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inspiré des toiles de Toly Kouromalis

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Back in July Pouèt-cafëe launched issue 8 here at the gallery. During the proceedings they managed to write a collective poem that was based on the art work up on the walls here by Toly Kouroumalis. If you are interested in reading it click here.

Be forewarned it is a French Poem, for those of you who are square-heads, I will get the blokespeak translation from Babelfish:

Sensual and marvellous gallery

the tables inspire an extraordinary basket to us d imagination. Let you go by l’imaginaire of l’au-beyond!

* * *

surrealist Rob Zombie was present

it will remember this fellatio

Christ gave her rod

a feeling to however demolish bonds

blood invites us to this ball of the waked up bodies…

* * *

Blood vibrates with the sound of the pain.

Moments of be delirious colors,

which howl:

“C’est long, now!

C’est when, death?

C’est when, calms it?… ”

* * *

These macabre faces

with the hot colors

look us with

these eyes malefic

which see us, see, see!

* * *

Death howls its desire with the life –

Its desire of dance, of music

of poetry, d’amitié. (JKB)

* * *

Red blood, demonic faces

Here is, the black which circumvents

Our beings and l’étourdissant

In a bursting, a howl

One sees strange

Nuit blackness

Veiling my saddened face. (Cathou)

* * *

Suffering electric and sarcastic

Reddish, scarlet, and almost

Nothing, looks at there! the suffering

Look at the evil censured dirtiness,

listen to scarlet misfortune by-there for black. (Roger)

* * *

your narrow centres

pour red équimauves on the

children of Satan your crack succumb to sweats

of craters.

* * *

hard to find

its own color

in the cacophony of the refusal

* * *

Contrasts s’épousent

on a Prismacolor furnace bridge

* * *

But my torpor excels in

ambiguities which puent blood and

j’y am even accustomed

* * *

I m’habille then of my favorite skin and, always hesitant in front of l’acte, launches me against the likings of the wind.

* * *

Windows which relate to the effect penetrating

* * *

Overpowered human weakness; bestiale!

* * *

The human bestiality,

That which counts so much, which m’empêche to live

to breathe, dirtiness…


Without defense

Vis-a-vis with human bestiality.

* * *

Do art is life is art

poetry coil truth

speaking of truth

my life is youth & air

what’s to fair?

Only poetry. (Ci)

* * *

L’espoir, hope… is underestimated.

* * *

The group we call

the architects

sits down in the corner counts

of the smoking section,

the senior architect

with his grey to hair, length,

and glasses,

penguinlike in his formality,

his rumpled grey follows.

They flourish unthinking mechanical pencils,


At the waitresses who live gold die

by to their singular precious pens,

without which food will not arrives,

half-liters of wine

being uneasy treasures

when solely entrusted to memory.

* * *

half pitch of fucks

itches the world broad At

small flightless birds

dressed in tuxedos

serf half-baked pumpkin black and white

and glitter with chilly mirth

Posted by Chris from Zeke’s Gallery to Zeke’s Gallery at 9/1/2004 07:35:53 PM

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