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

Kalte

She sweeps across the dark sky,

and in her wake, the galaxies,planets,moons,stars and magic are born.

My Own Idle Idaho

We re getting back in here to die for our inner pain and to shout out loud our love.

The rain is falling,the rain is falling,the rain is falling, you are falling, you are falling,you are falling,i am falling,i am falling,i am falling,we used to fell we used to failed.

The sculpture of the words-drop,dark of inner preservation, and lies in a prefered order; the rain is falling grey,the eyes are closed and with clouds.

You gotta be a genuis, you gotta be a genuis,we're the life holding death, the cristal laugh who's left, on the desert's up and down road behind this place called home.

We re into the limitation of classic view,a cinematic sentence who can turn old to new, piceses in pieces your arrow made them blew.

Can i comb your hair?Can i comb your hair?Can i breath your hair? The sky is indifferent,whether you clame and scream: LIGHT ON ME NOW! Something is reacting,the wind, the wind, the wind,call yourself as much as you like, compassion is vulnerable.

No promesses, no promesses,no process, keep safe your dream,packed there,craft wrapped,i won t tell anyone,where are we?where is home?is it here and there? are we them or here?

The broken bed,the broken bed,the breakfast lane, tomorrow you'll say:don t wake me up ever again,dreams are private,your own idle idaho,your own,your own, your own love.

Rain is lauging, rain is orgasming,the white of the sky on your now combed dry hair, we re like the egg, we re like the egg,we re like the egg,denied of the panic, they like tarot playing,life is better on drawings.

We came back here to die with our inner pain and to howl our love to the world.

Stain

Going back to your own source

I open the room's door, am gonna talk

but the room is a trap where all dreams are coagulate

The stain on the bed looks familiar, looks like a girl

am gonna talk,ok, am gonna talk...

Inside the sleep there is a deeper sleep; a worried one

underneath the idea of the endless limits,

am gonna talk

head on the pillow; the stain girl look like autum

Look at my branches hair your weepings are making wet!

Someone walks quietly around,

am the witness of my endless fund, am gonna talk

but there is still three steps left to face the close eye

i don't know if i can...

Are we all seeing the same morning light?

i don't think so...

The steps in the room are the mouth's guilt

hurting winter dance

the room has no view

The stain girl cries now, as every night i know

ok am gonna talk

The vision is not homogenic and the realm of safety

still far away while the skin recall

There is a valse of broken clothes, but not in the room

they hang somewhere, no hearts as breathing air

in a season they are the only one

to live in...ok am gonna talk...

Pictures are taken from the heredity tree

who the fuck are they?!

telling me i carry their genes

Someone's blowing on my neck

the blue out the grey

''Close your eyes'' a wisper say

Am too sad to close them now

it is not the time yet! The stain girl scream

I can't turn my face and the blowing turns to kissing

without lips, just words,

words burning out my chest

Ok, am gonna talk...

Trace the river of messy beds

placed one after another,i'll stay on the floor tonight

the steps looks great

under the applauding lights

ok, am gonna talk,

stop.

I don't want you here like that

Can't recognize with who we are

They gave me bones and skin to carry around

but am the only one who can nourish the

beating organ.

Time is outside it's own terme

am gonna talk, or the talking will come to me

There is a sleep with no end, as the time is now over itself

Stop crying please, the opal around your neck

still dry

You'll overcome those nights

Do we all see the same morning light?

i don't think so,

ok am gonna talk now.

Painting: Leonor Fini