fighting
impenetrability:

whys,
whatfors.

working hard
in a garden's recovery.

weeding.

endlessly.

no use.

take me

to dance

barefoot,
on the sand

dionysian,
the fire

take
me

Ah, to be like
a twinkling star!

You are
no longer there,
outgrew
the waiting,
poured the
wishing.

**** it.
No dream catchers
nowadays.

How to paint the wind?

A distant cry,
the wave of a willow?

The vortex of void,
silencing pain?

The bliss of a breeze,
the fairy touch of hope?

The scent of destruction?
An adventurous flavour?

Ah...!

The swallows are dying
in the redness of leaves.

one step one day

love's ecstasy,
a roadkill
losing itself
in the rearview,
in a zombified sway

one day one step

stuttered thrive,
now you will,
now you won't,
oh but the horizon
is a watercolour
and you hold a rainbow
on a string

one step one day

one night
all the way,
you know it,
its lava bubbling,
hollowed in black

one day one step

nothing lays ahead
and it doesn't matter,
your mumbling
was meant to be,
childish like,
learning to walk
failing the fall

one step one day

like the house
upon a dune,
dawning in the arms
of a salty sea windy,
a hoarsy rust
foreclosing the ways
inside, a home of
a hoarder, yet
a would-be-minimalist,
kind of a patine,
riddling scratches
of drifters.

sometimes you learn.

when you grow old,
yes,
sometimes you learn.

or maybe
you remember
best.

anyway.

sometime,
you'll fall
in love
one last time.

hopelessly,
naturally,
but forever.

i gift you
words
and appear,
naked,
in front of you,
fearing.

wearing out monologues.

a window.
shattered, the street.

starless night.

took that train,
just had to,
took the steps
on my free will
or whatever
and jumped in.

what a ride,
i tell you,
what a ride.

but dizziness
is just a blur
and that's why
i'm erasing
the bridge,
ahead.

skipping a heart beat
seemingly you,
there, in the crowd

the lightness
of a possiblity
to live,
to hold on

watching kids,
their eyes
tying of shoe laces.
reading the first word ever.
trusting a friendly hand.

dreaming,
of home,
everybody’s there
coloured motion,
disclosing bygones
in now lands

not to cry
when realising
the ephemeral
unreality of hoping

06.05.2016

what does one mean
in who ever's life,
i have to wonder,

'cause it's like
someone's coming
to your home
yet not seeking you
there, although
you still try to be
visible.

maybe
you shouldn't care.
but how can you
not to?

Alices in holes,
swaying in the
land of mirrored
doors. Stiffed
Humpties on walls,
in the distant light.

Dumped my faith,
once, twice, three times
dumped it.  So, you see,
chopped my own heart,
had to.
Will you have me
around your table,
Mad Hatter, sir,
'cause i'd suit so well,
into a merry go-round.

No more me to
hand out, delusional
believer in stories,
made up stories
in snow faked globes.

Oh yes, of course,
i can pass the sugar,
we ran out of salt.
Shall we overdose now,
from a sweetened slumber?

i do not know
how to pray
or whom to pray to,
but, sometimes,
it feels like praying,
to wish for people
to be happy
and fulfilled.

it feels like praying,
sometimes,
when i am capable
of choosing not
to judge and instead
i smile a sincere smile,
and i watch their prejudges
dissolve in the lack of attack,
their eyes discovering what
their heart is feeling.

then, those times,
when them and i
grow to be as kids
in a playground,
we gather in our humanity
and it feels like praying.

it definitely does.

pots and pans.
the radio is on.
the curry
fills the air.
vivid red
and dark
orange silk
float around
a porch,
you'd gift me
mangoes,
ripe mangoes,
this sweetness,
this yearning.
pots and pans.
the radio's mute.
time to stir.

thoughts,
speeding,
a fuzz of neon lights,
a buzzing of highways,
what was what i was to do?,
chocolat, please,
or not,
a gag upon it,
a shut down,
oh the vertigo
of the echoes,
have a drink,
red velvet wine,
your lips, lend me
your tongue, oh my,
delusional again,
okay,
one, two, three,
what?, counting helps,
or maybe going alphabetically
through words, a for
whatever,
hey, who cares,
let it be,
no train is endless
(hopefully)

the burial.

another,
again.

there
will be
no tomorrow.

children die.

mothers bury
the unripe fruit
of their womb.

who has
turned out
the light?

i can go
on my own
all through
the night

but if you
would hold
my hand

there would be
a kind of a purpose
for walking
the dark

i turn around,
pretend i don't see,
and then i forget
about it.

as simple as that.

i know i'll die
alone. we all do.
me, i will not know
if i have lived.

that's hell, they say.

i tried. i did.
ran out of words.
drained.
so...

dead trees,
dressed by purple
wisteria vines.

life.
although
borrowed.

equidistance
of time, in
non leaning hemispheres.
paradoxical spring tide.

words: beads
in silver strings,
pushing aside
the wishful adieu.

All the rivers i longed,
a moist slightly rehearsing
dawn's dew, a glitter yet to be;

every shade of crimson
i concealed, sinking
the horizon in cooled suns;

each word i teared apart,
the weight of emptiness
forbidding to dare

- all i've declined
willingly
resigning life,

i have taken, to draw
a shore, your outline,
and, clandestine,

i watch, as the rain
washes away the horizon,
in the other side of the mirror.

let it go, the autumn
leaf, blown
by wintry winds.

let it go, this whirl,
its shivering
in the night.

ah, beyond,
there, where
there is nowhere.

and again, the gritty path,
for visiting the houses, ruined.
time fled and life stood still,
strangled in suspension points.

i come, to collect lonesomeness,
feed my senses upon bygones.

window sills to inner spaces.
motherhood.

there, the place of a fire,
the grime inks a flame in black,
silhouetted.

crock pots, iron pots,
cracked, bumped.
soup. boiling.smoking.
cendrillons wrinkling
by the fireplace
in yellowished orange blossom gowns.

a skeleton of a bed.

leaning roof.

a wall in blue.

the view from the back window.
the door to the backyard.

houses grow blind.
i come
to lend them my eyes.
willingly.

eventually they'll have me,
bind me, seed me,
a tree-creeper to sight
the swallows, tell them
we have a vacant eave
in a falling roof.

winter ******,
a raw clarity, so wide.
kites winding bows.

take a full hand of words
in a worldly language
and sprinkle the lines
with as much of something
as you can; carefully,
not to split out.

if you reach a slight resemblance
to whatever you meant,
be happy and contented:
that's what you're allowed,
sometimes, but never more
than the transparency of an esquisse,
half-way to incompleteness.

still, you did your best
- and your best-outlined-somehow-you
will stand there, in the open,
a threshold no one really sees,
not even when you think they do.
*(the one in the mirror went silent.)

je veux te voir,
et si ta voix
me le disait un jour,
je veux te voir,
que de déserts
je m'en ferais revenir,
au mirage de ton regard!
hélas, mon ombre
s'est éprise de moi
et toi, tu ne le sauras pas,
que moi, je te l'aurais dit,
je veux te voir.

(spoiler alert: explicit, or whatever...)*


my hands,
cup shaped.
your warmness.
the pace of your
fleeing heart.
your *******,
naked, nibbled,
in my cupped
hands.

days' crumble,
in blue-pencilled
idling.

Discretely.
Seemingly distracted.
Just let it slide,
kind of in a "oops" way.
Get it over.
It will not matter.

smothered.
the word(s).

a hissed
centipede,
the millepede
of lowering fear.

a smoothed
inner cracking.

this crater
of smoky numbness.

*(why can't i tell
you
my love?)

A spring like afternoon.
So,
I walked my thoughts
in the sun

and picked
here and there
a glance
of other-selves

(the ripest ones
decaying in fallen
houses, the left overs
of bygones and forget-me-nots).

Filled myself
in reddish and bluish,
a euphoric sight flying.
Then, my doorstep.

poetry,
this palette
of deranged
chords,
in falsetto,
the impossibility
in my dreams,
to be gifted
to you.

knots.

made of
knowing not
why not.

all i did not,
all i do not.

out of not
unknotting
what was not
knotted,
no, it was not.

so linear.
just
let it be
and move on.

or not.

ocean...

its sound.
the word's.

a suspension
as if you'd
hear your name out loud
somewhere in nowhere,

a rumbled whisper
as if you'd
stumble and fall,

the seashell out of reach,
there, on the edge.

ocean...

crossed the hope
of hearted days,
dyed the lies
across the abyss,
was crossed in the fray
in crossroads far from hope.

cross heart, oh my, one
hope didn't cross,
so surely had to lie
these days, to my eyes
a life, your sight,
in my desire a hope to die.

vacuum.

a stop motion,
on senselessness
of expression.

suspension of self.
cryogenic life,
no cord to the inner core.

i miss a dream.
the one you are.

in my homeland,
the fishermen widows
salt their hearts
and hang them to dry.

in my homeland,
they say there is a cliff
where the moon gives
birth to the ******

and where the wind
whispers and howls
until the sails
get lost in the far.

what is the matter,
he asks,

unable to see,
maybe unwilling,

that there is
no matter
to nothing.

days' rock.

heavier, as
Sisyphus' one.

i'll go to sleep,
now.

please.

i lit a cigarette
in the cold night

in the window glass
a light burns to
the pace of a lighthouse

i think of you and
drift in a flickering sky

As the night unfolds
its quietness,
and distance
is silenced,
and movement
is carpeted
into echoing
rumbles,

a sight unveils
all once blinded
by day light,
by the hazardous
ransom of rush,

and it appears
before me
what lays
within
a trap of sand,
breaking down
the bones of will,
grinding morrow
into the narrowness
of a held back
gesture,

it appears
before me,
naked
like a stillbirth,

my solitude.

they come
filthy
cursing

a swarm
in a hailing grasp

fear stains
cripples
rapes

we learn
the dormancy
of the ripped

took all of my belongings
- those words i borrowed
for staging myself -, packed
it all, pinned it a note,
here's to us, if ever,
went for a dock
(no lighthouse please,
the night needs a rest).

death.

a loss of vision,
there,
in the corner.

a corrosive lack,
purpose and sense
lost in the way.

another step,
suspension.

feels like it is time.

wrapping time.

making a fire
with all the debris.

spoiled brat,
your complaint's
but bragging!

look around,
take a deep look,

and start over,
empty hands!
maybe then
you'll grow a heart.

je t'ai jamais dit
maman
et on était
plutôt amères
on était peut-être
jalouses
ta vie dérobée
ma vie saisie
par la peur
de quoi
je n'en sais rien
je t'ai jamais dit
maman
il nous a fallu
un mot
un geste
et moi
je suis restée là
dans ce geste inachevé
où j'ai vidé ce que
je t'ai jamais dit