lit a candle,
a star to wish upon.

the night draws
the torment of the sea,
waves crashing
on distant shores.

my wish, this tiny twinkle,
rides in fire, flame shaped,

a cry in front of Solomon's
slaughtering sword:

let him live, for his heart is love
and his love shapes the world.

Like a solemn
blossom,
he makes his appearance,
this hindrance,

in my rooftop,
with a flip-flop,
in cherubic
outfit,
oh so tiny
and limy!

This perplexing
cherubim, mixing
beams and a pigment
from a distant
perfection,
shouts 'action!',
up on my rooftop!

I climb the immense
leather
in my underware
- oh what a brilliance
of a ****
homemade!

I say 'salutations,
in this christmas' occasion!',
he moves backward,
the makeshift,
and then forward,
in his heart a lift,
engorged,
in my beauty scorched!

As his host
I had started a toast
but went speachless
finding him flightless,
for a wingless cherubim
was he...!

But it's Christmas,
so in ranges
we had some oranges
and tequila,
for pain healer.

On my rooftop
as a isthmus,
oh gods of Olympus!,
we hear a pop,
a cackle,
stars as sprinkles
of kringles!
- Oh oh, is it Santa?!
- Oh no, it's my Claus...!

i n k l i n e . o u t l i n i n g . i n s u r m o u n t a b l e . t h i r s t . s u b l i m e d . e m o t i o n . c o r r o s i v e l y . m o v i n g . i n . b l a c k . f e e d i n g . o n . w h i t e . a . b l o o d . s t r e a m . v e r s e s . t o . f i n d . y o u . v e r s o . o f . m e . w h o . a . c o n t o u r . a . i n k l i n e .

In wich realm would such heaviness stop?

I chose painkillers to forget it all
- and it did not calm the heart ache.

I came down the stairs, left it all behind
- and did not find me lighter.

I merged with the landscape
- and stillness and cosmogonic beauty
did not lift the weight.

I reached out, shared my bread and my water,
I deleted me and brought back together I and you

- and there, amongst mankind, learning how
to become a giver, my heart found no chains.

grey cold like
sparsed cotton

thickness
of blank walls

preclusion
exclusion

the era before
your smile

the glaciers
are forming

The old man was standing,
still and quite,
his back turned to the sun
as it drowned
in stormy shades of orange and pink.

The old man was still and quite,
staring the wavy distant line
hills and mountains drew.

The warmness of the dying day
spread a scent of hay, exhaling,
a violet blue slowly cloaking
distance and nearness.

As the full moon rose
in close roundness,
brightening contours
in a charcoal outline,
the old man lowered his head
and turned away.

In the early morning,
their feet wet by the dew
glimmering the fields,
giggling children
and women with panniers
swinging in their hands
would come
and harvest
the ripening fragrancy
of strawberry fields.

whispered from a far
fairwell, gentle knight

quedar en silencio

que le traera
si a ella no desea

pianga, pianga

le fleuve ne s'arrête pas

the willow set fire
on itself

three feathers blown

via
via

va via

shattered mirror
eres ella

the spell of the tower

trois plumes
il suo cuore

a willow
drowning

dans le tourbillon

whispered from a far
fairwell, gentle knight

it was but
the waves

haleter de papillons

delusion

whispered from a far
fairwell, gentle knight

she is
nowhere

erronée
ma credente

endless road to
a dock in a bay

back
for a while
to my home town

a sunny place
cradled by a longing
for an ocean

labyrinthic streets
secretively whispering
memories of bygones

streets are crowded

I walk along
anonymously
ghostly

nowhere to go
nothing to do
wandering

and in the crowd

what a singularity

unknown
unrevealed
restrained
castrated

such a similarity

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

Take her sidereal night,
its darkness
and the shimmer in it.

Draw a co-secant,
a beam,
in your full-light trace.

The script is embedded,
it runs on its own:
see?

A pulse,
myriads of whirling suns,
a blaze within her,

a firmament
for a cotillion,
a constellations' jigsaw.

Her night breathes,
in symbiotic pace
with its aural lover

and, within its velvet,
darkness is an indigo,
drunk on orgastic throb.

15.5.2015

[Here lies...]*


Here lies memory.

Kneeling grief,
monologue
cloaking grave stones
loveless hands polished.

Self pity
in automotion.

Solitude.

Who will love us now?
Retelling stories
of  the gone past,
biased truth
to elude
this
emptyness.

ma voix s'étrangle.

les eus toujours,
les crayons de couleurs,
maladroite
en matière de dessin.

carrefour.
quelle sortie prendre?

la mer.
le silence m'apprivoise.

les cris des oiseaux de mer.

mes crayons de couleurs,
maladroits.

~~~
(Translation...)

strangled voice, mine.

always had them,
the colouring pencils,
unskilful
in drawing.

crossroads.
wich way to follow?

the sea.
silence takes hold of me.

the seagulls cry.

my colouring pencils,
unskilful.

country roads
highways
bridges
exhibiting a city in
kinematic frames

to pass
high speed
low speed
lit windows

a kitchen
a tv screen
a bedside lamp
curtains down
nobody's home

cottages
villages
overcrowded districts

dots and dots
each lit window
each turned off light

a story
a me
a us

they

lost
anonimously
as dots
in the distance

forgotten

houston, come in, houston, i told her to stay put, houston!, but she wouldn't listen, houston!, she let it all flood in and it spread all over, houston!, she said she was digging it all but she knew nothing, come in, houston!, i tell her it will all fade away but she says she is making it all flow out, houston!, she is getting out, houston,

this is houston. we hear you, clear and sound. and we don't give a ****.

the way you are
yourself

helplessly
definitely

self.made.fulness

although.­fulness.less

whatever.ish

a condition for disjunction
an empty land on a delusional scape
a void in a vertigo vortex

eulogy on past future tense

search
for utopia

a time
a place
to be

unconditionnaly

deleting
deluting
dispeling
a scattered voice

to thrive
groping
along the blind  alley
leading
nowhere

you
won't be home
for christmas

nor you will
any other day.

a fireplace
on hold,

awaiting,

for a bard's song.

chords of a time
of horizons
of birds and trees standing
of walks and houses in ruins
of wishes offered away.

reminiscent.
lingering.

even if you will not.

dystopian land,
the kingdom
of selffullness service,

the place
to grow
heroic egos

or

cursings
on regrets.

service
by one's pleasure.

instantaneous and soluble,
for reality dissolution.

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).

Took my seat as usually, an old broken
puppet in a shelf, left alone, staring around.

And this girl is walking and now she seats
right in front of me.

Renaissance white blouse.
Brown almond soft skin.
Wet red lips.

She looks right into my eyes.

We smile.
No.
We laugh. Openly.

If I had lean towards her
we would have kissed.

I can feel her lips,
I am sure
she would taste
like cherries,
her skin fresh
as a breeze
smoothly warmed
on my leaning.

We should have kissed.

If I wasn’t I.

And I shiver,
leaving the train
thinking of her
all this time after.

try on some words,
little girl

take a match,
check the hollow

put on those words,
silly girl

play the swan,
and its final chant

echo the words,
poor girl

dye the dark
and let go

of it all
and the words

Entering survival mode.

Feed upon your remaining heart.
Attention:
use leftovers parsimoniously.

Take that one everlasting memory.

Stage a friend, a dearest one.

Plunge into poetry.

Take a deep breath.

Remember all the words
in a myriad of fairy worlds.

Acknowledge:
nothing left to say.

Acknowledge:
no one in the distance.

Exit survival mode.

Quijote and Dulcinea
of fairy love dreams,
concealed brave heart,
unrevealed raving beauty,

I stare at my shadow
and I see you,
me, Dulcinea,
me, Quijote,

and I blame the ingenious
of this shadow play
for in the truthful sun light
we are naked and alone.

Flawless,
seamless,
the uselessness.

Boomeranging.
Rummaging
the fossilisation.

Static.

Willingness?

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.

a ghostly fog
wraps the night

- maybe spilled,
a full moon,
for the greyish light.

sometimes,
i wake up
and,
in the dark,
my body knows
- oh so exactly -
the place of
a once upon a time
home.

a hall way,
the switch,
each corner,
the places to everything.

umbilical chord
to a dead time.

isla magica,
schizogonic.

acidity
in purple orange

- passion fruit.

days' rock.

heavier, as
Sisyphus' one.

i'll go to sleep,
now.

please.

[for Joe Cole's challenge, Imagination/ever changing clouds]*

How can we endure reality,
that lukewarm dullness,
if we can fly our hearts
in nimbus of paroxysm?

How can reality endure us,
with our wispy layers
of heaped, uneasy, pain,
our eyes in sighs of blue?

How can reality cloud the real,
the true perfection of rain
and the hail to a rainbow,
that we - uncaped heroes - see?

yeah you did
and now you don't
'cause this furry one
pulled the carpet
on the oldie and her
smashing umbrella
and finally
took his revenge
even texted it in 140 plain
characters or less
yeah i ate the tweety
and it made me burp but
this putty tat taught the tage
#thehellwiththebirdie

or it breaks you,
life,
so they say,
this or that,
not both.

life?

it makes you
breakable,
grindeable,
unmaked
in maked up,
washable,
faded faces.

it makes you
unbreakable
broken-born ones,
blended
into crepuscules,
bent rainbows
to the absence of light.

[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.

Edges.

This.

A glissando
on abyss.

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.

for every time
we fail to see
ourselves

and every time
we failed to see
the other selves

for every self paced
story the fool
believes to be true

and for every
thorn we pull
and again hatch

and for this
incompleteness
we drink

into drunkenness
by the fire
of red beard bards

i'd carry your dreams
inspire you with visions of unseen
expire in the play of your hands

if only you'd believe my existence

an old fishermen village

narrow streets
unaware of time
asleep in the sun

ancient presence
of fishermen
and their nets
women seeking
the horizon
eyes narrowed in distress

ghostly presence

i stayed for hours
the tide flood in
violently
and went low
violently

i stayed
sat still
and watched
the clock mechanism
a gear
moving the earth
to the right
moving the sun
to the left
to sink it all
colours and light

and the fishermen
lit their pipes
and thought of
their women
and their warmeness

ghostly presence

an old deserted village
of dead fishermen
and their drowned women
the wreck of it all
in the haunting growl
of a nocturne sea

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.

[for Ellie's book poem challenge]*

In last,
the brat
pointed
to the slate,
to the grid
chalked there.

"And then
he found a way out
of the maze!",
he said,

and as he spoke
he erased a line
in that last square.

He smiled,
toothless,
to his best friend:

now
both of them
had it wrong
but that cage
of loneliness
was open wide
- at last!

[personal definition based upon a study case of one]
1. Self-commitment to silence one’s heart; often described as ‘experiencing life holding your breath’ or ‘seeing the world as if you were on a river bottom’; main symptomes: being able to interact but refusing proximity .
2. Condition found after one’s sudden awaken from a long period of self inflicted cataleptic narcosis, by a singular human touch, and subsequently being unexpectedly left in the wide; main symptomes: non-stop spinning and sprinting in all directions; aphasia and forgetfulness of words; general deeply cultivated indifference beneath high level of external activity in order to endure the understanding of everything as delusional; slow return into narcotic catalepsis, mainly through smothering the heart beat.
Notes
1. Predisposition for the syndrome: perception of a flaw disabling wholeness; intrinsic tendance to flee from others when reality does not match one’s pre-vision; obsessive phobia of halves of nothing.
2. Treatment: unknown; progress shown under some conditions did not linger.
3. Survival rate: not appliable.

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.

[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.

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?

Tonight,
my sweet boy
left.

My baby boy.

Helped his birth.
Kissed every inch
of his growth.
Teached him
every taste and texture and smell.
His hand in my throat
to articulate every sound.
Made him giggle
the very first time.

My baby boy.

All the stories,
all the words.
'You are my intelligence',
he wrote once,
age five.

My sweet boy.

He left.
As he should,
to live with his mother.

I have stayed for him.

Now,
for whom
would I stay?

There is nothing
left for me
to wish for.

Maybe
he will think of me
and smile.

[14/07/14]

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?

An horizon,
water coloured
by an impossibility;

the wish
i promised
not to wish;

a strength,
like a faith
in mankind;

my hands,
to shelter
broken wings:

nothing more
and all a nothing,
ethereal, like a heart.

planted
some seeds
- sunflowers.

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

don't know why
i turn to darkness.