Hãy ngồi xuống và viết mọi thứ hoặc em có thể tìm một sợi dây thắt cổ
Confession
Author: Đoàn Đức Tuấn
Published on: 5/30/2015 7:20:37 PM

Đoàn Tuấn Đức’s poetry is born from the synthesis of various half-conscious states involving the reading of meandering philosophical texts, looking at expressionist paintings, feeling sexual desire and the utter boredom of life. The clumsy and sharply convoluted style reflects such states and can be experienced as a kind of vertigo itself.


-- Kaitlin Rees
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The siesta by Joan Miro
 

Viridescent sun

Around dead trees, dead leaves
a stirring around the balance
The night brawl
leaves behind the green footsteps
of the lipsticked centaurs
who wandered around the summer night, lost balance and vomited
The tavern
the horse is mad at its slow wandering around the tavern
sniffing at its skin
The belfry’s top
pierces through the horse’s head
inducing a dizziness
The tavern hides inside the dizziness
with some deranged men
and I
nobody sees
Beneath the vermilion sun
the green sun burns violently
erasing
all visions
death and life lie next to each other
Biting off its black hair
the horse crosses the meadow
hides in the dizziness
no one
no one’s able to see.

23.09.09


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Gelmeroda III by Lyonel Feininger

Cubism


Every time he experiences the falling feeling of masturbation
he always grows a new face
one centimeter away from his other faces
He walks
finds a mirror
to measure the new face’s distance from his neck
wears the tie to stop his dizziness
He ties it around his neck
but the neck is damp and cold
The wet donkey
carries the whole piano
piano
donkey
he calls many things
and remembers the song to string their names
‘funereal serenade’
He comes to the party
with the tie around his neck
his body wet after the masturbation
they waltz, he sleeps
his head to the woman in the red soiree
orange
Hitler sitting on heaven
the night party
the three of them strung on another serenade
he sleeps like a statue wearing a tie
waltzing to the piano the donkey plays
white paint
his tongue masturbates
Dali’s eyes
the widow’s black eye cascading rain
the cold eyes of the donkey
the moon is broken in the egg
putrid
another eye!
eye eye eye
stab 
do not let him masturbate
Van Gogh’s blood spatters the grass
as he blows up his brains
the silent starry night
watches with the swirling eyes
The anguished sunflowers also with eyes
other realms of eyes
stare in a spiral starry night
he masturbates
frames all of them and remembers
wetness
spreads about the putrid egg
Another face emerges.

25.06.09


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Church in Stein on the Danube by Egon Schiele

K. – nor – h. (2) 

Lean Kh
thinks he is a belfry
strikes loud deafening sounds
weeps
in a half-human-half-object operatic voice
the first floor priests
the second floor hangmen
the third floor demons
Kh thinks his body is a cluster of squares
sticking to his lover
when they make love
inside their dusty shirts
black clouds
swelling mounts

Lean Kh
touches himself – an indefinite bell
whose full and empty tones feel identical
a long or short passage disappears into his memory
the meaningless bell makes his scream empty of sound
from Kh
looking at the frenzied chicks perching on his hair
the bell sound’s lost
Kh’s lost

From Kh’s lover
looking down at Kh who is a collections of existings
things that run towards the clock
the festive season of temporality
in reverie, Kh secretly
dissolves into many horses and goes on a fleeing spree.

10.07.09


________________________________________________________

Lying figure by Francis Bacon
 

Concealment

confess
when I see my corpse thrown haphazardly on the grass
blood gushing pale grey
gut slashed open vertically
I return to my alienation
blood and skin is my sole creed
but there must be something, something more
like a running train
stabbing straight to my gut
spurting another bout of blood
like somebody
coming with brushes, churning my corpse  
straight at the bowels
painting Rothko’s squares
murmuring to me: beneath, is tranquility
the squares will bring me an escape
my gut is a smouldering hiding place
beneath – there must be something
something else
bellyless beings, meditating in their alienation
waiting for a castration
as if God was born from my gut
creed trickles down my eyes
the moon
- the tragic hiding
silently drips down on the man who’s just died.

30.01.09

 

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Crows over the Wheatfield by Van Gogh

 

Crows over the Wheatfield

The wind will carry us, won’t it?
though there’s no wind here
but the carrying is invisible and infinite
a lonely carrying
to the two suns merging
and creates a new day
A mystical day
all things concealed will appear
and everything obvious will disappear
until the lonely poet sees and sees again
the fetus of death
does not stop growing large
and how it touches the sky
the air is ripened with religious escapes

do you run chasing after me
under this feeble cover of light and darkness?
the hunt is still unfinished
I’m perturbed
the sky is perturbed
the invisible touch sways all the ripe wheat spires
the sky can’t be released from this fear of death
but haven’t all become harmonic at this hour of anguish?

I see a trinity
though tumultuous, it wraps the whole earth
an orgiastic disintegration.

Waiting
the earth has transformed into nights and back
steadily, like a pendulum
the reversed torrential flow
visits and disappears
until madness rises infinitely
do you see an eternal balance
having torn into pieces the worldly cover?
No more movements
just absolute quietness
do you see innocence
while here I just see sorrow and pain?
The torture prolongs
then becomes abstract
then transforms into absolute beauty
then withdraws.

When the two suns’ve merged
I embrace the void
and give birth to another thousand suns
each already unnerved for four thousand years.

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Paralytic child walking on all fours by Francis Bacon

 

Confession

Lead me to a room
where there sits only F.Bacon
and his fear
Bend down on all fours
At the border between the two faces
is suicide
bloated like a harvest moon
The woman kneels down and begs for the rapture of suicide
her madness:
- is her self-portrait
- wandering red slashes on a deaf mute canvas
The definition of her:
- nakedness
- through frames that can’t fit together
The concupiscent woman dies
banging her head against a split window:
- half to madness
- half to the world
Between two delusions the woman kneels down on all fours
sits on the toilet bowl and dies
naked and dead
her hesitation nobody can penetrate
the disgusting symptom of the failure to walk
the inability to tear herself open in front of a mirror
- half to the world
- half to death.

29.01.10

 

 

 

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