Scorpio

The aesthetics of masochism:
Finding happiness
In overwhelming
Pain’s sublime
Fighting tooth and nail
Out of mind
That and those who hail
To destroy him
That sign
Such  anarchism!

He can hate to love
And even love to hate
Triggering passions
His joke. He enjoys
Being yours, yours entirely
But hidden, the scorpio
Will never admit
He can make you split

Like some shining schist
Engraved in hearts
The lover’s torment
Is stubborn inside
He finds a destructive bliss
In desire’s abyss
But his stinger
Points towards you, lover!

August 20, 2015
Translation
Oullins’ multimedia library

In memory of the victims of the attack on the gay club, Pulse, Orlando, June 12, 2 AM

The Queen’s Lips

The Queen dismounted her silver-haired stag
Her gown glittering with the stars’ twilight
She raised her tears-streaked face to the night
The blazon of her horse displayed a rainbow flag.

Grieving, she walked into the nightclub
Her heart throbbed, and quickened her pulse
She opened her arms and embraced the people
Her people, our people, forced into the stillness of death…
Radiating from her lips, they saw a simple light of hope
The halo filled the hollow holes of their hearts
They rose, victorious, wounded but determined!

As her scream of love perspired in the air
She inspired them, she rebirthed their lair
Dear mother of desire, freedom and pride
Fifty bullets won’t slow your relentless stride!

Your love heals the benighted hate
Despite your beautiful body, marred with fifty bullets!

Appoline
June 15, 2016
Lyon

Red

Palm under the squirrel’s paw
Supported on my arm
Feeling its sweet heartbeat
I feel its pulse go slow
Its gentle, beguiling beat
Warm and furry fluffy friend
Fitting right into my palm

The jay is only the jack
Because the red is my king.


Appoline, May 26, 2016
Lyon, Guillotière.

Secret garden

The grass is wet, the moonlight high
The birds fell silent in a sigh
The soporific stars shine bright
The sweet scene is quite a sight!

A breathing although discreet
Can be heard arising unashamed
Through the branches heavy
With tonight's eerie dew

And the jealous light reflects
On the smooth glittering surface
Silver and black- the dream is real
You stand unseen but stare

Shadows connect when thus angled
Leaves like hands entangled
Just ask them if you dare
What they feel

Appoline
Germolles
August 15,  2016

The charred scent of paper
Atop the ******* skyscraper
Burns when a life is consumed
In its greenish greedy gown
On it has been proudly sown
A golden triangle. It assumed
Its complete authority over
The human race we chase
Its glinting giggling gorge
Postponing the petty morgue
Adorning chests in a tower
Of wealth, of woe, of war
Some are the jacks in tar
Others the *****, the ace

Hovering over cities
Teasing the daisies.
That thick soot
Flawless is flaying
Slowly peeling
Away layers of our root
We gambol and gamble
Pitiful onions in unions
Hawkers jaywalking
Hunters, judges, humble
Flock of those who can think
Trying to make sense of ions
We can with a gun link
Deaths and collapsing ink.

The bright dollar bill smolders
On Atlas’ sore shoulders
An intricate golden lattice
In lieu of a benighted bodice
It lifts Man on a rusty noose
King on a heap of newspapers
The charred choking scent
Demonic, deliquescent
Atop the ******* skyscrapers.
For a divine raiment
Would the goofy government
Trade your blood and lymph
For a smoke and mirrors nymph?
I choose not, please turn us loose?

We are the scorching enemy
All in all, possessed by the mark
We gloat over the metonymy
Of our radiant success
We are nothing under duress
But pigs left bound to bark
In the mud of our sockets
Buy this diamond necklace
So you can prove, in the race
Of rats, you are the best of piglets
“How much does it cost?’’, asks the poet
But his voice is regarded as a dandling duet
Society sleeps, makes loves, guzzles
A writer too, probably feebly fizzles…


All the while the creased cremated paper
Will keep on swallowing us over and over
This smoke once was the signal of civilization
It is now the ominous gleam of our globalization
Soothing soot it is not, it throttles us all
I foresee it but soon we shall
Fall back into this drowsy land
Demise of those who did not stand
Up behind the legacy of a quill
That is now silent in steel, still
Child, write down your future
Your literature will triumph for sure!
I’d read his lines instead of gulping down
The shiny pill of tomorrow brand new uptown!

January 26, 2016
Guillotière, Lyon
7:17 pm

Read too much prose today
Kerouac, Micheline and Miller
And that old Bob Kaufman too
Tried to sell me their rhymeless lines
Child, Eyed, D.A Levy capitalizes all
Splashing bloods and vessels on the wacky paper
Airs of San Francisco, Paris and even…PAUSE!

Read too much prose for hours
On end, Kerouac, Micheline and Miller’s
And that old Bob Kaufman as well
Tried to sell me their rhymeless swell
Child, Eyed, D.A Levy capitalizes, he does
Splashing bloods and vessels on the wacky paper
Airs of San Francisco, Paris, and even… PAUSE!

Renegades and outlaws, Bible of the Outraged
To me rhymless poetry is like a hammer’s sledge
Ramming its fake fluid down people’s throat
And all is left on here is some ink one should blot.

January 19, 2016, 7:45 pm
Guillotière

Flutters of your blood
Your heart joins my flood
Chest to chest we pervade
The air with love we invade
Our flesh and fingers fidget
As close as we can get
From the unique encore
We feel when I skim
As lights are sweet and dim
The key to your craving core
We lay beside Neptune the blue
Tone of our celestial tune your hue
Flashes through my panting eyes ajar
As we both finish the dynamic painting
With one momentum from one jar
Sweetly letting go of the world united
Entangled as our lips remain parted
One in the expanding universe
On the verge of veering from this verse


December 25, 2015, 10:41 pm
Libourne, Western front of France