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
The mornings of old times
are dead,
the dream gets on the tram
along with the evening
and it's over.
A sadness on stilts
walks through the town...
I hear it arriving at the corner
grinning to me.
elle restait dans un plat à fruits en verre
crucifiée sur le brin de la pomme
tenait une graine contre son sein à côté de son cœur
avait collé sa joue contre l'humide
était nue et légère telle qu'un os d'oiseau
blanche telle qu'une sous-peau juteuse d'un fruit
prétendait qu'elle dormait aux petites heures
prétendait qu'elle ne ressentait aucune odeur d'huile.
you're sweet but not perfect
or maybe perfectly sweet
although being perfect
is never entirely sweet
thus you are not perfect
but surely sweet
fooling me’nto believing
you're sweetingly perfect
while perfecting the art
of never being sweet
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