The Heavy Outline Before The Storm

The heavy outline before the storm

is putting to bed the petals, thorn

like little worn

the nest got curtains weaving

like the weather's music

on a calm evening

sunday burns the past ashtray

from one future smile to

crying yesterdays

it has fake its way

through sleeping awake

at a lover's ache

movement

clouds are low in their commitment

promising a new day

filled with wonder

their outline always cover

what is about to happen

and the wind make atonement

for all these shapes left apart

dancing dissonant

in the immensity of ignorance

in a eye close from its essence

the transparency of exponential

delight

stretching fingers grabbing mine

who is now evaporating

on a slow movement

the heavy outline before the storm

dancing dissonant

carried me home

Painting: Leonor Fini

Cutting Pieces Off The Moon

My hands hurts from writing thoughts i never send

i ve been cutting the moon

collecting pieces from the face i recall

am wondering in your room

like a ghost perpetually banging on the wall

I never thought i ll remain so much like cutting pieces

you are what hasn’t happen to me yet

while am perpetually the news from yesterday

and in your bed i always lay

my eyelash hurt from blinding myself

constantly

on my true intention

your voice is pulsing, your hands under tension

you love my neck while am collecting pieces

of the bones i hear cracking

melting in nights on sale

listening the rhythms going insane

My mouth ache from shaping words who hurts

cutting some part of the sky i wish

to collect for decorate

your dream’s corner

but you moan like a hooker

a distorted pleasure from

some still open wound

you collect pieces i never meant to offer you

and you box them in pride cause you own the nights

and what we drink are ancient knights

floating perpetually from

one frame to another

you never looked so familiar

than when i forget you, reshaping the taste of

everything who passes through

an obsessive

organ that never stop playing

constant stories who never happened

My feelings hurts from being filled with void

there is no bridge made with broken silence

you walked through desert streets dress up with indifference

while i have a glance on

my outline standing next to you

i don t want you, never did

i was just cutting pieces when you walked through

and now it feels like we are stitched

to yesterday’s sheets

i don t wanna see the morning who lays at my fits

offering is unmade body to my urge to escape from it

from you, from the scissors you took away

cutting pieces of the moon

that s when i think of you

Still: Georges Méliès

Be The Morning You Awake In

The distances are replace by faces

and places by unoccupied memory.

Safe in the moon,conquest idle frame of morning

glory while some others are

tired.

Am tired

Tired to wait

Tired to wait for you

Tired to be awaited by you

While time,exponential cries for these

late yesterdays

yesterday was an unmade bed

yesterday was a dream, a common one we

all already seen

One thousand times

One thousand miles

we were there,on stage, i remember

the room was filled up with moving

walls

Love self suffocate on is rotten sunday's suits.

Storys are cars trapped in endless traffic

the fragility of smiles techni-city

the fragility of smells we remembered

trapped

all the bodys i knew

in a replaced space they never seen before

A reproduction of words we constantly throw

at each other

Oh,i know, dry tears never wrote a letter

and as a matter

of fact

we did never

interact

the distance is replace

by a geometric act

at a smile's corner

We're all maintain in places we made

to pleasure ourselves

and walk over the prisme of

broken songs

Is it not nice?

When all those lights are over?

I love it

I love you

am gone

crawling in

day out

be the morning

you awake in

Picture: Sujimoto

Memory Without History Spin

In the placid environnement

someone used to know how to paint skies

the body is tense, streched by the heat

and everything is unknow

Through the warmth of a

vestal chest

unknown eyes sharing a story

long forgotten

The outline is fragile but strong in is hidden senses

no one descovered it

eyes are lands on a hand who depicted this world

long time ago

Beauty everywhere in the red of

a drink, lips crawling like an upside down strawberry

snowflakes on imagery

the memory without history spin

Painting detail: Hieronymus Bosch

Trapeze

You can sleep with someone and it will bring back the feelings you had for someone else.

You can sleep in the emptyness of your feelings and wake up in the morning with dry tears, bringing perpetually your past in everything who's yet unborn.

You can ask yourself why to some it s more easy to forget you.

You can wonder how this person looks like right this minute.

Then you can find a picture.

An image who is now folklore, due to memory.

You can wonder how you believed that this was the first day of your life.

You can feel like a total imbecile.

You can think it's love.

But it s just memory.

You can think that every new raising sun tear your heart out

and that you will never see again the one you used to know.

You can think that there is less magic now.

As you can think there is still so many things to descover about yourself.

Then,

You can dance in between indifference and missing the past

Nights are not as lonely as they used to be at first.

But your heart might crave for something else, something more

than fake smiles, empty thoughts, factual social fuckings.

You can think that your today dress have geometrical shapes

and that he'll never know it.

You can think you re making songs he'll never hear

and do beautiful things he'll never gives a shit about.

You can think you feel relieve now

but then again, your own memory is your unmoving trapeze.

Picture: source unknown

R.B

I live the world- the other world- like a generalized hysteria

As long as i percieve the world as hostile, i remain linked to it: i am not insane. But, sometimes, with an emptyed bad mood, i no longer own any kind of language: the world is not ''unreal'' but without reality: the real as gone away from it, nowhere, wich leads me to have no more meaning ( no more paradigme) that i can use.

Picture: Stéphane Couturier

The Strangers Will Keep His Secret

From myself to myself

there is a distance now

a room cut off in two

Someone was talking, laughing

he was like a mirror or something

reflective of inner seekings

Was it me the one who dreamed?

Was it my voice i was listening too?

Is he the one who awakes now from my sleep?

My eyes are getting bigger

Over a pillow's trace

printed on a skin

Was it my skin you hide yourself in?

Was it your dream in my words?

No one will ever know what he wants

No one will ever know what he thinks

There are sounds i don t wanna hear

But the smell of nights

spend apart

collide in a last whisper;

''There is a place where we meet''

Without knowing anything

Without be in it or be away from it

Was it us so far away from the scene?

Was it you the red on my chest?

Or was i the reminder scar in yours?

The stranger will keep his secret

Even if i fall asleep every night

in his sleep

Everything is melted in the

quiet noises fading night's sky

throws at us

Was it me the one who dreamed?

Are you the one awakening from my sleep?

Picture: Gordon Matta-Clark