Hence the shattering importance of one of his objects named

- and not by chance -

L'Aigle, Mademoiselle... (The Eagle, Miss...)

and which lies and relies,

in all possible meanings,

on the incommensurate irreality of desire :

arched over a human skull that could be the world,

here comes the woman whose head is a human skull

in the luxury of her wait gleamings,

only comparable as regards the excess of held back light

with the scarab wing covers that plaster her open sex.

Over her, head to foot,

the sexual eagle petrified in its frenzy of darks golds that,

every evening, make the horizon disappear.

No, this is not "The sea gone to the sun",

it is desire that stops and stares at death

but it is death too that has become

the kernel of desire eternity.

 The magnetic storm of hallucinated,

pitilessly human,

innocently inhuman,
presences

from which he made the haunted guards of

Les Champs magnétiques (The Magnetic Fields)

by André Breton and Philippe Soupault,

is one of these precipitates

in front of which space withdraws

in order to let us see ,

the bare and alive membranes of desire,

the arteries of passion

and the arborescent nerves of thought

as it moves away from itself.

  The fad is there,

behind banging against the skull walls

with all its obsessional strength

so that it may be delivered from this prison

into which the entire world seems to have agreed upon

keeping it in solitary confinement.

Fad in head,

in other terms, to everyone his own prison,

if there were not beings like Jean Benoît

to hear the howlings in the silence of bodies.

 Don't men fancies

send us back to the fancies of Nature ?

Jean Benoît is so sure of it

that he marvels in the same way

in front of the treasure island of each perverse invention,

in front of the sunk vertigo of a shell,

in front of scallop of a vulva lip

or of the colours of dying fire of a found feather.

And among all these oddnesses,

the "hasard objectif" is not the least that troubles him

by its foam-like incongruity,

outlining the convulsive watershed

where sometimes come to meet,

in their identically improbable distraught courses

human desire and the movement of the world.

 The skin of Maldoror's elusive beast,

leather sex,

leather mouth,

leather anus

would not tightened with the same violence

if this skin was not a patchwork

made out of 36 pairs of gloves for very little girls.

On the bulldog's spine

Jean Benoît grows, in the form of glass fragments,

the necessity of sexual crime and,

in this very movement, scandalously gives life to death,

by representing as the most hardy parasite plant

the indestructible emergence of the murderous passion.