To D. S.

Beyond the windows, Towards the massive clouds, That once looked after our formation, The milky air reposed its conditions that never got off the ground, In the Museum’s meadows, And aisles where a noctilucent band of limpid shadows chases an Oudry’s hound, So it seems, clear and not so loud, Like drops of an experienced silence, In seed, Ministering to the lost streams, No haunting moods, Of an objective Melancholy at her face, Lots of bouts of really loose thingnesses under the old noise, A frame in the distance, The draft of a huge celestial America, Of which rich men to another orb, some of its henchmen hastily dispatched and now, Won’t resorb, But keep the wound, Into the body of the Nation, And then its drag, Something pertaining to an evil realm grasping us at the scrag, Seneca’s beloved blueberry of all Ericaceae, She might have been fourteen, 14 months of May springing from her delicate gene, Has magnificent hair that the fingers of her father and her Babooshka to this day perhaps continue to enlace, Or maybe another sweet sixteen of poise, With the nicest bearings at hand, We all recognized, A long, long time ago, As a mark of the Republic of Florence, Even the flesh, the skin, its dermis, our blood and bones, our divine end, know the power of the gland, From afar, The dim light of a vacant altar, Her land titles again on the edge of the painting and still a matter of search, To speak the language of oil, Less talkative than any of its symbolical, Trefoil, The mistress of Giuliano, A de’ Medici family member left bare and unconscious by his best men behind the church, the kin of Amerigo? Elle est d’ici or from somewhere else, With around her waist no mental belts, As revealing as letters wont to be, She’ll never chastise anybody, Of every man’s appreciations her beauty must feed the furnace, For all the snake cares, An adder added at a later date, Its metabolic rate, Changed forever, At a moment’s notice, see, behold, how its tail errs, Always nearer and nearer to the mammal, As though it were an aspic in an elevator of the Otis, Brand, And all, Beads and pearls in her hair, mothers of Prudence, An unheard-of wonder of a human call, Not exactly tucked in her bed clothes, She doesn’t beg for that sort of deeply French outrecuidance, No need either, For collective oaths, She’s as free as a white crow, Or as any other blackbird’s snow glow, Neither Artemisia Gentileschi’s sweet revenge’s duplicates, (Knows by heart the sneaky undergrounds of the little suns around the neck of our Stonehenges’s replicas), Her action de grâce, rather, From her terrace, Her podium, She’ll never run for office nor ask for a place in a prelacy, A startling occurrence of her clemency, The finest trace, Of her future hours in the library, Like the anticipation of a psychic lightning that scared to death her painter, According to the observations of Vasary, Her eyes are with us and have our backs in the gallery, At the ready to restore the place, To its rare position of an acquired marvel that can escape anytime, A place for whoever the living ‘whom’ the bells chime, The blue crystal stones of the heat pump seem to grate their inner shimmering sodium, In the meantime, As if we were filtered in a Space: 1999 episode, That the glaciers of our souvenirs forgot to erode, Where are all the glitterati of the Château gone, anyway? Is the garden of Micòl Finzi-Contini still closed on tuesday? The riddle of the hommage done, She didn’t die at 23, And retook the preconditions that she never edicted as a Bayreuth canon, With the Pope’s fanon, Waving its allowance, Protesting that he hadn’t been misquoted when he assumed his stance against any kind of killing spree, She could make of our physical constitution, an amend, Tuning it with the strings of the psaltery, Of her mind, Her sensitive wisdom, As you will, Under the skill, Of her sacred palm, Our epidermal freedom, Among that growth of willows, Threaded Into sheaves of the spirit in a single bind, She tamed every passive love cooling that existed on Earth, She’s Piero’s best friend sketching lone flowers and gnarly branches of the firth, God’s warmest ally, God’s favorite being alongside of whom asleep we lie, His perfect confidence in her, Fair Di Cosimo’s girl lady, Here or In Bali, Not the cruel bear-chested Wagner’s Cosima, with at her nape the fur, Of a fruit drosophila, Queen of a loud, Curse, But the lucid dream of a Minoan cloud, With no particular cerement and no shroud.

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Reprise d’un texte sur la même femme publié sur Flickr le 17 juin 2024, ici plus bombé, grossi de quelques lettres, sans recherches sur le dictionnaire, au fil de la touche, comme hier à minuit, mais avec cette volonté, propre au travail de la dictée diurne, non pas d’en rajouter, selon l’expression consacrée, mais d’éclaircir son propos, ce qui quelquefois, comme je vous l’accorde !, convoque les ténèbres. C’est aussi un test inconscient mené sur le papier électronique pour voir s’il est possible de contrer le flot d’aide de l’IA, proposé dans les marges de chaque texte aujourd’hui. Chacun des internautes peut à sa discrétion « lever » un premier jet de son cru, le traduire, l’améliorer (comme proposé noir sur blanc), le gonfler, en changer le style, en épouser un autre, le maquer à son libre choix, l’alliancer comme on s’ambiance sur la piste de danse d’une boîte, le galvaniser, à l’image des survoltés de la bonté de la littérature d’hier. Un cybernétique pas de géant vers toujours plus de verbosité orientée, aidée, sous l’électrostatique chaufferie d’une couverture de mots qui s’enquiert de l’approvisionner de toujours plus d’alignement vers la conformité, bien dosée comme jadis les machines d’Arsonval. Une médecine de l’écrit. On se souviendra tous des nuisances calculées auxquelles Paul Gachet soumit Vincent Van Gogh lors de son passage terminal à Auvers. C’est ce que j’ai voulu bazarder dans mon flow, un peu raide — et qui a tout pour se retourner contre moi s’il n’était pas spontané, voire animal. Bientôt, n’importe quel commentateur habitué, encastré, tel un presque mort sur la route, genoux dans le tableau de bord du véhicule voiture de son style pénible et bon élève, suintant l’ennui d’un Outrevers, univers sans matière sombre pour le soutenir, pourra balancer en ligne, dans la section qu’il préfère de son cosmos auto-édité, au cœur des colonnes d’un blog réputé, gros d’une audience planétaire recherchée pour elle-même, un post, un dessin, une vidéo, enrichis d’un spectre culturel élargi, sans qu’il lui en coûte quelque chose de personnel. Des nouveaux maîtres de cette cérémonie, Leo de Brave est assez peccamineux dans son accouplement avec la préciosité, bien que fabuleux traducteur, Microsoft Pilot et Google Gemini sont superbement corrects mais peu courageux, si ChatGPT reste le roi. La façade d’un rêve orwellien à portée de toutes les corniches.