Zero Degree Of Poetry

The sea had receded
Once again, she found herself stranded on the sandbank of the weekend.

Soon enough, a wave swelling from the horizon will come back to violently snatch her,
Slap her face and turn her eyes back towards Exploitation Bay.

Sitting on this tongue of sand she plunged her hands in the top layer of thin grains and could hear them answer back all along her forearms skin.

Absent, aloof, blank-eyed,
Chained to their plastic lines
Forgotten, long-disheartened talks
Metallic bolting,
Stale resonances,
Almost forsaken, for one second…

Then back,
With habits of lust worshipping
And rituals extended
To signs, brands, acronyms.

On this empty stage, spotlights and smokes
Permanently chasing
And no one is really moving

Still, on Monday, doors open
For a sold-out show.

As she removed her hands from the sand, she suddenly figured out why she kept suffering so much, along this weekly tidal wave :

‘These hellish situations actually reflect the zero degree of poetry’.


Franck Joseph
©FJ Feb 2021- All rights reserved.
Articles are available in book and e-book formats here : RECUEILS
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