translated by Jonathan Larson

Poetry is human thought. 

The poet is intelligent. They prepare challenging thought. Thought is imbedded, thick and doughy, the poet kneads it, untenses it, reheats it. They exercise the intellect to pull it out of its grogginess, they exercise the head, its brain limbs, the back of its neck and its six fingers so it comes out. They want to deshell themself. They peel the mouth off and gnaw their master’s right arm. They train themself to move the brain inside of thought.  

The poet prepares their thought. 

Intellect doesn’t come out on its own. It kneads the cranium, it trains its vision to see beyond that which, dried up, sticks to itself, dried-out, in the folds of thought, it tears its own gut up. It doesn’t throw itself into things without preparation, the poet is intelligent, the poet will enter into challenging thought. The poet, shifting, displaces themself in space, they train themself to be, thinking, they dress themself up for transcoding images. 

The poet prepares themself for thinking. 

They go down in the stairway, they drop a thread of sand, a thread of fine rice, a thread of spaced-out crushed cracker powder, they fall from on high, they let go of sacks of kilos, chairs fall, tables fall, trees fall, they succumb to falling. Poetry is intelligence itself giving birth. 

The poet shouts. 

The poet climbs atop the mountain’s wooded slopes how the fox moves, cunning and sly, from up top, they hurtle down the snowy slopes, sliding, tumbling, it doesn’t matter, they’re out of control, they crash, they eat dirt, they toss around in the mud, they lock themself inside the weight of daylight, they put up a struggle, they no longer see the light, they hold their head down, they dive, they set out on a dive for the heart of thought, the poet stirs. 

The poet prepares their head.  

Thought is difficult to extract from thought. They take their head into their hands, they feel it, press into it, take out the eyes, extract the tongue, they deform the skullbone and dig holes into it, they carve into the form, they press into it, they sniff, pull out a tooth, trace a groove across the face, they scarify, they carve out pieces, they make their head into another form, they take the head-parts, refold them, transport them elsewhere, and sew them up, and staple them, scotch-tape them onto the head.  

The poet trains themself to think. 

They caress representations. The poet tames the still wild intellect. They lick the pebbles, the poet is on the way to thought. They spin circles around themself, they warm their muscles up, they cut hours, they lay down on their back and their stomach, they run their hand over the back of their neck, and their foot around their chest, they start to curse and spit, they start griping, tearing out their hair, they slap themself in the face, they run themself down, they mock themself, they miss. The poet prepares challenging thought. 

Thought prepares itself.  

Poetry is intellect. The poet prepares the conditions for intelligence. They purify their heart. They try things. They drop a stinking dead hare in a circle of chalk, they reflect, they write out their secret with a yellow marker, on a board stained with a young man’s sperm and a young mouse’s blood and they burn it, bite into ripe peaches in the tree, head down, start laughing at a radiator, laughing on their own, thigh-slapping, they laugh their head off, they laugh, and laugh, the poet picks themself apart, they laugh with an open laugh. 

Thought warms itself up. 

Thought is human and slow. Poetry pierces the nostrils. The poet stops there. They relax, they settle in, they no longer know, they no longer speak, they hum to themself, they are child of the choir, they find themself there, they lose themself. The poet strips down. They step into icy waters, set their face against the mask of ice, and the scorching iron, they graze themself, they enter the tunnel of burrs, leave with scratches, exhausted, they collapse. 

The poet raises thought. 

They are in the world colored with thought. They inhabit the intellect. They drink a glass of water, they bathe, they pick up the blade and shave, they look at the clear sky through the window. They move, they get dressed and comb their hair, run water over their eyelids. Poetry that prepares itself is the intelligence’s complexity of challenging thought.  

The poet trains themself to think. The waves approach.  

They sacrifice to thought. They let fall. They head out. They die. They kill themself. They have a blast. They laugh about it ahead of time. They stand up straight, they chew, they eructate, they gasp for air, they gnaw and snort, they giggle, bark, they grind their teeth, they clear their throat, grimace, shriek, grit their teeth, whoosh. They tap and drum.  

The poet prepares themself. 

They cut the prepuce of the gland, mixed with banana pulp, the globe inside of an egg. They eat the palm of duck. Bite their teddy bear, swallow a chick’s head, nosh snails and live mollusk. They pry from thought, the thought of bearing. They swallow raw. They drink in gulps. Thought works. Everything made from the mysterious intelligence of thought.  

The poet thinks. 

They sit down, they look, they move, they leave, the poet, of thinking. 

Then keep quiet. They smile on the inside at the thought that comes. The poet climbs into the sky.  

They formulate the world. 

---

Born in Martigues in 1963, Christophe, who had not yet chosen the artist’s name Tarkos, spent his childhood and youth there as well. He published some twenty-five works with many small and avant-garde presses during his too-short life, with plenty of unpublished work continuing to appear in print. Celebrated for his performances, Tarkos was responsible in partnership with poets such as Nathalie Quintane and Stéphane Bérard for the reinvigorating French poetry with playful and concrete forms. Tarkos’ bio in his own words: “I don’t exist. I fabricate poems; 1 I am slow, extremely slow; 2 disabled, on disability; 3 I am in and out of psychiatric institutions.”

Jonathan Larson is a translator-poet living in Brooklyn. His translation of Francis Ponge’s Nioque of the Early-Spring and Friederike Mayröcker’s Scardanelli were both published by The Song Cave and his translation of Mayröcker’s from Embracing the Sparrow-wall, or 1 Schumann-madness was published by OOMPH! Press. His translation of Nathalie Quintane’s La Cavalière is forthcoming from Winter Editions. He is currently working on his own book project titled Negatives.