Pou pocket songs

Voice; Bb clarinet (also Bb bass cl.); cello

1996-1997 – 40mn

Ensemble Accroche-Note : Françoise Kubler : voice; Armand Angster : clarinet; Walter Grimmer : cello / Selections from PPS recorded live by Othon Schneider – Auditorium France 3 Alsace, Festival Musica 1997, Strasbourg – September 20, 1997


  • I. Nous vous informons que cet arbre est mort [solo cello]
  • II. Again
    The warmth of the lone candle in the center
    Radiates cold comfort
    I lie silent in the mild liquid
    Ear suctioned to the soft porcelain
    Nose fingering asphyxiation
    Breath slows
    Body stiffens
    As pellets roll from the icy metal to break
    The surface with a solid pop
    A world echoes beneath my tapping fingernails
    The indistinguishable distant
    Tones of my breath
    Unable to dry my tongue I snuff
    The candle and leave the sunken
    World behind again
  • III. Rising
    The cat rests
    Gently pressing his backbone to my stomach
    Across the room
    The window pane reflects the luke yellow
    Bulb floating
    Thick musty crimson
    Touches my nostrils which stretch with curiosity
    The pastiness breaks
    Yielding to a warm sauce
    A minty inhalation
    Casually crawls my thigh
    I place the cat on the tile
  • IV. Where? (à Thermos Malling et Bob Log III)
    I don’t know where…
    I put it in my pocket…
    I wanted to take it somewhere…
    I don’t know which pocket…
    I put it in my damned pocket…
    Because I wanted to take it somewhere…
    But I don’t know which pocket…
    And I don’t know where.
  • V. What?
    He was unable to hear the pounding ondo
    He focsly onthophing
    Why am I cold?
    Is the window closed?
    I know I closed it.
    He was unabto hear tepondit onth door.
    He focused onthy lophing
    My feet are so cold.
    What’s that?
    … But wood swells, so it creaks.
    He was unable to hear the pounding on the door.
    He focused onthy lophing
    Did I close it?
    God it’s so cold.
    My fingers are so cold.
    He was unable to hear the pounding on the door
    He focused on the telephone’s ring.
    He advanced slowly and picked up the receiver
    Only to hear a dial tone.
    It’s the stairs. Is it the stairs?
    That’s a foot… that’s a footstep.
  • VI. Sound
    A golden spiderweb is breathing
    Beside the pale yellow clouded glass
    My feet knock against one another
    To the rhythm of
    A metal machine locking
    The bottle caps on
    The austere transparent characters
    In a cold factory
    Cold repetitive
    Luscious blocks of metal slamming against one another
    The wooden blocks of a child
    Who refuses to build
    Lusting only for the noise
    Lust for rhythm
    The safety of sound
  • VII. Eyesting
    Mother’s fat face – sure
    Fat face – fat
    You’re swollen child
    You’re fat
    Fat fly
    Squashed can’t fly
    Fire! Mist sweeps smouldering fog
    Blaze devours carpet devours carpet
    Devours lampshade the fever choking
    Charred walls wood dead blue flowing
    Blue orange river swallowing the ceiling
    Shrivelling ceiling Danger! Fire!
    Eyesting eyesting eyesting…
  • VIII. Pit
    I attach my eyes to a blade
    In the ceiling fan above me
    Like in a car
    Trying to fool myself into immobility
    The waltz seduces me
    I squeeze my eyes shut
    Knocking my chest with my chin
    A drop of saliva
    I eat another cherry and suck the pit
  • IX. Enjoy (I.B.)
    Quiet colorless one
    Wouldn’t you taste this fucking sweet second
    For your thoughts to turn into white acid
    Wouldn’t you feel like
    You could beat to death
    Any unknown face
    You cross along the promenade
    And enjoy
  • X. Ouvert ou mis-clos [bass clarinet & cello]
  • XI. Fingernails
    The shock of a hopping television screen
    Stirs me.
    My eyes fix the swinging image,
    Swelling with the unfocused glow,
    Swinging back to black, surrounding me.
    My eyes center on the scorched shrivelling flesh.
    The unfocused, unsought glow now
    Seeps into my inflated melting eyes.
    I see my hand rise.
    Unattached skin, scarlet soaked
    Beneath uneven fingernails…
  • XII. Me
    My fingertips burn white
    From my grasp of the bottle
    As my copper eyes
    Hold the amphibian claws
    Searching the small green stalks
    Of his forest
    Just beyond the cascade of glass
    Covering his bloated torso
    My fingertips a pale green
    Now as I petrify my lungs
    I watch the foreign red spill
    Steaming on the petit forest
    Beneath me
  • XIII. 21st Century Housewife
    Take twenty of best glasses
    Lie in center of any room in house
    Placing ten glasses beside each arm
    Using an upward stroke,
    Keeping arm as straight as possible,
    Forcefully toss one glass directly to ceiling.
    Repeat until all twenty glasses
    Have been shattered