and Marcel Piqueray were Belgian surrealist writers, most active in the
forties and fifties.
were inseperable, and never published poetry except as joint authors.
In the distant, snow-choked valley sits the blonde, entirely naked, her hands clutching her knees tightly to her chest.
A city-suited man stands before her, his flapping scarf masking his face as he holds his arms outspread, as if to embrace her.
Little by little, first her legs, then her naked torso, and at last even her forehead and her fingers begin to blush with a glowing red. It is achingly beautiful: a color born of crackling woodfires.
For the man, now, there is nothing but the translucent nakedness of the woman, her closed eyes inventing the sky.
Snow is an aristocrat.
Having scaled the wall, they leapt over the bristling shards of broken glass, hoping to land softly in the slop-pile left over from last year's meager scrapings.
As they fell endlessly, they came to the conclusion that they must have picked the wrong wall. Growing used to the void, they started to think of other things.
Hierarchy: A Night
"Can you see anything?" shouted Danour. He raised the faint and flickering lantern to his face. His squinting features showed his worry.
"I think this road winds on down the mountain," Lora answered. "Too bad it's so dark tonight. No time to be stuck on the summit, with all this wind - it's not going to be comfortable."
Danour laughed. "To hell with comfort," he said. "The important thing is for us to get down to the valley." The words had hardly left his mouth when he stubbed his toe against a human body. It moved. A voice spoke.
"I don't want to butt in here, but let me tell you this: you'd better not try to go down there." The speaker struggled to sit up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
Danour brought his lantern over to have a look at this unexpected dispenser of wisdom. It was a man, about forty, with a big moustache and a bowler hat. As the man stood up he went on explaining: "You see," he said, "at first the summit was covered with lost couples and young families. The brave ones, though, were able to find their way down into the valley. The rest followed. By now they've worked out a system: every family's got its place, packed in side by side from the top on down. You and the missus here will be the final link - you can settle down right here."
"Now, he added, "let me get some sleep. I'm really tired. Good night."
Down in the valley, it sounded like someone got a foot tangled up in the strings of a harp, then became overly-apologetic, making careful and elaborate excuses.
for Jean-Clarence Lambert
It was never without some degree of apprehension that Claude, his arms laden with plates of oysters, entered the bedroom he rented from one of his friends, a grave-digger. He always knew he'd find his sister Clio in the bed, wearing nothing but a green wool sweater. This was a woman to whom the convolutions of a particularly involved inheritance case had united Claude in holy matrimony.
Most days he'd have barely enough time to plonk the plates down and hide behind the folding screen, the ottoman, or the columns, before a glittering hail of steel-blue daggers would rain down from nowhere, sticking, here and there, to the marital bed. They always seemed to be aimed straight at the beautiful Clio, but at the last minute would either vanish, or, end up planted between her legs, behind her head, or on the pillow. Then they would start to melt, dripping like sparkling bouquets, the reflective surface taking in everything, exaggerating everything, giving away everything.
Look at Louze
A passion for the overripe nakedness of angels, in placid, pastoral countries: this was the false premise behind her first dreams.
The day would come, she was sure, when their lily-soft songs would drape themselves across her shoulders, while she leaned passively against the rain-streaked Venetian blinds.
She really believed in this sort of thing - couldn't help it.
And it was only after dark clouds of ravens began to fill the sky that she pushed aside her innocent daydreams. She began to doubt their strength as armor. This wasn't easy for her: she'd grown to love them, lying in them as she would lie in the cool, bluish carpets of soft needles beneath the pine trees.
Now, deep in the night, the tumbling litter rustles. Pale legs move softly, waiting for strange hands that will never come.
Look at Louze and tell me, my friends, what remains of her imaginary lovers.
Her blouse drops down into a great black hole.
Riding at Night
"Perfection!" cried the horsemen.
The mountaintops shone in the moonlight.
It was a matter of getting there. It was also a matter of conquest.
It was also a matter of sand, of pebbles, of thistles all around.
There would always be time for analysis later. For the moment, only one thing mattered: speed.
From rider to rider, from one dust cloud to the next, in the breast of each high-spirited steed, everywhere, one urge: speed.
Under the sparkling sky, beneath the purple mesas, hard against the rolling prairie: speed.
Faster, always faster, out to the far limits of their strength: speed.
These horsemen, in their monk's cassocks.
WAR! || BROKEN NEWS || CRITIQUES & REVIEWS || CYBER BAG || EC CHAIR || FICCIONES
THE FOREIGN DESK || GALLERY || LETTERS || POESY || SERIALS || STAGE & SCREEN || ZOUNDS
©1999-2002 Exquisite Corpse - If you experience difficulties with this site, please contact the webmistress.