ADEN-EDEN (via Marseille)
ADEN-EDEN (via Marseille)
de Arnaud Coutancier
création
samedi 18 mars 2006 à 20heures
dimanche 19 mars 2006 à 16 heures
Auditorium d'Alençon
en collaboration avec Martin Moulin (ENM d’Alençon) & Lionel Le Fournis .
Percussions & théâtre musical
ADEN-EDEN
via Marseille
pour orchestre de percussions, voix & samples,
inspiré du poème de Patti Smith : « Rimbaud dead »
Maxime Raji Basile Terrier Pascal Laillet Lucas Rossolini Raphaël Régniez
Martin Moulin Loïc Faure Pierre Reniaume Jean Moreau Hugues Gesbert Valentin Lelièvre Clovis Lesot Victor Delage Lionel Le Fournis Corentin Mouchel-Vallon Natalie Gallard Florent Dupont Quentin Coutancier
Merci à PATTI SMITH et aux éditions TRISTRAM
rimbaud dead
he is thirty-seven. they cut off his leg. the syphilis oozes. a cream virus. a mysterious missile up the ass of an m-5. the victim suffers soul-o-caust. his face idiotic and his marvelous tongue useless, distended.
rimbaud. no more the daring young horseman of high abyssinian plateau. such ardor is petrified forever.
his lightweight wooden limb leans against the wall like a soldier leisurely awaiting orders. the master, now amputee, just lies and lies. gulping poppy tea through a straw - an opium syphon. once, full of wonder, he rose in hot pursuit of some apparition - some visage. perhaps harrar a heavy sea or dear djami abandoned in the scorched arena-aden. rimbaud rose and fell with a thud. his long body naked on the carpet. condemned to lie there at the mercy of two women stinking of piety. rimbaud. he who so worshiped control now whines and shits like a colic baby.
now appointed now basket case wallowing in rice waste. now muscular tongue now dumb never to be drunk again. save tea time when he pulls the liquid in. gasping it deludes the bloodstream. conscience abandons him. he's illuminating kneeling climbing mountains racing. now voyager now voyeur. he notes it all. very ernest surreal oar. his artificial limb lifts and presses space. limb in a vacuum.
does rimbaud beckon ?
no he's gazing
in the wall is a hole. duchamp thumbprint pin light fraction. an iris opening. gradually we see the whole thing. everything opens unfolds like a breugal. it's a holiday…
it's a wedding feast. . .
they're roasting pigs and apples apron. it's sunday it's manet it's picnic in the grass. it's a seurat time it's light time it's the right time for romancing for canoeing and for dancing.
and rimbaud's limb, being so caught up, goes be-bopping out the door into the forest through the trees - raga rag in the grass overturning picnic baskets whizzing past churchyard gates right in step it genuflects then aims and leaps over the scene over the rainbow out of the canvas into space pure space - as remote and colorless as dear arthur's face. a face made incorporeal full of grace. sunken eyes - those cobalt treasures closed forever.
clenched fist relaxed wrist
his pipe turned in. . .
out in the garden the children are gathering.
it's not a whim. they are accurate immaculate,
as cruel as him.
they sing :
legs can't flail
cock can't ball
teeth can't bare
baby can't crawl
rimbaud rimbaud facing the wall
cold as hail dead as a doornail
sudden tears !
