The river flows
and giggles.

Sails wide unfurl,
the man in the bow
allows the horizon
to be born in his eyes.

In the man's hands
there is a land,
a shore,
for him to name.

The river flows  
and giggles.

A willow in a sand bank
is no geography,
only a choreography
in the amphitheater.

The river giggles
and flees, in its flow.

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.

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.

aligning words
and kindled fireflies
as digging for a heart

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.

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

planted
some seeds
- sunflowers.

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

don't know why
i turn to darkness.

Je me baladais
hasardeuse
et soudain
dans la vitre
je ne l'ai pas reconnue.

Qu'il m'a fait mal
de voir ses yeux cernés,
ses gestes suspendus
par une hésitation mortelle.

Un mot à elle
suffirait à allumer
des orages,
son rire
à éclabousser les murs,
l'étendre de ses mains
à changer les routes.

Pourquoi
elle tait sa voix
et tâtonne, sombre,
l'ombre de soi-même?

Ne se méconnaît-elle pas,
en se regardant
dans cette vitre?

~~~
The stranger

I was walking
haphazardly
and, all of a sudden,
on the window glass,
I did not recognize her.

How painfull it was
to see the dark circles in her eyes,
her gesture held
by a deadly hesitance.

A word from her
would light up storms,
her laughter
would make walls crumble,
a movement of her hands
would change all the roads.

Why does she silent
her voice
and gropes, groomy,
her own shadow?

Can she be unknown to herself,
looking at herself
in this window glass?

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.

1.
stirring the coffee.
caffeine and tears.

2.
ragged by his weighty hands
ravaged

3.
daymare on countermelody
cushioned lava mumbling

4.
feverish harmonic echoes
of dying forevers

5.
a smoke. the dark.
he stumbles.

6.
sipping the coffee.
nodding: dark alley.

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.

[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.

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.

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.

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?

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

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

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.

the unwise sigh in my eyes dyes the skies

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.

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.

[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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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)

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...

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.)

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

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

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.

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

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.

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).

Daddy's little girl
is dancing in the yard.
Daddy, look at me.
Dad is long dead, now.
I am dancing, she says.
She spins, clamsy,
pirouettes,
bows,
pas de deux by a single.
Daddy, look.
Skies are wide blue
and the girl is spinning,
the globe under her feet
goes round and round,
faster and faster
and then
she jumps
to the other side of the moon,
unseen darkness in blue light.
Daddy, I am sorry,
I will dance no more.

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.

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

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

subway

crowded
half empty
empty
and again

all day long

took every direction

as if
i too
had a destination

wherever to

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.

It was a hollow
- like a starvation
unawarely eerie -

and then...

To be handed
words,
their mellow core,
a mouthfeel like a heartcoating:

a moisture in the desert sand,
this withering height of a not-for-me-love.

older.

(not elder)

still.

older.

my kingdom
for your kiss.

The plateau.
A stripped upland,
growing glaring facades
and somber alleys.

And the plain.
Unfolded canevas,
ripples in shades of green,
bursting in red and brown soil.
There, and there,
shattered puddles of sky,
anchoring clouds to the ground.
And, further, so far,
a mirage of an ocean.

A plateau.
For staging a fantasy on the run
to realms of possible.

none of it
is meant
the way
it feels,
it makes
me feel.

the real thing?
but a cold dish.

i hate emptiness.

time to move.
void is always
vacant.

What should I do?

He doesn't have a clue.
He doesn't give a ****.

Shall I tear in pieces?,
bleed my hearted will out?

Too **** sick and tired of that.

I choose...
Las Vegas' lights kind,
a singing lesson,
a vibrant red
to dismiss greyness,
this shadow in my eyes.

I choose...
to feel it all piercing me
and yet to dance

(finally!)

              and so

I call upon
my african soul
and summon
a storm.

There.