It’s joy crumbling down
the faintest air of anger
tumbling down into molten
lava, melting, melted down
small ash, turned burning fire
Desperately stunned, joy is stolen.

A snake shushing the silence
facing this combat with but resilience
The sun is scratched stuck to the sky
it rains often, rivers of black tears to cry

She says she’s anxious
He deems her obnoxious
She wants to expurgate
this ill feeling, feeling of hate
She’s born with. A heavy burden
that’s hard to tame, tear or soften.

isn't defined
by immunity
I have secrets left behind.

November 18, 2018
Written between 10:44 pm and 11:07 pm.
Thank you Jordan Rains to have said I had to go back to writing poetry in English, not just French as I did this month.
To him, the city is a bustling empire
Of which, at night, she becomes the umpire
Rather than believing she acted out on her dreams
His heart on his sleeve, concealed in fine blue seams.

She knocked on her door. He appears in the frame
His scent intoxicating, she greets him politely
In his tight embrace, she is no longer the same
Stepping into a world where he is hers truly.

She seeks his eyes, he claims her mouth
Above them dangles a lantern and a moth
That can’t take its eyes off them yet struggles
In its bulky body, that their laughter can’t muffle.

Trapped in their desire they undergo the wave
Spindrifts of two bright souls that love attempts to save
The moth can’t take the heat of their burning hearths
Language traces the unfathomable story of their hearts.

Through speech and touch they exchange many an innuendo
They shape the shadows of the city with a fingertip
Sisyphus is the idol they both seem to worship
When they part, for they must, they mutter: “A presto!”

October 5, 2018
For M and A
Soiled vital waters
fetid air, putrid eyes
enshrouded in their mess
pray your savior at mass.
Parched throats of children
skyscrapers of greed to worsen
Apocalyptic weathers.

Laughable leaders
******* you whole
you nodded to their role!
A nation forming fighters
Renegades! Ink traded for
a green and gregarious grenade
and in theaters, more horror and gore.

Curl up in bed with your ***** fingers
Ignore the insisting despair that lingers
Unattainable towers of desire
Sketching lines in your petty quire
Shout out to your flag carried by jocks
Olympic games of hardened idiots
Humans on paper, hideous grey flocks.

Sectarian society silenced by dollar signs
stupidly suffering the absurdity of this all
Lather your body in perfumes to find you whole
wash away the stench of your indifference
Gulping down whatever nectar of horrendous hope
Willingly treading down a meaningless lethal *****
Even our dying Earth won’t bend your deterrence!

August 29, 2018
Poetical anger
This poem was written to describe/honor a boat-shaped wooden sculpture on which a town was built.

Here’s humanity chucked on that tub
Figure the fuss in the ship’s hold
Roaming ‘round the deck, helm is **** for holding
How come that outland ship ain’t capsizing?

They ****** up their toll of ****** *****
Thrown out, left behind, they’re coping with that schism
Roving ‘round Ocean blue between two small isthmus
Grinning like they used to ain’t gonna be easy fun.

Here’s humanity beating it to starboard
If they had behaved themselves, possibly
***  almighty wouldn’t have batted an eye
Zealous lots in exile on that ****** city-boat

They built up  walls ‘gainst their bitter heartbreaks
Alleys, their homes and even small gardens
On a boat! Oh my, isn’t that tub gonna sink?
The wind-facing prow is a freakin’ chimera!

Such a craft is like a merry-go-round
You feelin’ sea-sick ? Looks like a hiccup!
It’s not rocket science, maybe a bit pitchin’
Here’s these talented convicts’ last resort!

Translated from the original version in French, July 19, 2018, Oullins. Appoline
Slang was originally written in French. I'll post the latter here for y'all: La compagnie des mat’lots ivres

V’la qu’l’humanité est flanquée sur ce rafiot
J’te dis pas l’ ramdam dans la cave des mat’lots
Ils errent sur le pont, à la barre c’est galère
Comment n’pas faire chavirer ce monde hors-terre ?

Ils en ont ramassé, des sacrés culs d’bouteilles
Chassés, amarres larguées, ils survivent au schisme
Ils errent sur la grand’ bleue entre deux pauvres isthmes
Pour retrouver l’sourire, c’est pas demain la veille.

V’la l’humanité qui fout l’camp à tribord
S’ils s’étaient comportés mieux, comme ça, de prime abord
L’bon Dieu là-haut, n’aurait pas remué l’moindre cil
Forcenés en exil sur un satané bateau-ville !

Ils ont construit des murs contre leurs chagrins amers
Des ruelles, leurs maisons menues et même des jardinets !
Sur un bateau, ma foi ! Ne va-t-il pas couler ?
La proue arbore, face au vent, une figure de chimère !

Cette embarcation-là, c’est comme un tourniquet
T’as pas le pied marin, t’aurais pas le hoquet ?
C’est pas la mer à boire, ça tangue juste un peu
V’la le dernier rempart d’ces bagnards talentueux.

Appoline, 18 Juillet 2018, Oullins
We're old friends, already
Whirled up in the wheel of time
A pacing symphony  
Passing through the telephone  

For hours on end.  
We do not deter from this trend  
Rhythm and rhymes, reunions and recusancy  
Always together, and on the same frequency

In a second we crisscross the ocean  
Building up our literary scene    
Our secret and permitted panacean  
Ointment, we've never once foreseen

That we're old friends, already  
Your wise heroes advisers of my own  
We share so much tenderness  
With which we could clothe dawn.

Written to  John Maloney,  
July 5, 2018  
Lyon, France
For @John Maloney, in honor of many an hour spent on the phone. For over 5 years.
A cluster of clothes clamped to my skin
Shreds of country flags floating in the wind
Harrowed by the heavy hollow heresy
Of humanity, scattered bribes of poesy.

But when you speak, my secluded soul
Sees the watercolor rainbow formed by four nations
Euskal Herria, France, Spain and America
You hold in your accents my tenderest childhood.

And when poets ink their nationalities
Through the diaphanous paper, light
With the burdening joy of their fatalities
I follow the trail of their voyage burning bright

Where you barred it all on the page
Shadows of lashes on your literary back
Raw and pure, rare and *****
The essences of you, self-permeating.

Aurora, your rose-kissed fingers
Skimmed your book, the imprint lingers
Surrounded by your poignant power
My quill joins your flow, serene seer.

Inspired by Aurora Vélez García
Lyon, July 5, 2018
Appoline Romanens
Written to a Spanish friend and poet, whose poetry book I had to review.
It’s eleven, curfew’s enforced
Please wrap up your line
You were typing away
The lampposts went silent
It made you look up
Cling, and now a starless sky.

Urban decoy of human decay
The light has a syllable of its own
Voltaged language of *******
The city hovers over your hours.

A hedgehog silently treads
Runs past me, active and still
Before my satisfied quill
It made me look up.
Insects on my screen
Were nocturnal verses
Makers of my moonlit poem.

Chalon sur Saône
June 27, 2018
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