Will I forget your image
Distancing the presage
Like my body from yours
Is everything holding us
Back away from each other

On Time’s ocean
Through thick and thin
Tempest of love
Yes, I said “forever’’
About time

Don’t tell me I beg you
You love me, my happiness
I know you want me
Oh inspired, my distress
Don’t tell me: “Until?’’
I loved you, I fear
But you’re far away, my dear
I’m straight telling you
And until when?

To the French couple whose lives were claimed on August 4, 2015 by the desert on the Alkali Trail, White Sands National Monument, New Mexico,

Of this flown away couple
Whose existence was stolen
In the winds of a dry desert
Remember, arid earth
Their last journey
Their tired faces
Trudging, panting
Walking, they kept walking
They were your children
France, they were parenting
And in the landscape
Their image reunited
With the hills far away

With those who passed away
In the winds of a dry desert
In the New Mexico
Of an arid America

They keep on walking
Their remote memory
On this long, long path
Looking for some glory
A futureless glory…

August 12, 2015
Lyon, France

To Matthieu, my ex French boyfriend



I'm smoking my last
In an empty room
I will watch the past
Seal and shake my doom.

I'm breathing my last
As I crawl under
Under the thunder
Welcoming the blast,

I shall undergo
In an empty room.
And deeper I go
Deeper in the gloom

I'm looking around
Trudging on the ground
I have come to nuke
To repel and puke,

This mild monochrome
Displaying your smile
I will hate your isle
From Sparta to Rome

To grab your image
Your ****** leverage
Going far further
Than before earlier


The road down below
Is dangerous, I fell
Is painful and slow
The road out of hell

Will be bright and pure.
I did **** and mure
Your mild monochrome
And now to my home,

I shall soon return
Far from you lost love
Yes, is gone the dove
Your paper will burn

Ashes, melting fast
Burning monochrome
Blasted monochrome
I'm smoking my last

July 19, 2013
Chambéry, France

A bottle, in the sea, has fallen
Message of mystery
Creased weary paper
Washed by the swell, swollen
Wandering along the water
Wrenched by the waves, misery

Whilst an impetuous wind
Cradles the vial with its washed out blue cap
The bottle reaches its destination
The translucent sand welcomes it with a slap
Washed ashore
It would be hard to read what it once clearly bore…

On the beach, a blond maiden bothers to pick up, sunbathing
The drenched draft with its strewed words
And as she starts reading
Gone is her grinning.
Letters speak to her in a death rattle
Her father blacked out during the battle
Forever. On the creased weary paper the writer
Traced: ‘’Don’t worry, I love you, my darling’’
Her tears now erasing completely so much strength and energy
Gathered to retrace the story …

Of the blond-haired maid
Only a piece of paper remains, it is said.
By the tumultuous tide
Hope reached the other side…

Translated on May,9, 2014

1st place, Jacques Prévert Jeux Floraux du Béarn (French poetry contest), 2008

Beijing’s Child points at the white clouds flying, veils in the somber sky, to the moon under the yielding tree’s red lantern, he is absent-mindedly playing with his brown braids. He pictures himself abroad, by other long shores turning the pages of his dear illustrated book when a fired fish jumps up to the skies clad in its rainbow scales, glistering. Under the yielding tree red lantern

Beijing’s Child rubs the green ginkgo Although the snow, winter’s daughter plucks the feather leaves of her silvery coat....
Was it the wind, messenger of the west that brought the Biloba bird until Ta? Under the yielding tree red lantern

He thinks about it sprouting, seed of the past. The Child whose name means pagoda lives over the gates of the shining sun chanting to the elements songs and lullabies,
Under the yielding tree red lantern.

And when Earth vibrates under the storms when the frightened men rise their damped eyes the child wraps his body with the veil of the stars I hear by the mounts his voice and his augurs. But the tree was cut down and cannot offer its sweet sap anymore the red gleam has faded long ago of the marooned torn by time book only one thing remains, and it is a dream.

Because, at bedtime, as the world is sound asleep the child pours a golden powder to the souls. Stay awake at night because the Child of Beijing will enchant you until your morning!

Written in French in Beijing, October 20, 2011. Translated on May 9, 2014 Lyon, France

To Patrick Süskind, writer of The Perfume,

He leans over her
Admiring the fire of her rebellious hair
Asleep, sweet child
Her body, temple of the most exquisite perfume
Getting drunk on her delight
He tries to **** this about to live madness
Rising up, oh cruel
He plans to lethally hurt her!

Another desire, inside, gushes
For he doesn’t want her to suffer
His lips burning of her, madness!
He’d rather be lenient…

She rolls over, for her he fell
He drops his hammer and her grave
He leans in closer, lover
Her eyes open, he looks at her, charmed

Mouth tight shut, lost inside him
She knows he’s the thief of the night
Three feet away from her eyes
He has to possess her for his tragic project
Lull settles in, she says:
“You’ve come to take my life’’
He smiles, she grabs his hand
And brings him to her red-hued lips

“Laura, I am Jean Baptiste
Senses will be my tomb
I screamed, organic, garbage from the market…
Broken, born almost dead, scattered like schist.’’
“Jean Baptiste, come here’’
“Sweet ******, I’m only sombre ashes
My body only knows the twig
By your perfume only can my heart rise…
No love is that strange.’’
“So I’m yours, divine
Drink my wine to the hilt’’
“Angel, forgive me for what I must do’’

He throws his vest on the ground
Unveiling his skinny self
He is stark naked, she is dreamy.
He lifts the covers, dreading his own gestures
As soon as he’s laying next to her
She softly skims his chapped lips
He answers, babbling
The moon is above them, entangled.

He can’t stop his fingers
On her naked skin wanting him
For no cloth, no silk
Can’t protect her, she isn’t escaping
Her scream in his kiss he takes her
She’s a woman in a blasting fury
On some supple Asian cushions
Her blood slides, fertile, drunk Muse…

He’s already asleep on her hip
He equally adores her curves and her sip
He caresses her white gorgeous chest
Swiftly slays her and,
Lays her down waiting for the blame
Crying, but he has to leave her.

Translated on August 8, 2015

Marble, you no longer move
In their agile and skimpy arms
Under torrents of fire and hail
The majestic sinuous trees
Try to grapple your rose’s stalk
That of your body, inert, alone, morose
Those dark trees standing for the branches of my desire
Roughed up over and over again by a storm of passions

On the subdued soil of time through the wind
Like a veiled corpse living on a divan
Your kisses wither, blank of existence
Perfect bunch of flowers fit for an effigy
A statue erected by our violent patience
A bunch for sure, fit for nothing but a somber elegy
Facing death! A visage turned over to redeem.
Your body, lacking our decors’ agreement pours out

The blood of sacred love, the ideal love of the idea
That you held so close, so near, traced on the thinned out curves
Of my caresses, of my distresses, of my hips
You neither no longer are nor I am but a chanted fallen angel
Without you I can’t be, should I slay the Occident of your name
Of the moving geography of my fleshy map, my Orient
Between us, a mocking distance overhanging and weighting in the chasm
Of this Ocean shaped abyss, Mayday my soul! No!

Your absence is my grave, despite it being decked with flowers
What sort of beauty one should expect from a perfumed essence-less flower?

Translated on November 4, 2015