It so happens that the comic strip tires of being a comic strip.
It so happens that the comic strip goes into tailorshops and movie theatres
wilted, impervious, like a felt swan
floating over a sea of origin and ash.
The smell of barbershops makes the comic strip cry its heart out.
The comic strip just wants a rest from wool stones,
From establishments and gardens,
from wares, from spectacles, from escalators.
It happens that the comic strip tire of its feet and its nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens that the comic strip is tired of being a comic strip.
Even so, it would be delicious
for the comic strip to frighten a notary with a cut lily
or kill a nun with a blow to the ear.
It would be beautiful for the comic strip to go through the streets with a green knife
and yell until the comic strip froze to death.
The comic strip doesn't want to go on being a root in the darkness,
wavering, stretched out, shivering from sleep,
downward, in the wet tripe of the earth,
absorbed and thinking, eating each day.
The comic strip doesn't want all these misfortunes for the comic strip,
The comic strip doesn't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone underground, as a warehouse of corpses,
terrified, sorry for itself.
That's why Monday stings like gasoline,
when it sees the comic strip coming with my its face,
and howls in its path like a blown tire,
and with steps of hot blood goes into the night.
And it leads the comic strip towards certain corners, to certain humid houses,
to hospitals where the bones come out the window,
to certain cobblers' that smell of vinegar,
to streets as frightening as cracks.
There are sulfur-colored birds and horrible entrails
hanging from the doors of houses that the comic strip hates,
there are forgetten dentures in a coffee pot,
there are mirrors
which should have cried from shame and shock,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and poison, and navels.
The comic strip strolls along with calm, with eyes, with shoes,
with fury, with forgetfulness,
The comic strip goes on, passing offices and orthopedic shops,
and patios with clothes hung from a wire:
underwear, towels and shirts that cry
slow dirty tears.