when you do what you do
inside you it’s a who
reaching out black tree branches
thru your lungs and your eyes
in a white sterling darkness
neither dead nor alive
twisting morrow and bone
like a screw
when you do what you do
on her back spreading legs
raping death stilling breath
you become almost true
to the old silent ghost
open wings without feathers
nightingale in a worm
what is this tip toe dance I’m doing
around a purple room
without me moving a limb?
this pursing of lips and
imaginary fingers catching their kiss
at the other end
Et pourtant il disait quelque chose.
Il parlait. On se parlait. Ses mots étaient de plus
en plus rares.
Il parle. La nuit tombe d'un mot à l'autre, de
syllabe en syllabe.
Il voit les objets. les couleurs disparaître,
s'écouler dans leurs ombres. Il les regarde
s'effacer, il les regarde de plus en plus
intensément.
Seul le blanc résiste au noir.
Qui s'amasse.
Jusqu'où
sometimes we wander for days
inside the ruins of myself
like an old ragtag band
the gardens where white boats still float upside down
in the clouds of your eyes
we dig for the last broken piece of your heart
in the magical town
in the beautiful mines
only to get lost and discover the ruby
was stolen in another century
by another indiana jones
I guess in the end I have learned to accept
to come back
with just only a handful of shards
and your smile
in my old ruined shack
we don’t exist
we just try
looking thru the thick bottle bottom glass
we float inside loneliness
like ephemerides
please don’t think of us
don’t even mention us during dinner
or during those long hours of idle talk
when rain never stops
and the dreams are grey
nobody knows our plan
but we try
to escape the dictionary
and the perpetual tendency
to exist
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