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 ________________________________________________________
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
________________________________________________________ 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
________________________________________________________ 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.
________________________________________________________ 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