Numbered & signed edition of 25 ex.
A thin belly. A belly of fine powder and as in a picture. At the foot of the belly, a burst grenade.
The grenade deploys a flaky circulation which rises in tongues of fire, a cold fire.
The circulation takes the belly and turns it over. But the belly does not rotate.
They are veins of vinous blood, of blood mixed with saffron and sulfur, but of a sulfur sweetened with water.
Above the belly breasts are visible. And higher, and more deep, but on another plane of the mind, a sun burns, but in such a way that it is thought that it is the breast that is burning. And at the foot of the grenade, a bird.
The sun is like a gaze. But a gaze that seems to gaze at the sun. The gaze is a cone that spills over at the sun. And all the air is like frozen music, but vast, profound music, well built and secret, and full of icy ramifications.
And all this, put together with columns, and a kind of architect’s drawing which connects the stomach with reality.
The canvas is hollow and multi-layered. The painting is well enclosed in the canvas. It is like a closed circle, a sort of abyss which turns, and doubles in the middle. It is like a spirit that sees itself and hollows itself out, it is malaxed and worked endlessly by the clenched hands of the spirit. However, the spirit sows its phosphor.
The mind is safe. He stands well with a foot in the world. The pomegranate, the belly, the breasts are like witness testimonies of reality. There is a dead bird, there’s a bud out of columns. The air is full of pencil strokes, pencil strokes like knife strokes, like streaks of a magic nail. The air has returned sufficiently.
And here he disposes himself in cells where grows a seed of unreality. The cells are each placed in their place, spreading
around the belly, in front of the sun, beyond the bird, and around this circulation of sulfur water.
But the architecture is indifferent to the cells, it sustains and does not speak.
Each cell carries an egg, where shines which germ? In each cell an egg is suddenly born. In each there is an inhuman but clear swarming, the stratifications of a fixed universe.
Each cell carries its egg well and offers it to us; but it matters little to the egg to be chosen or rejected.
Not all cells carry eggs. In some, a spiral is born. And in the air a bigger spiral hangs, but as sulfurous as if already of phosphor and enveloped in unreality. And this spiral has all the importance of the most powerful thought.
The belly evokes surgery and the Morgue, building site, public square and operating table. The corpse of the belly appears to be made of granite, or marble, or plaster, but than hardened plaster. There is a case for a mountain. The foam of the sky makes the mountain a ring, translucent and fresh. The air around the mountain is sonorous, pious, legendary, forbidden. Access to the mountain is prohibited. The mountain has its place in the soul. She is the horizon of something that is constantly receding. She gives the sensation of the eternal horizon.
In this, I feel my thought unfold as in an ideal, absolute space, but a space that would have a form which can be introduced into reality.
I fall from the sky.
And each of my fibers opens and finds their place in their designated boxes. I go back up to it as at my source.
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