THE USEFULNESS OF HATE

I am humiliated
She flowers on the floor
Playing hot belly
Under fall willows,
With the chemotherapy of the a sea horse,

I’ll die strangled
In the skater’s cement,
When all men suffer from the virgin
And that the hospital visits are over
In the seizure of fractions. T

THE TORTURE OF SILENCE

I am a murder,
The gun’s bitch

Fragile as a lip
In the colors of a kiss

I didn’t know
That life’s torture was grace

Now autumn tones its mist
Meanwhile we burn
Under the ceiling’s rays,
Pretending not to swallow
Not breathing.

poems by Denis Vanier
from PORTER PLAINTE… Éditions Les Herbes-Rouges, Montréal, 2001
Translation daniel guimond