a friend once told me
never ever fall in love with a poet
he'll eat your eyes at breakfast
have your heart cooked for lunch
and in the evening he'll listen
quietly your laments
while drinking a glass full of tears
your tears
now this shit might be true or not
one thing's for certain
i've since written some poems
and always been keeping an empty glass nearby
Desen de Marinela Preoteasa
Dès le moment de ton arrivée chez nous,
Tu as laissé tes ailes devant de la porte
Et tu restes devant mon visage
comme un ange abandonné De Dieu
et ses bienheureux sans problèmes,
Tu restes devant mon visage très heureux,
Tu me regardes désarmé et très charmant,
Quasi tutte le luci della città sono accese e dal bianco immacolato riflette un calore estetico che ammorbidische istantaneo lo sguardo fugace, gli occhi notturni nascosti nel manto della notte come le perle nere che brillano nel solito guscio mirifico in un sorriso goffo e silenzioso.
je me souviens de toi
graffiteur du soleil qui oublia
ces murs amers
tombant des matins indésirables
la mer reste toujours entre nous
derrière cet exil détaillé
faim d’espace liquide insaisissable
telle la forme maligne d’un étrange bonheur
comme ton départ
Wasn’t it further
any flare?
Even rarer
became the shuteye of the starer.
His face averted,
lashing himself for the valedictory staccato
of his will-o’-the-wisp
looked set on the pleasurer.
Longer than an epimyth
had milled about the downslopes
the forthright wayfarer
to harbour his quixotic hope!
preened for his aright scoop the plunderer.
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