLOWS ME
Threshold anger wind you don't speak you don't say anything the world is made up of little
things we've forgotten everything you don't speak you don't say anything the sex is open time is
wounded there's no more fire someone has stolen it there is no longer a house someone has
burned it down there are no more days there are no more friends you have forgotten everything
about your own childhood silence is black like a painting the thought is hanging upside down in
the void nothing just hold your dick in your mouth forget everything you don't know anything
anymore your sex is open thought is dead I don't know you anymore you're not going anywhere
I don't know you anymore thought is dead your sex is open your bloody sex is open you don't
know shit you're ain't going nowhere you've burned everything down you've burned your house
you've burned your dog you've burned your dead you've burned your body you've burned your
children you've burned your wife you've burned your memory you've burned your past you've
burned your future you've burned your death you've burned the end and the beginning your sex
is open you're ain't going nowhere you left the house in ashes nothing remains but black paint
on an empty canvas and yet there is a white line that indicates where the windows once stood
and where the front door was and where was the room where you used to sleep with always
open eyes and the white bones of your own thought that you've burned the corpse of your
shadow that you've killed and the corpse of oblivion that you've burned you are no longer
anyone you don't have anything left human in you anymore silence is blind but death has
always been blind I don't know your name anymore I don't know my name anymore silence is
burning red tonight in the dark someone is speaking but it's not you someone keeps on
speaking in your head but it's not you someone is screaming in your head but it's not you
someone is telling you that you're crazy but it's not you now time is a hole closed and sewn up
an open sex time is closed and bloodless silence time is blood silence sex absence time is
suicide sex knife wound oblivion time and banishment, not to be.
POEM II
THE THIEVES
the face is turned upside down
hell is right outside the door
you close your eyes and you cry
a madman ran down the street after killing somebody
you forget your own name
she had said something horrible
and you could never forgive her
a madman just killed somebody
and the corpse still lies split open
all red on the sidewalk
like an abandoned bag of bones
in which the wind could blow
a little bit to make it fly away
it has been so cold last night
the ground must be almost frozen
and this morning the sky is white
you lie down on your bed
your head is cold
but heart is burning
you need to leave the door open
so that the thieves can come in
and can take whatever they want
you keep a knife well hidden
and an ax in the kitchen
let them come in and take whatever they want
you will give them for lunch
their own finely chopped off hands
loneliness is just tasteless
and you never had any friends
for you it's another meaningless word
like these sentences said to hide a
real ugly reality
I've beheaded my memory
and left it on a table
I can watch it easily in the dark
but with my eyes a the rear of my skull
I need to lie on my belly
wipe those stains of blood from your clothes
as life is just a dead body
left to decay on a sidewalk
that a madman has just murdered
you don't care about anything
friends like all the others
as you have left your door open
in order to kill all the thieves.
IVAN DE MONBRISON is a schizoid writer from France born in 1969 and affected by various types of mental disorders. He's mostly an autodidact and has published some poems in the past.