c'est l'heure
où je m'entends le mieux avec les bémols
encastrés dans la brume
c'est l'heure
où on ne voit que l'épaule grise du son
lourd de lenteur
son grave plus grave
devant disparaître
ovale, se consume l'heure
imparfaite
glissant de bémol en bémol
il gardait les yeux fermés
rêvant d'autres jours jamais vécus
j’ai tant eu besoin de temps
pour mélanger ensemble
ses nombreux visages
rencontrés dans tous ces coins du monde
où il ne se trouve plus
between two words the voice
loses its balance
glides on its reflection
in corners flashes of shadow
the speakers the writers buried
and in the mouth
the forgotten taste of crushed vowels
Motto: ”My uncle loves me too much…”
Gwendolyn Brooks
I don’t know how old I am
perhaps six or seconds before
in the florist-shop across the river
all vases smell like hell
he is standing in a floating tub
in the middle
a central-piece on a quantity of water
my uncle is nice
my uncle is fishing
I like him a lot
he loves me too much
love is brutal with us
these days
and you know
when you feel my thoughts
hunting yours
in the blue white of the morning
you’re right
we are not
what we fear the most
not even those unhappy dolls
of the 21st century
running in meaningless circles
but rather what we miss
when we use reasonable absurdities
to justify and apease
the horrific need
for each other
when you feel my thoughts
hurting yours
in the red dark of the dusk
and you glow in
those nights
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