Fish fish it is I, I am calling you: pretty hands agile in the water. Fish you resemble mythology. Your loves are perfect and your ardours inexplicable. You do not approach your females and here you are with enthusiasm for the mere idea of the seed that follows you like a thread, for the idea of the mysterious deposit made in the shadow of the shining waters by another mute, anonymous exaltation. Fish you do not exchange love-letters, you find your desires in you own elegance. Supple masturbators of both sexes, fish I bow to the dizziness of your senses, would to heaven, would to earth I had the power thus to emerge from myself. How many crimes avoided, how many dramas tucked into the prompter’s box. Your transparent transports, Christ’s death ah how I envy them. Dead divinities of the depths, I stretch and thrash about if I think for a moment of the moment in you wits in which develops the beauteous marine plant of sensual delight whose branches spread throughout your solitudes and makes a song of ripples heard near the shores. Fish, fish, swift images of pleasure, pure symbols of involuntary pollutions, I love you and invoke you, fish just like hot-air balloons. Discharge into the troughs of you wakes a ballast of passion, sign of you intellectual grandeur.
Fish fish fish fish
But man also sometimes makes love.
Albert de Routisie (a.k.a. Louis Aragon), Le Con d’Irene, Translated by Alexis Lykiard, (London: Creation Books, 1996) 39-41.