XI. Une Force [ou une faiblesse]

XI. Une Force [ou une faiblesse]

It began to seem rather pitiable, the bird-light proposition, its burden

Of incidents—Indignities of the flesh, inexhaustibly varied by Breillat—
Except that they cannot be localized—Standing in the airport waiting

To be picked up—Circular mailings; never to purify into cursory admiration

Among victims—Nor tolerate the offense of contact—Gaslit and nacreous,  
Unwatchable outrage comes on a razor’s glide—Well regarded, stenographic

Inconvenience, sex or age reasserts itself—Faces in metal fittings; stenographic
Inefficiency costs them the rash they were once put to—Solicitous burden
Of the stenographic department—These descendants of Ennius, until nacreous,
They came near, and Vergil thought to stoke the same metered forge—Breillat’s
Rake replaces a chipped nail in her glass-sided termite mound, where admiration
Stiffens into paralysis—There, a crushed nestling in a boy’s coat pocket awaited

A sheltered life in a matchbox—What changes, the strategic repositioning awaits
Not ripening vulvae, but the practiced dawns of a mouth in Reece Mews— Stenographic
Rouge applied as guidelines of another orifice preceding the gas leak of admiration,

Of Romance—Beneath bits of blown mosaic, the verdict of antiquity—Burdensome
Evidence, a stranger’s spent tube sock—Prying the key from the bloody lock, Breillat

Would remind us of its origin, drop it into a tumbler, and quaff it—Nacreous

To the tongue—Again, vacuum the asperities into a cold weld—Concision of nacreous

Women, this time in plural—The Breillat sisters are reining Jeanne in Last Tango, whose waiting
Morale has gone rank with the butter—A first dream of a wedding, with Catherine Breillat

Much later, as the officiant—After all, Bertolucci’s opening credits receive their stenographic

Palette from a Bacon retrospective at the Grand Palais—What had hitherto been a burden,

Not experienced in the other direction—With eyes open, controlling the slavering admiration,

The course of events, the subtle soul dragged out of a supermarket under an admirer’s
Trench coat, or fingered at the pool, sits everywhere—Immensely learned in fellatio; nacreous
She is not, thought the reciprocating the postman—Repeated determinations; indeed, burdens,
Of female flesh until one sees nothing else, without a Portuguese cliff to jump—They await
Stenographic service, Saturae and Poèmes saturniens of a woman’s skin—The stenographic
Department itself—Pulled hairs, like so many microscopic sexual excrescences, after Breillat’s

Corollary to Perfect Love, the disarming teen a mother must constantly tend—Breillat’s
Black ice of transcendent love—Obscenity’s sleeping backfiring neuron; a mutual admiration
Reverses, to write itself—For a vaulted dignity, the Suprême NTM bills for it—Stenographer,
And the dictator giving orders; leaving few untried ones—Beyond a tentacled abalone’s nacreous
Layer, we perhaps might glimpse a blister—Regain our lost pearls abandoned by a waiting
Car—In any case, her competing sister falls through the floor, with Bluebeard’s  bourdon,

Thankfully, cut short—L’horreur dans la sidération, Anais is relieved of her burden—Breillat’s
Film star sister gets the axe—The cinéaste of your waiting body, her other form of admiration,
Arrogance, as I would the ozone-rending nacreous clouds, and fulfillment of Vergil, with stenographic force.