On the surface of the void there are so many pieces of my body of limbs here there is a hand there there is a foot there there is a head this is no longer my head this is no one’s head this is no longer my arm it is the arm of another it is no longer a hand floating on the surface of the void there is the memory of what was also like there is a cat’s head which floats along a dog’s head a mouse hidden in a kitchen that we feed every evening in a huge transparent plate a very small mouse and below on the floor below the neighbors the neighbors who work for rich people who work for stupidity set traps to kill the mice with poison and you you you caulked your door well with plaster so that your mouse does not come out so that it does not go to get killed by the poison put by the sbirs of the rich sbirro in Italian means policeman yes policeman hahaha we have become monkeys dressed as policemen with some long hair one the top of the head you’re ridiculous you speak a ridiculous language you live a ridiculous life on the surface of the void my drifting head is no longer a head it’s a ball a transparent round ball in which in the garden next door where the children play every day a child could come and shoot the child could come and kick the ball but it would be my head and it would roll and it would make all the children laugh to see a ball there with eyes and a mouth that would roll in the square and in the dust kicked up for their joy there is in the other garden that you walk through every morning particularly on Sunday when you go from the apartment to the studio where you pretend to work there are dads who are there most of them are white watching their children their children playing in the playground dads sitting on benches watching them dads seem bored watching their kids but it gives purpose to their lives lately I walked by an arab in the street with his son and his son touched the wheel of his scooter and the arab said to the child that Don’t touch that my son it’s dirty this expression was funny my son I don’t think my father would ever have said to me my son it was an expression specific to a custom a man saying to another man my son I recently tried to read the novel by Gides That wheat never dies his autobiography and I know from a reliable source by direct testimony that Gides was a pedophile so inevitably when you read the autobiography of a pedophile you look for the traces of the pedophile and you find them you find them because the author who is a pedophile wants the world to know that he is a pedophile and by the indirect way of writing he lets us know it Gides had lost his father at eleven years old we feel that he loved his father very much and his father called him he tells us My young friend it’s funny a father who calls his son My young friend and they sometimes went for a walk together in the evening in the Luxembourg garden it’s very beautiful it’s the only one passage that I found moving from the book my son my young friend these father who love their sons I’ve never experienced that Sébastien has never experienced that either on the surface of the water my head is drifting I thought back at my grandmother this morning who had told another of her grandsons that Time doesn’t exist it’s funny she died and this thing that doesn’t exist caught up with her and ate her it ate her alive now she’s in hell with the demons with the russian demons since she was russian Simone Jasselmann yet she was right Time doesn’t exist indeed in the same way the city I live in doesn’t exist we only created an environment of stone an environment of concrete an environment of death we created a fortress inside the world we live in it to protect us from the natural world in holes like rats and still believe me I much prefer rats to human beings they are useful we are useless we are meant to destroy we are meant to kill each others Simone daughter of Hersch came on foot from Belarus more than a century ago Simone what did you have to redeem what did you have to atone for and you Hersch beaten badly beaten by the Cossacks you had fled on foot from Pinsk to Belarus you crossed Belarus you crossed Poland you crossed Germany on foot you came here to France you were the pimp you were a social dancer you acted like a whore to survive like your daughter after you you were at some point a the waiter then you worked as a hairdresser and finally you worked as a furrier you did everything to survive you the little Jew who became French only fifteen years after your arrival on foot to Paris your daughter your daughter was surely made at your image in the end today it has no longer anything to do with me Hersch died a long time ago Simone too after him and the children still play in the gardens and at every moment my body dies a little more but it’s a natural process the whole thing is to know should I wait that my cells all die one after the other in a long work of destruction that it is inevitable or do I need to stab myself in the throat and split my body open in two from the throat to the sex like a bag open or especially like a book as a tormented poet had said about a friend of his a long long time ago, before my birth…
Ivan de Monbrison is a schizoid writer from France born in 1969, he’s an autodidact.
Punt Volat 