A Poem from Camille Roy


'To write is to kill.' ---Blanchot

The chase is on as I imitate gestures,

this time I’m following a large & perfect man.

Dear Succulent:

meat in kindly stripes.

With the excitement of being among men but inside the women

my history floats down the avenue

in blobs / atomic

landfill --- that

purse & its abstraction,

the empty suit.

Revenge is a character who suffered

& became chronic.

I call her

Hotel Paranoia: “Get to bed

on time!

If you want to have sex

Now that I’m so close to the street,

being on the street,

purple in the street,

fried street,

I can delete embarrassment at the level of structure.

(oh fluttering fans!)

I love the cloud

around speech

we call the body...

House of sensation.

Built crud wrapper.

“But what about those Russians, they’re not slouched

in the bed of fake trauma...

Not yet.

...Not in the pleasure sense – No.”

….from 'Sherwood Forest'
…..camille roy 2009

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