I push on my vein & watch the spot

I think I’m looking in the wrong direction.

Pressure grows & I can’t see anything happen.

It’s gotta be brewing, beneath my surface.

If I hold down long enough, do you think

I would burst?

Maybe.



*I don’t think that I will.

I have to say I like these hours of morning best,

When the sunlight pours in the cracks of

the open window beside your open bed,

When you’re still lost in the lands of dreams…

There’s a faint happiness in your face,

Eyes closed, you have escaped awareness,

Which I consider your biggest burden,

& I’m happy to see you relieved of this

-

Sure enough, given enough dawn light

you’ll return to your familiar scenes,

Wake up to put on the clothes you wear,

like armor, like a shield to make you stable

-

You don’t have to be like that with me,

I’ll take you the way you are, preferring

the vulnerability & hope in your nakedness,

In my own dreams, I hope to see yours

-

I have to say I like these hours of morning best,

When you slip in & out of the here & now

I’ll rub the sleep from your sullen eyes,

I’ll put my kisses & hands on your body

-

Hoping to keep you in only the places,

Just the spaces, where you can be free.

this    slippery little nonsense

of      mericurial indefinition

is      tracking breaths

&       counting actions muted

-

So     rub some all over

your   deepest wounds

&       watch the scars

start    to fade to nothing

-

Your sweaty palms

are hardly a match

for it’s a gusting force

so let go & just follow

he wondered why her eyes were empty
whenever he was inside of her

she replied,

“when you’re making love to me,
are you praying to the gods

or are you just feasting?”

he knew for certain then,
that he was merely mortal

There’s a new sort of current that runs through his body,
an electric sort of freedom freshly granted, just weeks ago.

Once, he wrapped up the neurosis, folding with great care.
Firmly closed the heavy parcel & then bidding farewell,

he exhaled the parasitic cancers that only ever sought
to eat him alive & made such honest efforts to survive.

quite ironic: that necrosis dying upon a funeral pyre
& then he cut his hair & never felt lighter

Like he could fly
& he did.

*(high above the ceremonial smoke)

Mes mains : ses minuscules trous, par lesquels tout passe à travers,

les anciens déchets oubliés se ramassent autour de mes pieds,

et montrent les plus belles cendres d’une fablière ratée

-

sous la mer, à des milliers de pas, parmi des feus brûlants noyés

cette langue (jamais entendue) me ramène très **** du moment donné,

entre-temps, l’anti-temps et ses camarades se réveillent battus et épuisés

-

la ligne droite vient de s’exprimer en courbes,

faut se plier en deux, en trois, même en quatre

pour aller jusqu’au bout du monde encore

-

puis, le retour.

-

l’horloge sonne.

l’air pèse une tonne
-
english translation

*Tiny holes in my hands,  through which everything slips

the former, forgotten waste collects around my feet,

showcasing the breathtaking ashes of a failed storyteller

-

under the sea, at a thousand paces, among the burning, drowned fires

a stranger’s unknown word takes me to places far from this instant,

Whilst Anti-time et his mates awake battered & dead on their feet

-

the straightest line sings its song in curves,

bend yourself in two, in three, even four

to reach the end of the world once more

-

& then, the return.
-

the clock strikes

the air is thick as hell.