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la douleur

C'est dans la douleur, dit-on, que naît toute la poésie

Je ne suis pas d'accord, car cela vient du cœur
—et le cœur est un imbécile sans pareil
il ne connaît pas la douleur jusqu'à ce qu'il la ressente
au-delà de la peau, des muscles, des côtes
quand c'est trop tard
Il saigne alors en mots, dansant une tarentelle
et on pense que c'est la beauté—c'est juste sa bêtise
comme celle d'Hélène de Ronsard à son fuseau.
Nous sommes tous les farces de Molière
avec nos maladies et vanités imaginaires
tu es Tartuffe, il est Argan, elle est Philaminte
Et moi, je suis (qui d'autre?)
le bourgeois gentilhomme lui-même
Qui ne sait pas que le monde se moque de lui
qui se lèche et est fier de lui-même—
le même chose stupide dans ses côtes,
qui, un jour, amènera-le
s'allonger sur les neiges de la Bérézina
son sang se glace alors qu'il suinte
Ou peut-être qu'il échappera à une mort lente
ce cœur stupide—sa tête dans un panier
alors que ce même sang chaud et fier coule
de la lame de guillotine ci-dessus
Alors il n'y aura plus de douleur,
pas de chagrin, pas de regret
Mais un autre imbécile trouvera un stylo
et tout recommencera.
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