Complaint 88.5

Dead Poet Society
by Ivan de Monbrison

The room is closed.
We hear a voice.
With closed eyes, the gaze turned inward.
Autumn comes to winter and summer to spring.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten and a thousand and a hundred
and a thousand again.
I have no age.
More questions, more answers to say.
I got an old apple in my pocket, my bed is covered with dust.
The ceiling is on floor and floor on ceiling
We tread on rooftops
We always fall from the top.
I hide my gun and shoot in the air,
A bird falls,
No, it’s a poet,
Nobody is perfect.

Общество мертвого поэта
by Ivan de Monbrison

Комната закрыта.
Мы слышим голос.
Глаза закрыты, взгляд обращен внутрь.
Осень приходит к зиме, а лето – к весне.
Раз, два, три, четыре, пять, шесть, семь, восемь, девять, десять и тысяча и сто и тысяча снова.
У меня уже нет возраста.
Больше вопросов, больше ответов, чтобы сказать.
У меня в кармане старое яблоко, моя кровать покрыта пылью.
Потолок до пола, а пол до потолка,
Мы ходим по крышам,
Мы всегда падаем сверху.
Я прячу пистолет и стреляю в воздух,
Падает птица,
Но он был поэтом,
Потому что никто не идеален.

Ivan de Monbrison was born in Paris one century after the birth of the painter Matisse and just before some bald apes set their feet on the moon, and put a flag there. Himself is just a poor fellow plagued by psychotic disorders. He has found in poetry a medium to conjure his delirium into, if possible, meaningful words. He writes in many languages because none of them is really his own, probably as a consequence to his autistic tendencies. Back in school, most teachers thought he was a total idiot, maybe they were right, but even an idiot has the right to write, he guesses.

Image by stinne24 from Pixabay

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