Real estate




There would have been a vegetable garden
Small, humble and disappointments and surprises
Around the paths
There would have been hens, three
Each with a name
And feathers a little dull
They would have followed me
Like their shadow
I would have taught them to tell time
And to paint their eggs
There would have been gourmet furies
Refined digestions
The evening sounds would have been cushioned by the snow
There would have been almost sleepless nights
Saturated with disbelief
Often
There would have been what I would have placed in the hands
Of your possibility
A difference
There would have been the certainty
That your words on the world
Would soothe my fever
That your distance a little frosty
Would offer to me the benefits of a vernal purgative
When the toxic effluvia of villainies choke






June 2016





Relapse




Coming from the insomnias in the end of humid meadows
The ingenious behind, the erasement, the meticulous effort
Suddenly vain


A blow on the back of the neck of the sacrificed time
With the greedy hands of an obsession
By surprise, the naked grief


Something animal with no possible forgiveness
An overflowing idea, an absolute gap
On the anxiety's edge of the enamoured
The relapse



June 2016








Yesterday




It is yesterday for ten years
The arms of memories rather warm around the neck
As if we knew for ever
The time is a swizzel, overrated
So are the distances

It was yesterday but not to morrow
Strange taste for hazardous flights
Scattered by the turbulence
The North is made to be lost
And with it the dignity of choice

It is yesterday, today
Since that day that was counted
When I believed all could be given
Without being able to want and after
What can we see when we don't know where to look?

It's always yesterday
Not much tomorrow
In the decade lost for so little
A great, great, great inclination
Covering the flabbiness of time





June 2016


Pealing

  


With the nails of the passing hours
I peel your presence
Remove your fibers
That only let a few filaments clinging to my synapses
You don't sizzle anymore where I have waited
I hardly believe it
In this strange deafness
That tones down even the protest of absence
The space isn't empty
But it is mute
Maybe I lose you
I'm afraid
In all its lack of substance, maybe
Forgetting is like a slow death







June 2016










What each can do




The step is uncertain, renewed on rails which traces you cannot see
About approximation as duty
It's strange, the unknown
Clinging to businesses that seem obsolete
The nose looking for air
No offered lines to the meanders of the apocalypse

Work yourself up, devastate yourself up, move yourself up!
Radically vague
At the best you can, float!
The show is a source of chronic nausea
Close your eyes to the razors of horror
Weep inside of a bottomless sadness, do not expect anything

The love of yours and theirs, you look at it catching fire
Indistinct under the boos of the crowd
The mass panics, disappear!
You hold the handkerchief of reason tight as the buoys of your old dreams
Tight around the nostrils of your understanding
Tilted, subject to ineradicable rebellions

Do your work at best, probing the limits of your grace
Without hope for to morrow's term
Wisdom has melted under envy's drippings
You know the vile is tied to redemption
And it is hiding it as its secret cancer


Do your best
Do your best
Do your  best
Don't hope






January 2016



Back to the source



Might therefore the night become clear
The gestures of departure without any colliding
Might there be only the finding of mentholated air in the halls
And their gleaming elevators
To, it's almost a silence
To have the systole's beatings finally listening to me?
No show to inaugurate
Except the one of my ephemeral game
No evidence to give
On my way to subsist while bending
No exaltation
Nor, is it what is missing?
When everything is simply shaping itself up as exciting?



I come to a country where once I thought I was losing my sap
Dropped here and there on the platforms of a bodiless awaiting
A country where the man was dark and stiff
Up against the question asked to my fate
Writing it without me and leaving me tearing its page to pieces
With my teeth
I return back to where I brandished the alien
As a weapon against oblivion and boredom to exist
My quest for a support has become mild
And with it the grip of the other
The awakening was endless
Plotting a line on the cacophony of the city
I now draw only silent shadows






New York minus five days
 December 2015








Bite into an apple








The Nothern Atlantic calls and its tongue
New York will open her arms and stangle me
Zealous fires found back
Retaliation against oblivion
Maundering, getting lost
Religion of the roaming
Countlessly going away
Winter waits for me and so does its danse












December 2015

The trip in a few weeks