there are unhappy people,
particles of their mind,
slaves to their desires

people who hate roses
because they bloom in
all seasons,
they hate them because
they are afraid of being
reborn
they are afraid
of death
with its acidic
lips,

they fight
the rest of society,
because their unhappiness
thrives from
environmental
misgivings,

but my unhappiness is entirely
my own,
my vices,
the slow errosion
of my mind,
who do I take arms against?
myself?

it's not society,  it's you isn't it?

because I
was so weak,
I felt wounded
by happiness alone,

because things
that tasted sweet,
always taste bitter in
my mouth.

everyone,
like corpses,
depraved of life,

of money

and of easy death.
tu es venu
et ensuite tu es parti
                                   (you came,
                                             you left)

et pourtant les arbres se balancent encore,
et l'été respire
                              (and yet the trees still sway,
                                     and summer still comes)

tout ce qui reste est un étrange souvenir,
comme un rêve comme un
cyclope dans la nuit
                                              (all that remains is a strange longing,
                                                  memori­es that rose like cyclops in the
                                                                ­                               night)
les trappes du désir, les trous noirs
de nos âmes aiguisées                              
                         ­                                (the trapdoors of desire,
                                                         ­    the black-holes of our sharpened
                                                                ­                              souls)

si vous pouviez être dieu, et revenir - seulement
pour un moment, pour me dire que j'avais raison,
alors je ferais de vos mots mon épitaphe
                                                        ­              
                                                  ­         (if you could be god, and
               come back - if only for a moment, to tell me I was right,
                                      then I would make your words my epitaph)

mon amant violacé, comme une fleur
qui découle
bulboulement de votre tige,
vous avez mangé toute
la chapelure,
alors comment
vais-je vous retrouver?

                                                     ­    (my purpled lover, like  a
                                               bulbous flower protruding from it's
                                                                ­                                  stem,
                         ­                     you have eaten all the breadcrumbs,
                                                    ­so how will I find you again?)

et même si tu es passé
comme un
fantôme du soir,
nos âmes
avaient touché
et pour le premier
le temps que je pouvais voir les étoiles
aux yeux des autres.
                                                        (­ even if you had disappeared like
                                                                ­    an evening ghost,
                                                          ­            our souls had touched,
                                                        ­                      and for the first time
                                     I could see the stars in other  peoples' eyes)
They offered  Paris  gifts: Hera said if she were chosen fairest of all women, she would make him king of all men; Athena promised him victory in war; and Aphrodite promised him Helene in marriage. So he chose Aphrodite.
during the war
my neighbour,

(who owns Watson
Pharmaceuticals)
made seven
thousand pills
and popped
them
into the warm
lips of salivating dogs,

who died

unknowingly in
the
streets and around
corners,

and my
gentle little
uncle,
could tell and
did tell
each ear
what we were
fighting for,
as he took his cane
to mark

you from

i,

we are two borders

"he could say"

but he didn't,

my aunt made
mittens
and scarfs
"for the soldiers"
she would say
her eyes
of fanatical want,
hundreds
of scarfs
-- until she created for herself
a much painful hunch,

my aunt-the-hunchback,

and my father
would whisper
about the w a  r

he hoped,
hopingly that
I would

die
like a brave
pioneer
of sweltering europe,
an honour,
if only he could, he would, he couldn't but if he could
he would and if only he could -- he would say

like most white men,
his heart
was too much salt

for my eyes,

and then

I would go lay over
the hill

and dream of

you,

powder blue.
just a little thing for the opioid crisis.
So I continue to laugh
and to cry
and to pretend
that the
flowers were beautiful in
the spring
like a bipolaric

I feel the sun
on my back
scorching it’s existence
tearing at skin cells
like the stares of the
people in their cars


I live

for if I die

my mother’s tears will shame me.
My grandpa passed away and I found this poem inside one of his closets, translated from French.
there once was a king,
with eyes like the sea,
pondering time beneath
an age old tree,
looking into a river,
checking the pilings
of his straight white teeth,

and upon this river,
with his wallowings
and tea,
there came a voice,
so soft and pristine,
"are you lost, oh master of the land?"

that at first glance he
took,
a beautiful reflection,
submerged in the brook,

"Oh why yes I am!"

he said,
with stars in his eyes,
and a blush for the books,

and he told the reflection
of his castles and his
wealth,
the will to die,
and the catalysts of
good health,
the drudgery and the liers,
the beauty of its spires!

and the reflection spoke softly,
it spoke of desire,
and it moved
as one,
laughing,
making fun,
greedily drinking words
for the gin of the sun,

"my home -too- is a beauty,
oh you would love it my dear!"

said the reflection,
with eyes so clear,
and it spoke of the darkness,
the bleakness too,
the ruined ships,
and the deep inky blue,

and the king's fear grew,
with his hand on his chin,
such long reaching corals,
and jellyfish too,
dimmed the desire to
submerge into such
bluish hues,

but the two lovers,
how tragic!
for how could they
say,
three words that belonged
to the shadows of yesterday?
and how could they unite
the sea and the land,
and prove their love in
the eyes of god's man?

One was all air,
and the other water,
a sacrificial stone,
and sheep for the slaughter,

"Oh love, such beauty, with eyes
so fair, the owner of my heart,
for you I will sacrifice air!"


and the reflection smiled back,
"of that you you must swear."

So the king in the shade,
caressed each grassy blade,
and  planned
and planned,
how to unite
the sea and the land,

and finally the king
sat up in horray,
for he would be the victor
of this fine day,
so he took down
a fine willow
and built a boat,
so his love,
his life would
forever be close
to his grand castle,
and its green
curtained tassels,

but the king had
an uncle,
as bony as could be,
who lusted for the throne,
found the king
sitting next to the sea,
and the king was drowned
before he could moan,
  there
             he bobbed,
and  the king   died
alone,


there once was a king,
who lays under the sea,
with blank blank
eyes,
and a throat full
of seaweed,
yellowing skin,
as fair as could be,
reaching out
for the world,
through the
abyss of the deep.
My grandpa always told me this 'fairytale', gave me nightmares for years to come.
Stuff my body,
each crevice with the flowers
of your pity,
so wherever I may
go,
with my hands
shaking and
my weary eyes,
may these words
not seem like burdens

like catching the eye of
a stranger,
to catch heat in someone's
gaze,
who evaluate
the facial structures
of chance,
and marvel at natural
genetics,
for if chance,
only chance,
has been merciful
to behold in you
outer beauty,
you will not suffer
the meager
words of their psalms

and if it is sins that
hold me in chains,
than let the weight
be too much to bear,
so I might have the humbleness
to turn to god,
for the world
as I saw it,
was as if the painter
had splattered
ink instead of art,
what a disaster
I fear it more
than the  unanalysed life,
I fear it more
as I see hatred
like infected zits
pop underneath
the prodding
of your bandaged guilt
-- I call for
eyes,

you turned
feelings into theatre,
you turned your
words into syrup,
the audience
fed off hope that
you fuelled with empty
empty
empty words,
so empty
and barren,
but they were sweet,
like apples at the top
of the tree,
untouchable

but you see there
is a sea in people,
there is a sea ,
a tide in the soul,
of untamed wildness,
and threads that connected
nations upon our arms,
these words that made your
mind short circuit,


our only mistake is
that we looked for love
at the feet of those
that taught us how
to hate,

and looked for words
that only touched the surface,
when what we
really wanted
was to plunge into the
deepest darkest
parts of the
sea.
Humankind's aspiration for freedom cannot be controlled by any system. Any effort to destroy this aspiration becomes self-defeated within history. We witness this happening within our times.

The same passion for freedom burning like a flame in the depths of humankind gave birth to the great French Revolution. And then in the beginning of this century, we watched the tumbling of the Tsarist regime that had become a symbol of terror and tyranny.

But whatever systems have been built up on the ruins of [systems like] Tsarism, have not succeeded in fully preserving and understanding the rush and aspiration of human freedom. All these massive artifices show cracks. What an irony of our times that the same people who had raised our ancestors' flag of freedom, became the murderers of freedom.
fin
And I fell in love
With life,
the stage, the act,
the verses,
the depression,
and those three men
who stood at the end
waiting for anything to happen,
who’s life’s purpose was to
wait for someone who had
yet to arrive,
a master dependent on his slave,
that I forgot that the curtain
was calling,
and I would be dragged back
from my performance,
from the musings
and clamour
into the backdrop
where I would disappear
like the actors before me
who the playwright
had crossed out
with his bejewelled hand,
I met strangers
and forgot names,
I cried before the audience,
they took it as satire
and laughed at my misery,
I stumbled and fell before
the feet of my critics,
in this platonic chaos
theory,
I savoured
time and I chased
apocryphal love,
-- let the curtains
fall and death
be my consanguinity.
En attendant Godot (Waiting for Godot) is one of my favourite literary pieces, it's gotten me through a lot of rough patches in life.
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