Engraving the grave of love

A stone cold cheek kiss
That brought back no bliss
I dreamed the day of the dead’s
Carnival plebeian fire
Round the two winged heads
Of Notre Dame more than, ****
Your own ancient love pyre
The sky, navy, anew, whispering, sighing.

We didn’t babble, my beat up heart
Constantly repeating “beat it!”
But my feet thought
This meant the sidewalk:
We marched, on and on
We walked, both alone
My heels echoing
Paris, clear, calm kept on calling.

The pathetic pictures of two pasts
Fading away fading fast
During the day of the dead, dealing
With this tepid, torn, tarnished time
Last night I bet and bargained a dime
With my deterrence– a dime turned dove
“Fly away, Paris is no place like home, to love! “

Sunday, November 1, 2015, Paris, Le Marais

Hate Words Eight Words

The face is now veiled in darkness
Soul of a beggar but name of a king.
I used to grasp his embrace
Now of him, I have no trace.

Holding the globe of the past
He stands, is, memory of distress
I watch him quickly breathe his last
As trudges the souvenir of thievishness…

I summon my self’s shield
Silent steel, I stay still
Nightmare, my battlefield
I was, am, guided by my will.

His lust eyes me and smile
Fight in the flesh, he purs
Slime of a sight sick and vile
Covered in cowardice and furs!

Verbal violation of his desired aether
He who despises mercy to absolution deserves neither!

Seated on his malachite throne
He attempts to break my temple
I constrict my ocean turned ripple
It awaits, is, will be a cyclone.

The viciousness of his speech
Echoes in my mind from afar
I am no lamb on his altar
Vicious blood-thirsty leech,

He twists his hem of power
With a swift sound, removes his helm
Walt Whitman in the refreshed bower
Lend me your boldness in your realm!

Blank and wide are his irises
Empty shell of a shabby knell
As he, mud-eyed, rattling, rises
My mother’s doom for which she fell!

Violent destruction of his born aether
He who despises mercy to absolution deserves neither!


His coarse voice resonates
In the shame-paved room
He shines, splendor of his gloom
Empire of unknown coordinates,

Naught of an ultimate utopia
Boastful volubile hegemony
Defecator of his dystopia
Machine of his misogyny!

Hear my battlecry, begone
You have with your blade
Tainted my giggling jade
Lo! I am amazonstone!

Point your ringed finger
Your mysterious misery
Hails no glory or mystery
At the gown of your anger,

Vivacious victory of his degraded aether
He whom despises mercy to absolution deserves neither!

I face you, clad in love, glad
I remember your name I had
I fed your face to the flame
To shush the shreds of this blame…

My femininity are my swords
Of peace I touch the infinite rare rim
Eight words against your eight words
Shout a mea culpa seditious stream

Of a tongue that I despise!
I felt your despair’s backlashes
Do not fret about your demise
To me you are already ashes!

Sit down as I melt
With my inner core
You tastelessly tried to smelt
All your hope and your last ore!

Vivified volition of your pugnacious aether
He whom despises mercy to absolution deserves neither!


My long silver birth-link
With you vanishes
I mark with the ideal ink
Your name on your fleshes.

Your image flickers and stutters
That’s the paralyzing current I felt
Horrendous is the thought of your belt
Your astute apologue blinks and blathers…

I close the door of your crumbling palace
Your voiced obscenity put to rest
I won’t wait for your inaudible, alas
Apology for this thread of threat!

Gone is the blood of your shade
Slowly to the ground you will fade
Away from the light you begot
You ******* bipolar bigot!

Voidableness of your daughter’s aether
He whom despises mercy to absolution deserves neither!

A night nest

A curled up cat
On my days out purse purring
Our daily rain around him pouring
He’s the white bunny under the black hat
Smelling the everlasting smell
Of the ravenous squirrel that ate
From my extended hand a plump nut
The fluffy rodent gone, there’s nothing left but
The imprint of the squirrel’s paw for the cat, late
At night, he pervades himself with the fur, like Icarus
When driven heavenward didn’t see the sun and fell
The cat is sound asleep, he doesn’t notice us
He chases the squirrel, quiet down! – He’s dreaming!

March 14, 2016
Guillotière, Lyon

Shipwrecked

Washed ashore the Atlantic
You’re dreaming with your Pacific 
Blue iris before this body’s curve, caressed
By the white sun past
Its zenith, on her tanned skin
Of your warm California the leaking and thin
Gold melts with the metamorphosing swell
You are a living picture, you dwell
Among this apotheosis as the swift
Ocean whispers spindrift
In the glorious gleam of a maritime morning
Lost in her ultimate, she is peacefully sleeping

You want to kiss this Ideal slowly
Discovering the veil of what she’s pursuing
Undone by your fingers, letting the waves
Of her quick heartbeat slide under your nails 
Like this fine sand is crowning her hair in the salty
Air, as your delicate hand, gently
Arouses her lips whilst everything is exploding
Around you, wet with the swell’s run-up
Your South-Western voice’s tide conquers your beauty
Her sore arms hang onto your stature up

And down under the mythical scenery and eye of nature
Loosening the long knots of a complex stream
In your sweet violence you’re a soundless brawler
Delicious land, she’s pulling you closer
You’re becoming the journey she wants to go on
Her sighs reach you, from her throat are undone
She’s emerging from her wildly perfumed dream
As you’re making yours reality, your desire awoken
By the landscape of her body in this summer’s heaven. 

Translated on April 6, 2015
Lacanau Ocean, Southern France

I sense your strange soul rise and rest
Sighing in your sweetened respite
Oh rest I seek your silenced crest
Your secret in this soothing night
As the swell rocks our marine nest

Your soft music, mysterious score
Swoops me to a dear distant shore
Scene of your shinning sudden dance,
In your rising swaying cadence
The sapphire ocean, I sense.

I see the shape of your sore spine
Swerving like a delicate shell
Swinging siren at night, my line
Is light under my silent sight
And with my song your name I spell

But as the dream’s dome becomes dust
Destroyed by the sun of Isis
Oh under the dark sky I trust
I know that your soul is not just
That slumber’s metamorphosis.

Creature of the sea when sound
Asleep, a naiad said she found
You, human by day. a poet
In the sea, desire of sunset
Sings this silent secret to you.

January 15, 2015
University of California, Riverside

To the Poet Matthew Dickman



When you mentioned a crow
I thought of Allan Poe
Yet your words wielded
Allan Ginsberg’s queerness
Your awesome Americanness
Shuffled Allan’s wit
With your heart and gut.

You gave us a performance
But none of that heart and flowers
Romance
You were real and raw
On paper, in person
Personifying
Writing about it all.

Out of your world came out
The ardent desire to feed the pyre
Of ravenous demanding poetry
With no rhymes but sentences
A sentence which sent on death row
The rest of the worlds I heard today.

Words are wasted but yours resembled
A cherry-shed coke’s can, vintage 1975.

Lyon, November 6, 2016

Tonight, in the black light of a slight hope

Tonight, in the black light of a slight hope
With my chalk I’ll describe you:
I’ll begin with your mouth
Beaded with gold, as tasteful
As sponge finger. I’d want to
Softly touch you.
I’d kiss your mouth
So languorous and red.

Two rubies in the air of tonight
Shining with mischievous liberty
My fingers gently move up
Your sight seeks me, sometimes flees
They are always within a reach
But statuesque, you count on me
To be, on the inside, Prometheus
For you know that your dear heart matters.

Tonight, in dark of a quixotic manor
And of that gasp of yours
When I hold you
Drawn by the quill your power
Is giving birth to, mirage, o male mage
And under my ink I possess
The complexion of your skin, your coloring
I hold your slumbering head.

I’d continue with your hips
That I’d slightly, in time, skim
Flower of a new spring
In the naked, wet and white warmth
Of your body. All of a sudden, you’d shout
Panting, you’d feel on the small of your back
The lingering stopping of my chalk
On you, fluttering.

The line is rushed
Because under your sighs I yield
A daring dove
I am for you, I hungry for you.

In a stream-like momentum
I plunge into you willing
To grab you, to know you’re my hope
In the silent and black night…

And the tongue of your flesh
Stains the drawing because your breast
Willing to itemize my drawing
Sketches you with a light-hearted air!

You are then
On this canvas
My tender gold
My long star

Art of a love
Which means much more
Oh so much more
Than what words convey!

Written on October 8, 2015. Translated in February 2016.