Ne change rien
Il s’agit du travail, finalement
Le travail d’une voix
on ne le voit pas
Peines perdues
tu n’as rien vu
Get your disappointment in first
work is what must never show its face
or voice
not something
you would ordinarily listen to,
more for stretching out upon, it invites
a lying down
laziness, indulgence
promises less than it delivers
more a vice than a voice
or just the ‘o’ when all else falls away
a paressence, the opposite of work, ton diable
Image-oblomovement
a voice whose element would be ease,
were it not for the tremor within
barometer of time’s
purer pressure
Baby you’re torturing me
a voice in bed, allongée,
or satin-draped on a sofa
like the maid in Monteiro’s Va e Vem
while he scrubbed the floor
I said, ‘A line will take us hours maybe;
Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought,
Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.
Better go down upon your marrow-bones
And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones
Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather;
For to articulate sweet sounds together
Is to work harder than all these, and yet
Be thought an idler by the noisy set
Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen
The martyrs call the world.’
And she and the band holed up somewhere
in the desperate hours
dans les répétitions
planning their getaway
a voice on the run
they should cover « shadowplay »
to the centre of the city where all roads meet
waiting for you
joy’s division
the voice put to work in the drag of time
or filling the interval,
taking a drag of her voice between times
she keeps losing her place
in the time signature
it’s not her nature
voice in fugue
from a face that reels in shadows
hard work
the graveyard shift
ghosts don’t come lightly
GT