it does not end
as it does not begin
is where Infinity meets Forever
and says: how d'you do
in a continuous white noise
with a touch of
Rigolleto
it tickles your pores until your skin blooms into goosebumps
like cherry trees in a suspended Japanese garden
it pushes your face to the edge so you can touch the void
with your eyelash
it pulls you back just when you're about to jump
and stares silently into your dilated pupils
it feeds on you like a hungry beast
and you laugh the laughter of the King
'post-me' poem
poems with you start like the breeze on wild shores
there's salt in each verse and their words taste
like lips smeared in chocolate
before breakfast
poems without you are houses
ripped off at night by thieves
they are the empty souls untouched
by God
tombstones forgotten in winter
*
some poems are poor and some
are rich
some open the door some close it
some are bonnie and clyde
some jane and john doe
and some don't even rhyme
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
en dérive non pas d'objet en objet
mais de couleur en couleur
de noir en blanc de noir en blanc
de noir en noir en noir
matins
un à un
en dérive
non pas d'objet en objet
mais de dérive en dérive
mesurant l'entre-temps
quand la lumière devient
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
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