Monday, February 28, 2011

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Deep in the night


Deep in the night, you see nothing, No one 'means nothing. Its meaning is coupled with trash and quirky forms. We simply blink and wait for sleep to become a drowning. It is intolerable that suspension, which will surface in the morning breaths. Then left alone in the abyss, with open eyes and body movement. It turns its head, we scrutinize some hope of light is allowed to float its flesh and derive its muscles. It is less the clever, deep in the night, surrounded by unseen monsters. We feel that it turns around, then you close your eyes but to no avail. We swim with the dolphins died in thinking. You can stay for hours, deep in the night, waiting for a drowning that exists only in our dreams.

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Release - The Growler No 17 - March 2011



The Growler 17 is available. This is a Grognard "special poetry," developed by Gaston Vieujeux and Stephane Beau and preface by Luc Vidal, head of the editions of the Small Vehicle.

poets in this volume are:

Teresa Allison-Aziz, Pascale Arguedas, Philippe Ayraud, Bernard Le Blavec Martine Brugiere, Jacques Coly, John Crill, Chantal Dupuy-Dunia, Heptanes fraxion, Cathy Garcia, Michel L'Hostis, Jean-Claude Lamatabois, Denis Langlois Alain Lebeau, Jean-David Lemarie, Jean Lenturlu Guy Lheureux Guy Lorant, Guy Meunier, Yves Moulet, Gregory Parville Henri Philibert, Stephane Prat, Pascal Pratz, The Revoyure, Aude Cervens Rubin, Rene Sartre, William Siaudeau, Eric Simon Thevenet Collette, Aglaia Vadet Luc Vidal, Gaston Vieujeux, Vinau Thomas, Paul-Henry Vincent.

The "In terms of books" has was performed by: The Goulven Brech, Stephane Beau and Jean-Louis Millet

Illustrations: Stéphane Prat, Nicolas Desire Frisque, Magali Planes, Cathy Garcia, Sarah Dao, Guy and Jean Lheureux Lenturlu.

To order, or to learn more about the Growler is HERE

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Fire Magic

© photo: Ronis Muche

Yearning summer
c ' and is betraying
underestimate
fire

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Our life under trees


ago your little heart
surrounded by bone
veins

skin and around the trees

we tend branches

You could leave me there to join them


live at the top with them and their birds

But you know
I have vertigo
then we spend our lives


under trees and try to catch me

like the sweet futility
a perfume of flowers in your hair anchored