sunny springlike afternoon

birthday time almost

weekends make me throw up

easier going to work than here

silence and mourn for yesterday's feast

nobodyness attributes

that pseudonym gets friendly hi's

why can't i?

glacial era in a sunny springlike afternoon

really have to go out in the sun

older.

(not elder)

still.

older.

my kingdom
for your kiss.

1.* *Ship wrecking

A heart, oh my, thrown out to die,
To watch it sink in tide high...!
To pleas of such ink
can I, no, not cling:
for cleared of hearts can again die?

2. Flaming love

A ring of fire, poets say, high
burning flames. Yeah, all the sigh,
the blinded tears shred,
a teddy's hug can ted;
a waft of shy: then (classy!), fire is high!

3. Darkest night

A slashing light, sadness is, not a night!
A dark hour's a time to rise might
of will: hushed ghosts, all
a dreamy mind make crawl!
A rest can not find sadness in raw light!

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.

planted
some seeds
- sunflowers.

watch them now
in the morning:
bright yellow,
blue skies.

don't know why
i turn to darkness.

the girl is sitting
in the door step
in the back of the house

pans in the kitchen
melting caramel scent
smothered voices
in the old radio

kids are playing
bikes and dolls

a hammer
an electric buzz
men repairing
or building

the girl is still

don't move
don't talk
don't dare

she accepted the fear

she doesn't know
no one is
holding her back

[explicit; or whatever]*

I found her there,
in between the red maple trees,
her hand gently disturbing
the water and the frogs
in the darkness of the pound.

I saw her there,
a sun beam in her hair,
the chill awakening her *******,
her hands concealing her ******,
her eyes watering me, arose.

I left her there,
upon a bed of red leaves,
her thighs embracing her warmness,
her breath softly paced down,
her taste in my tongue, watered still.

sand castles
& autumn leaves,
bygones
on yester
& days never to come

- none of that.

but
to grow back
where to
you never belonged,

wordless,

'cause you see it
clearly, now,

- that forgettable,
erasable you.
deleteable,
not delectable.

oh terminators
of seek and hope...

wind and fear,
wind and fear!

la sècheresse.
comme au désert.

thirsty.
thirsty!

drawn in distance,
a blurred spot.

yet i am
the wilderness itself,

a rush of light
across the dunes,

a whirl of singing sand.
and you know nothing.

Lit me up, yes he did, in colour,
all shinny, smile up, in collar.
So he did, lit me up,
hanged up, candle tree!
Short circuit, he flashed, end of war.

She watched the guild
from afar, its yeast of unrest.
In her nomade pace

she wandered to choose
the wind and a river.
Self exiled

from edenic insights,
her quest was love immunity.
In a make believe sortilege,

she tattered her red laces
and marionnetted a will.
Rain fell: she was but a pretender.

white roses
dyed in loss
roses of white
for bygones
thorned white
of the absence
doomed memories
like rose petals

the kids in the graveyard
revisiting the childhood
of their friend
in their attained manhood

one's death is but a narrative in others' life

this?
far too unsuitable to be part of a story
leaching out blind whiteness from all pieces
no more thriving to call upon words

enough.

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.

À nouveau
je marche
les yeux baissés
je me cache

À nouveau
je demeure
immobile
au bord du fleuve

Cette fois
je suis sûre
de ce que je refuse

Cette fois
je connais
le goût
de l'horizon

Et à nouveau
je le refuse.

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?

Early light in gold,
fresh hay in the dew gloss:
teardrop aquarelle,
outlining our hands' depart
as, still, i watch your sleep, quiet.

aligning words
and kindled fireflies
as digging for a heart

Death.
No clothes' tearing,
no hair pulling,
no howling mourners.

Modern days' life and death.
A tramway ride.
You jump out,
willingly,
pushed,
surprised,
whatever
- you just jump out.

A few will stare,
for a moment,
to see you vanishing,
back then.

The ride continues.
All empty spaces
are bridged.
Emptiness is not
politically correct.

[a poem on poetry and on writing; dedicated to af]*

Sometimes,
a noisy silence,
like hunger,
fulfills me.

Those times,
I seat in a porch,
in the bluish mist of dawn
or in the rust of falling skies,

and I wander,
looking at thousands of words
floating in my porch,
dancing in a slight breeze,
like a thousand glassy hummingbirds.

Charmed,
I pick one
and another
and suddenly
in a swirl
an all flock
gathers
and its brilliance
draws what
I do not know.

Strange realms
rise
as the swirl of wings
fades away.
I enter these new worlds
and
I see.

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.

Unsuitable,
they declared,
and then
banished her.

Exiled to silence,
inhabitating
the moisture
of bluish mists,
she unknitted
her thoughts
and let them go.

We all saw it,
that holograph,
ribbons
colourfully bending
in thin air.

You can hear me, can't you?
can't you
I want you to be like this. See?
see
No, you do not want that.
that
Who am I? Who am I?
i
You'll never get there, never!
never
Just be quiet, really!
really
You're such a mess. You'll never be loved!
*loved

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

You love me?
You loved me not.

A white wall,
a shadow,
a swing.

You love me?
You loved me not.

Red petals
whiped into the white.

Ripped chest,
open wide.

Winning frown,
she weeps not:

See?
You loved me not.

In the steamed mirror,
I looked my mother in the eyes:
*well, hello there, what?,
yeah, we did it,
messed it all up again."

Vacant.
An empty house.
Seldom glimpsed.
Unsuitable.
Ineligible for love.

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)

Such a fascination!
A line or less
and the story was done,
we'd leave the cinema
with dreamy eyes,
maybe a sense of relieve
for exiting that parallel world.

We'd step fiercely,
a heroe to be,
can't you see?,
underneath the costume.

But then the end
comes in front of us,
its symphonical pomp
is a seed of fear
and we grow a human size,
a small one.

A cheap tape and the line
stutters the end the end the end.
One by one, all characters
in our own story
desert the scene and
we roam in a parallel world
of unfamiliar faces
where memories lack of proof.

There we stand or not so,
heroes of loss, on our own,
and a line or less, the end,
overlaps a swirl
of autumn leaves.

(You may all leave, now:
there are no credits
in one-man-size productions.)

[explicit, immature or whatever]*

remember, sweetie, that time
i was crying i couldn't stop

you undressed me
as the steam concealed all mirrors
and the burbles echoed my sobbing

hush, hush, baby girl*, whispered
the milky softness of your hands
pouring shimmerly on my shoulder
washing away my tears
rising a tide from my thighs to
my ******* my *******
geminally arosing in your palms
your hands your polished nails your mouth
me dripping tepidly in your shivering

then, sweetie, then, remember,
and again, my fair lady, lay me within the play
shatter all mirrors and free this starry night

the unwise sigh in my eyes dyes the skies

Leash a leech,
drill a leak,
bleed and bleach!

Who creeps,
who sneakes?
Ask to sink,
fake a faint?

Dump it,
the stamp!

Lives lively
sigh the high:
stirs and swirls,
a stream,
a blood refill.

i wake up

a wings' flicking,
a gentleness
of waves
crashing far,
like the wind
beyond the window

i wake up

all stolen away,
every shade,
every string,
every crimp,
flattened
- fiat lux untold

i wake up

it looks the same
fear, too, is the same
what is this lacking?
what am i missing?
a moss echoes
in a violence of tides

i wake up

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).

feverish, are we?,
don't panic, sweetie,
it's just a warmy bath,
here we go,
salty, right?,
and spicy,
yummy

The fall of the night.

A walk,
shades of fog,
scents of burning woods.

Winter is coming,
yes.

In my heart,
not a single line.

My singularity,
why have you deserted it?

Brushes of red goldness
devoured by a sky of dark.

my whole life
i lived here:

this shallow wind,
folding,
unfolding
wavy dunes,

an elusive
bloom
of sandy
swirls.

nights'dark
always drowns
in the silver
of glowing moons.

the warmth of days?

i do keep
saving it,

in bottles,

lost to
no longer
known address,

with its fireflies inside.

Who cares?

A daily hunger
that doesn't show.

Who cares?

A daily trip into that gag,
banished by reproach.

Who cares?

A daily path of reach
and retreat, retreat.

Who cares?

Who'd notice
if I'd not be there?

I don't care.

I've rested my case
and refuse to declaim.

old town center

cobbled streets

my presence echoing

in the temple

walking the aisle

stepping on faded graves
of knights and earls

left candles burning

for the ghosts in my history

a sill & a window,
the frame.
silly hold!,
for a feather's halo,
for a hole's sake.

unpacked.
standing.
frozen threshold.
night has dawned
to feast on light.

silence reverberates.
autophagically.
circularly.
time over time.

there's nothing to life
that death knows not.

Yep,
that's me,
all right.

Carving
my heart:
Do remember.
Do not trust.
Do not hand it.
Erase it.
Let it go.
Never mind.

Then -
whenever it gets to be -
it's like
after a bad night sleep:
everything just got
under a darkner
shade of grey.

Yep.
Pain killer.
Like in
life choker.

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.

a willow
however
stands

shallow waters

pebble stones
scattered

all the words

a cadency
of rusty hinges
hanged doors

sour, the dam

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

If a friend
would have me,
I'd be capable of loving
and I'd look no more
for a back door.

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

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.

oh yes,
said the painter,
i've had
a bird phase,
but the pane
was a blur.
and the canvas,
one shade of white,
that's my drill
on blind wings.

Life.

Life?

Time drifter.

And then,
then
- this.

**** it.

I am not fit for it.
I know I am not.

I can't breathe.

I can't breathe
either way.

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