word for word I’m writing my book,
making my costumes and playing me
the best I can
I think I am rather good
remembering all those lines that could
have once made a difference
when sunsets felt real,
beyond their damaged magnetic fields
I sang, I danced, I concurred
and when my sword bent from its knees
and I couldn't cry any more
I walked on burning coal through the icy rain
to embrace the forgotten
I hate cars passing
under my window like sea crabs
running thru rain
the wind brings familiar smells
from the old restaurant
across the street
my brain craves snow
I stare at the phone in vain
no rings this evening no soul
nobody knows I’m here
but the brown ageless cat
on my couch
exquisitely ignoring me
my hands are freezing
unlike the river flowing through me
pebbles and lava
fire and hell
sliding from one heart chamber
to the next
a snake
melting all that I am
in its way
my hands are freezing
you hold them
too tight perhaps
and
I can’t stop thinking
that there’s nothing
colder
than my hands
right now
but your gaze
"Oublier en avant" - Ed Jacques Bremond, France, 2002
les mythes
commes les pierres
quelques lettres non déchiffrées
sèchant au soleil
je tourne la tête
ce mot
- disparu
au coeur de la pierre
la plus dense obscurité
le pouls des pierres
l'instant qui rend
insupportable la cohésion
de la matière:
les grains de sable sont nés
ayant oublié l'unité de la pierre
passe
le spasme de la pierre
passe
l'onde
indolente
de l'heure
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