Six Durusti Translations
Up to here, every time is a variant. We pass ourselves, for the
ending dirt operates on denial. Of not knowing, unaware and
bereaved tumuli agree on a defined point.
From here all iterations are the same iteration, passing for finite
mud and operating on exclusion. Knowingly or unknowingly,
small mounds meet at this sad point.
Shapes are surviving but encounter not once the tranquility of
agitation. At selfsame horizons, cushions wake and hollow out.
Our needful burrow of confinement is no stumbling for this
mammal. A clear affirmation of fog.
Conditions are present but never met, quiet and disquiet
equidistant. Pillows awaken and shovels dig small but necessary
tunnels: fear of confinement is no obstacle. For mammals and
what is, a message is mixed or unmixed.
Peppery sauce constrains slurring itself. This is language. Indistinct
twitching or clean hands. Hope-for-efforts glower, partially full.
Obviating, a draw traces elsewhere.
Rust prevents rust, and mumbling is language too, Faint spasms
and hand-washing make for an honest effort, in part or in whole.
Evidential markers mark away.
The subject is what is, a bad idea. Weight is gloomy and like
vocabulary. A box of broad ones and the twigs take form. He’ll
lose to take it back. Featured parts disband and find unpublished
wholes among. Marching beside and toward another horizon.
Subject to what is, a bad idea and weight are morose and equal: a
dictionary, can of beans or large bundle of twigs. We take form,
lose it, and take it up again. Constituent parts scatter to find new
wholes. We walk among them, or by them, and walk away.
More the sweater ages, the falls are a recent version. In this way, a
heavy light. We remember it sadly with a given snare. The
substance is what misses us to become dirty. Dilation that doesn’t,
really. Our weight is of others.
The older the pulling, the newer the fall. With a heavy or light
thud, we remember this: a sad and substantial trap, one of many.
Missing elements contaminate a growth that doesn’t grow. it is
surely someone else’s burden.
Using the value of smells is familiar. Mouthing huts, obscures the
refraction of confirmed sauces. There is little assemblage. Tracing
isn’t not in the dark without our hestitation. A place where some
eyes are porous.
Use-value wafts and familiar mispronunciation happily obfuscates.
Our prism is smeared with old mayonnaise, socks are unpairable
and outlines untraced. In the dark, reluctance is out of place: our
eyes remain open.
Mimi Lebuffe (aka Emmi Ramos Lebuffe) is an experimental poet and artist from the East Coast of Canada. She has published in Vallum, nationalpoetrymonth.ca, Pahkakuhtak, and in various zines and artist books.
Simon Brown is an interdisciplinary poet from New Brunswick currently based in rural Québec. His French and English texts have been presented in performances, poetry collections and artist books, and via platforms such as Lemon Hound, Estuaire, Vallum, Poetry Is Dead, Watts, and The Blasted Tree.
To view other poems published in this issue, 14:2, please visit Vallum’s website.
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