pomes (english)

283 réponses à “pomes (english)”

1. f4 dit :

   12/07/2011 à 14:11

   write and share your own work

   language : english (room) / contemporary poetry

   scroll down / write / pseudo / chapka / post / share URL on fb
   enjoy !

2. auddie dit :

   13/07/2011 à 23:02

   we all remember
   hollydays in amsterdam
   when life was light but the trip heavy
   money stolen by violent guys in an empty street

   **

   **

   **

3. Vincent Zéroun dit :

   13/07/2011 à 23:13

   we eat rocks
   break stoks
   eat fox
   real foxes
   lone gun
   pure fun
   magne
   omni

4. auddie dit :

   13/07/2011 à 23:15

   ** ** **

   Blotti dans les draps d’une invention

   Je. Ralentirai le temps.

5. Arthur-Louis Cingualte dit :

   15/07/2011 à 21:37

   Under toes undertow

   low blow on a…

   some scream no

   some wishpers ah

   for a tongue daring a toe

   Or a silk by a…

   (wishpers…)

6. Manuel dit :

   15/07/2011 à 23:45

   opinions lead to assylum
   .
   single ecology if considered as fanatism
   .
   lead to assylum
   .
   activism doth
   .
   anarchism no doubt, directly doth
   .
   weakness in consensual faith can do
   .
   beeing a slight trend of that
   .
   it shall be treated to death
   .
   they’re no responsible, it’s a fault of our brain too ghilty
   .
   even the taste of your clean socks on thy feete’s skin
   .
   lead to assylum
   .
   even the thought of your feet
   .
   or the single foot I once handled
   .
   there is no color for thy toes
   .
   no possibility of dream of
   .
   common sense is a flower-pot
   .
   filled with sand and ashes

7. Manuel dit :

   15/07/2011 à 23:58

   .
   So the swan so I am
   .
   lover of garbage on the water
   .
   clumsy hero of childhood and silly thing on postcards
   .
   everyone say bye as I come in
   .
   on the table
   .
   may the swan be a man
   .
   because this woman sinking cry calls for a muscle swimmer

8. Manuel dit :

   16/07/2011 à 15:42

   I have not been able to compose a story, a poem. There was matter, but energy did not follow. Suddenly, a world of explanations dissapeared in a sunset bubble.

   I feel tough as an automatic translator explaining how cute cats are. They are something else than strange words coming out from a computer. Am I a kind of ageing object, beginning to be dirty some over ?

   The Renaissance symbolic crosswords of image, let them explain the plot of despiced love. Let them agonize in their non-sequitur. Birds don’t bring heavy gifts.

   This is so your golden person, a body of wealth as a happy sunrise, some jumping out smile, did not stay in the crowd of memory, did it mostly jump into forgetting, in the river of dispair of forgotten persons, the poverty of memory. So splendous palaces in Firenza and living counts and masterpieces. Mostly stays on my crowdy soul the single painting of your crying mascara, of the unpaintable hair of sea.

   Uccello the painter did not fit as you to the name of light.

   So you are many persons, as the actress, and you will hear.

   Language has no connection to poetry, the sexual noise of the crying women and their invisible dancing, the voice of the dead, these are so unknown things to language !

   I come to sex crowd of poverty and wealth, I don’t want no more the insect of desire, the utter butter fly of its chains, flying onto my eyes.

9. Manuel dit :

   16/07/2011 à 15:44

   :
   :

   Total void is in the center of the art of existence
   This tiny appearence of beauty
   you’re intercepting in me
   is rising from the scene I have prepared to total void,
   the actress takes place in your life
   to speak of Boddhistavas in the confusion of your passed life
   don’t you recognice beauty has been waiting for you
   in the street ?

   Now my voice is singing silence like tears of human milk
   some unthinkable privilege coming from the stars
   some bread and wine flesh
   just clumsy words of a stranger meaning enlightening
   This means when you listen a sort of mistaken existence in you
   this means if you leave your problems go off
   the delightfull nothingless of beauty will pour on you
   Let me devour you as you are my sugar

   you are going mad, you were no gentelman
   You were just a punk disguissed into bussinessman of nothing
   now you know it was nothing your proud
   you are going mad, the right hand raise you back to the ashtray
   you belong to cender, there are so many as you

   Total void is the instruction of love
   when lovers loose chastity in a spasm
   this happens in the promised land of my eyes
   when you say « she » it’s always me for weeks

   explanation of art

   those shades over the sculpture of reason

   the snake of wisdom bitting the feet of Virgin Mary
   we are and have been sinners of image
   we are the servants of idols made by our bodies
   till we discover their church is wide
   devoted to solitude of absent lovers
   Because of this it is that art is explained in total void
   even if only you discover my siren legs
   crowned underneeth by leather

   I possess by the link of inspiration
   the total owning of poetry

   all over the theater of the blue planet
   I will say your words put into a page of paper
   don’t you think beauty have good reasons
   to walk in the street, to do this things ?
   Raining atmosphere of the art of existence
   only to speak of me on the sofa

   Thank you

10. Manuel dit :

    16/07/2011 à 15:48

    subtlety comes first in children
    when language is accomplished
    language very quick gets into a dry daily thing

    So few stories that I could know well surrounded by books
    stories are mouth to ear and I have not your company here
    I was supposed to be a major poet
    finding stories to tell along in deep mythology
    I only have you and my confusion of mine
    sort of poem Revolution number nine not a song
    a major Poem called to be begun

    we factors of revolution
    the rebels
    should we unite in the search
    of some continent?

    I was a not yet flying blackbird in the fall of night
    Sang my song I catch my aerian destiny
    wich is not to be able to go down on earth
    since there stands mishealed our despairing pain

    I’m in sorrow and you look comfortable
    we cursed artists
    swimming
    in the search
    for some continent

    we cursed artists
    have hope on dream
    have tears still coming to our face
    like water
    we write our names in a dictionary and give no definition
    we have no time to be set in context
    the cursed hides a forgiven to take dictionary
    in her disfashioned handbag of hers
    she has no explanation to passing Hours
    wich round bodies seem plane
    to the weak dose of Michaux in L’infini turbulent

    cursed is the mule, the mythomaniac,
    the cursed by family cursing
    the idiot

    You say to me you will take your work to the end
    make me a poet, give me inspiration of your angel
    equal to sound in my throut like a wine of tears and blood
    as told in books arround
    I will give you so my voice
    in the distance
    lost

    The plane and its blue flowers
    is a solitude where fantoms go for a walk
    and just angels meet
    because of

    I will take this plane
    I will paint the blue flowers detailled one by one

    Even if we are ruled by war
    and every effort hurts to attain perfection

    I will write on and on what you say to me
    in order to feele I exist
    I will write hypocrisy some others virtues of you

    This side is warm and this side is cold
    would you touch my bodily appearence ?

    It is true that a holy cross on my neck
    should spread an invitation to fornicators
    to come hear pardon
    and you know I’m sexy so make your prayer to me

    Prayer of fornicator

    Give me the cross of your disgrace
    ass buttom to face intoxicated
    unwealthy onions of Babylon dust
    excuse me I read the Bible
    and it seems I owe every bodily recipe
    Men of older times were like dolphins
    or like the hunter to love
    centaures were the horses of the Minotaure
    as the mare on Velazquez surrender
    you are there biblically
    because of the goods and needs of image
    so you shall consider a literary painting in my work

    You may see in the public space the copulation
    of winged ants and human female and the poet
    always a male long thirty hair

    The centaur’s weep
    on the nightmare of sin
    this faded sin like a red rose at a closed door
    is like a song awakening before morning
    he is unexistent and nonetheless

    He is not able to talk
    he is painting words
    in the sky transforming of his forehead

    The centaur’s weep

    I missed the lesson I missed the movie
    I didn’t visit galleries and disco clubs
    I’m a child taken by your hand into darkness

    Music

    This is the kind of thing he wanted you to listen to
    how poor and clumsy he could have been
    father of men and women you should listen
    not the pope or the tyrant but him child of you
    and every body here in joy

    And music

    I feel destroy
    I should be a boy
    hunting for rabbits in your sacred land
    father of the zodiac
    on the floor of your astronaut living-room

    Father of connections
    you will see I’m funny
    I will laugh down on my knees
    I’m jumping
    I’m elevating
    I have a vision of earthly cities
    never tired
    never tired of being so tired I have luxury
    and I’m jumping in total void

    so pull the rope of this memory dwelled fountain of crystal mirror blood
    the city and garden of hospitality
    to kiss with letters and poetry my cheeks of rainy cloud
    drop by drop in your window
    I knew you’ll wait for me there

    .

11. Manuel dit :

    16/07/2011 à 15:49

    =/

    Queene of faeries had a fever
    one knight of the woods had it seen
    and the tears for the queene were abondant
    hearing the music of deep whispers
    there at the bed of grass
    and him in the smoking window
    given in a crowd of castles and hard temples.

    Nothing was deadly this time
    cleaned by tears the moon was giving a cut of sun
    greater portraits promising to night
    so the knight was in contemplation of queene’s sleep.

    Travelling to the tropics of triolism
    even by head
    made them queene and servant
    loose all force not strong enough to break the chains of this new monster
    wich is announced by an innocent fever
    and whose face is void.

    His helmet was a masterpiece
    of dancing hammers of devil.
    His name was Useful, and the servant prefered nudity without target.

    Awake adored queene and restored
    in coolness of mind by the travel on the moon
    be careful of this monster dishaped
    and cloudy, put your golden helmet and take your arrow.
    Prepared to attain remote hearts this wheapon of female
    goddesses is given to your fight, wich is prompt to come from fever.

    You are no more in the land of southern, to believe in sirens,
    be yourself supernatural in the appropriate battle.
    This strange destiny of taking part in the supper of giants and cyclops,
    scared by their panther speaking, this destiny who has made you my queene.
    This night where every servant has disappeared like melting snow.
    Which battle is this that hurts as tough as madness ?

    Seemingly this giants are linked by panthereness to the enemy.
    Seemingly travel to tropics has made you
    desired by sun and sun is in its tropic an unshaped monster.

12. Manuel dit :

    16/07/2011 à 15:51

    myth of silk

    A King of spirits knew a mortal in Filipines and earned the misery of loving by its only prestige on seweing and embroiding a veil given to his nights. The crowned head loved delicate objects, and used to caress existence with soft hand. Full of desire the god was washed cold by despise in discovering the wrong sex. So called to him the musicians and inspirers set on the stars, and skill from the mortals and applied to worke by a ravishing veil to mist over the imparfection of human.

    In reading these male loves the countess
    the fairie countess healed the frozen spirits of her court
    ambassadors came every sunrise and each time she was in sorrow
    to transmit the compliments of all counts and princes
    and happened that theater in Manila
    in order to charm the tongue
    asked for her presence and teachings
    promising the circunstance of fair.

    A very important fair that ruled Manila gypsies
    by her beauty and wisdom, seemingly, because we are not told
    of punishment or curse, we are told of travelling painters and poetry,
    Estrella was called, received fair Elvira in a mood of pain and fever
    troubled dreams had too hard enivrate her inteligence
    and wisdom had no hands to offer its natural gifts.

    By providence of faerie queene this was the occassion renewed to fair Elvira
    to realize compassion and self-giving in the green golden and silver paradise.

    Coming from the chamber of illness a fishape dragon
    declared to be possesor of the sweetness and blood of fair Estrella
    and there were fight between the spirit and dust
    which fair Elvira prepared late in the air by oxidating her arrow

    They did not know a knight was spying curious the beginning of fight
    and prepared a human sword to take part
    in the distance
    and in silence of peaceful music

13. Manuel dit :

    16/07/2011 à 15:55

    *

    The ape of hollow glasses, aped scribe of some Egypt
    ancestral of confusion between human and beast
    dressed out in furs suddenly smoked with cigarettes
    which he light in lung penitence,
    he, the ape,
    took the tools of color and line
    some evening in the corruption of memory
    in order to possess the shape of fair.

    Virgin Queene of the Moon
    suffering darkness
    offered to painter kiss closed lips,
    and spoke silent of some war in the sky
    of angels enivrated with hate
    how dangerous was the place of towers
    penetrating heaven and its bloody roots.
    She had the corpse of a heroe
    in the palm of her delicate hand.
    This corpse transformed in a rose,
    and buried in a glass of transparence.
    Painter could not betray his wild thought
    that knew not the slow pouring of merit
    and pretended to rape the image enchanted by brush.

    Becoming a woman of greatness,
    Virgin Queene of the Moon took the thorns of martyrdome
    and set them on the beastly heart of the artist,
    to make remember the existence of past knights
    in her astral life,
    and found in crowded luxurious beaches and disco streets,
    fair Eve mother of abstract human, fair Patience secret queene of virtue,
    fair Pamela at the same time,
    and coffee shops in Montmartre, people of Bagdad in constant danger,
    people of Sahara and emprisoned knights starving for medecines and food,
    cursed by fear, as those points of those thorns.

    A drop of gold made smile the portrait
    and the model,
    the instant of a brief sunset
    and of communicating with militians muses all around
    to make present the rare art of an ape,
    imitation of itself under the influence of fair,
    this is so Nature to the sight of the father
    humble king sitting on the air.

    This is for the part known by men
    I tell not the drops of cry in a cursed trip on the darkness
    occulted by thick lines of cloudy sky and magazines
    which speak none
    and of the impertinence of idiots
    as a female crucifixion,
    something familiar and silent and painful.

    This is not known by men
    fair is foul on their papers
    foul is fair to their finger strokes
    because they are blind now and then.

14. Manuel dit :

    16/07/2011 à 15:59

    $$

    I can make one phone call
    to the King of spirits in deep night
    he will open all the palaces in the island of fair Isis
    if he minds as he does.

    There is no crowd to listen
    but a single king in the body of an angel
    trembling because of the knowledge
    alone, alone
    he watches TV as an ancient river
    to make him purified,
    he is the king of spirits
    on the theater of interior bullfighting
    he speaks from deep night to me.

    Me, Myself And I
    from Billy Hollyday to the hard rock of L7
    are all females.
    Vamps in Russ Meyer movies
    turn to intelligent slaves when you are intoxicated
    so the period of fairie queene makes you poet.
    It’s tough that girl-friends and moon could
    inspire a song of destruction,
    where rules of music are distorted by queer.

    I have seen the bleeding heads
    on the neck-lace of a dark skinned
    goddess, and fair on it,
    like If I was in permanent war with the top of mankind.

    As if she was the other one in my life
    the black goddess was in accordance
    to my wills of prince and poet.

    Me, Myself and I
    are all females,
    so one of them is fair Death
    and this is impossible to know which one
    is going to deliver you from the two others.
    I was killed on a rock and roll concert in 1992
    since I am a spirit and a soul
    without body,
    only a neck-lace of bleeding heads.

    Who are you this night ?
    I am the same.
    So tachycardia is the life
    of ageing spirits,
    killed many years ago.
    Is soul going to call spirit ?
    Just dial on the medecin door of each planet
    the code, the number
    of fair and wonder,
    spirit will come down on you
    to closer Death allow to drive you here and now.

    You, my soul, are a princess, a fair,
    you are called Eve because you are a portion
    of the father.
    You don’t want emptyness, and you dance to feel
    of better spirits, of voices of children on your ear, your fair ear.
    Now I wait the morning and the end of night
    whispering cigarettes to my soul fair Eve
    because of the light magic on domestic fire.
    I think on people I know on the book of illusion.

    $$

15. Manuel dit :

    16/07/2011 à 16:01

    :
    Fair of my awakening to this new dream
    Your name Eve of a sunrise is Echo or Mirror
    you turn in the unknown in order to sleep out from this Error of Dream
    so you take me to the candle as I see my face in you as for Moonrise
    We’ve talked, we have practiced Peace
    as I love to put at your feet when you piss
    God is fat enough to be respectable
    and you will see it’s Him
    the angel of idolatry, the top of my thinks.

    Tough is the fight with God
    and if He were not in love with me,
    he the splendid mirror of my illusion
    the giver of truth,
    he will transform me in a deadly flower.

    To asume the consequences of my acts,
    in this hyeroglyphical of dream,
    was a path of Winter Time,
    honored by snow and the flash of extreme Cold,
    but you are a charm on this path
    some deer light of sight on the movement,
    some healing heart of some far spot representing a monastery
    some company of the pilgrim
    waking up in the grass,
    by diamonds of the farewell made pure Beauty.
    This is the Milky Way of repentance and joy
    the trip to reality.

    As the warrior of fair keeps in walk
    she gets the memory of love on the feathers of her helm
    so as when, for the first time,
    she surrendered to a story teller
    in the fight and the bleeding of fair
    to hear her own story preached along by a stranger
    without God and cursed,
    an artist living of rain and sun
    feeling wind in the borders of the road.

    This was the story I told to fair Eve
    of how we met and I became her poet,
    and the painter of miraculous legs and shoulders,
    the sticking with her genius. A comet
    in fact kickly leaves
    to the orders of Fortune, may the cursed say.
    Stylish fairs desappear
    taking back their gifts.

    In a babylonic shopping list
    the hours and days of each planet
    are painted to forget,
    you should never have the bright
    of these sunny shots of sex.
    You will have cender on a canvas,
    but so recent enough to light your fire.

    So I’m singing with monks
    gingle belling and smoking night cigarettes

    Uccellini
    time invisible flight of understanding

    the monks and the birds of Venus, pigeons,
    smile to me, with the old feathers
    looking grey
    and looking great to my walk as they flash.
    :

16. Manuel dit :

    16/07/2011 à 16:04

    *

    Stylish works on science-fiction turn fair Peaceful into mad insanity and old extraterrestrians becomed healthy dogs fade out on the air leaving a wave of suspicion.

    Je trouve fascinant le metier de psychiatre L’écriture d’un cas clinique, ou d’un dossier médical, ressemble à l’écriture d’un roman ou d’un évangile, ce qui revient à la fausseté de toute écriture.

    Influenced by the stranger she feels no more terrestrial.

    Et dès l’avion de combat de ses rêves, elle cible les coeurs tout en maintenant l’enemi en vie.

    Une panne générale est comme une célebration d’une vie qui marche trop bien, la psychose règle les comptes à l’intérieur ou à l’exterieur,

    and how much battles has not been winner fair Peaceful ? Somebody turned far away the warmer and the knight of nonchalance was not ready to push out his clothes, but to alow some head on it to be straight and a sort of idiot in saintity. This knight understood the roll of the fair, being alone, and so he made a solitude of the presence of love.

    Arriving at the age of forty Seconds as fly of the air in the eye another fair has been young enough to be a kind lover and to be old enough to forgive herself for a lack of bright.

    Or is it the same fair, a two headed maiden that is getting old ? Terror of Mars, more influent in Peaceful fair, represented by a dream, than stylish science-fiction of late atomic in war affairs where she wins all along the front line, some emotion of green, of grass leaves as hair of the martian.

    *

    La poesia llega demasiado tarde a mi cerebro, cuando el lenguaje ya ha volado por los aires con todo.

17. Manuel dit :

    16/07/2011 à 16:05

    ::

18. Manuel dit :

    16/07/2011 à 17:15

    She came from far away

    This night she was next to a rhum factory

    a friend of her boy-friend was a musician

    influenced by Russia

    played his instrument as an inconscious

    phalocrazycal nihilist superman

    in the mood of another night

    not the day of thick sun rays falling straight

    he did not stand sad stories because he had visions

    I mean the young painter

    caressing her without permission

    he was critizist with

    some kind of artistic prophecy without alcohol nor sugar

    he could drink in order to love better

    this woman of his kind, this sweet puzzled being

    so far away of reality

    this night of sugar and being drunk

    .

    Telepathy was easy to get worked

    but the surface of sardines

    was salted and burnt

    some sacrilege against chastity

    kept away his usual not being able

    licked words on her body out of foolish

    blue sea of all colours of blue

    even nocturnal and breathing full silence

    .

    Used, confused, polished metaphor

    I inherited from songs and lessons

    repeating cry of my spanish blood

    and the way inconscious shakes hands

    while fists scratch a disposition of letters

    the concerto of some signs and whispers

    why not to sing to tourists ?

    .

    this is the ballad of simplified life

    speaking French all alone about

    smoke between table and table

19. Arthur-Louis Cingualte dit :

    16/07/2011 à 20:04

    I

    pagan Botswana guitar

    T’

    thriller in Bombay

    S

    fukushima coil ride

    C

    mellotron of Panama

    A

    elk tongue of scandinavia

    B

    smell like the lips of the rain

    I

    and the heat of some lights

    N FEVER

20. Arthur-Louis Cingualte dit :

    16/07/2011 à 20:07

    Sapphic dreams is wet dreams

21. Marie-Agnes dit :

    16/07/2011 à 22:51

    There are wet dreams and there are burning dreams,
    listen to the fire devouring the words of the dead.
    The words of the dead dance
    listen, the fire devours them

    They dance alone

22. Arthur-Louis Cingualte dit :

    17/07/2011 à 23:07

    with bones which sounds like marimbas

    a keyboard for fever

    a tango for ever

    comes marching 1, 2, 3

    with the mud dealer

23. Shine dit :

    19/07/2011 à 00:09

    ,…cause im beautiful.who said that?!doesnt matter i have to believe-yes you should!but its weird,…definitely after that all.

24. Manuel dit :

    24/07/2011 à 01:39

    something happened in Paris

    a child was born, a devil buried

    Allelujah in my window song to darkness

    diminued darkness of my trip here

    mirrors in dreams of tomorrow sky clay

    a child is born, a devil buried

    I must obey the prayer of decay

    the horn of Eiffel Tower flowering a Milky Way

    a child is born, a devil buried

    bees in cut trees

25. Marie-Agnes dit :

    25/07/2011 à 11:34

    my sad friend
    sweet and sour as a lemon pie
    comes to me by night
    he says : »the devil can have my soul »
    and I say nothing
    I’m fed up with his sadness
    and his devil tales
    but he doesn’t care
    if I remain silent
    he came yesterday
    will come tomorrow
    he’s got the keys of my dreams

26. Manuel Montero dit :

    26/07/2011 à 00:27

    lost poem in the cinder of fotographs
    nine pills a day to pay memory the skin of these eyes
    making babies in a voiture madness
    rust and dust to recover a past that hides
    the man must have a rest and the Sierra will be warm
    nor you do know than him the deer hunt be sweet
    the broid of a spider percussion on your face
    nine truths on effective peyotl to learn faster yet
    these are reflections on a moving pound you told
    lost poem to tell again a slow motion pain haze
    cunts and sperm a teacher a saint
    cunts and sperm salt and pepper fried egg
    cunts and sperm Jesus Christ on a boat indian of the plains
    you
    you
    you
    cactus eating friend
    sculpture appeal in a landscape
    pulpous kiss of happyness

27. Manuel Montero dit :

    26/07/2011 à 01:00

    Let’s forget La France
    cultivated water on the WC trash actors at the Elisée
    no stone no grass no brain
    together to piss in the night to cross the Père-Lachaise
    let me live your life the TV said
    let me posses your eyes said the CLAVIER
    and the medecin-man sleeping on a mush-room INONDÉE

28. Manuel Montero dit :

    26/07/2011 à 01:38

    I had a nightmare today
    in the passing of a song my favourite musician married a cochon
    her image appeared everywhere and mostly the cochon
    I finished sleeping with the beat « ILS SONT ARMÉS »

29. Manuel Montero dit :

    26/07/2011 à 02:08

    Fear God do not missaround
    insurgé sound flushing blood from ear to ear
    a fever cured with gaz and tears
    do not missaround do not touch ground on the pound
    as the croissants and the whores give you a smile le matin
    be sure you’re right when you’ll die tonight of a pill overdose

30. Manuel Montero dit :

    26/07/2011 à 02:50

    Cracking chair the air of fair
    you desire to awake elsewhere
    don’t you want to be there ?
    The Moon waiting upstairs
    dressing your chest’s hair with a bit of dispair
    the toon is simple, yes sir
    Paradise and Hell who cares ?
    A musician use to be boring and unfair
    as abuse of music is mystically a bon affaire
    Otium nostrum magnum est negotium
    Father don’t you think is time to go to sleep ?
    Your cell breaks out to bip you’re listening FIP
    and I like to peep you’re lonely consolation

31. Manuel Montero dit :

    26/07/2011 à 05:11

    feeling serenade je vous fais part of an off office mood
    fixe idée nom prénom asthmatique
    NO CREERAS EN COSAS QUE NO EXISTEN
    MON CONTRAT D’ASSURANCE ME REND INSECURE
    à scander lentement
    sur un fauteuil noir et blanc
    SUNRISE OVER HELL & HOUSE OF DOLLS VS TON CV
    RESPIRE JUSQU’AUX BONES car ceci est ta HOME
    hard shapes the dawn spared knows
    errors are castles and battle-falls with no order
    if error use me if error I’m here
    communion communiste départ pour Sibérie et la plage
    (Fanfan La Tulipe et la pipe de tes fans COLEGA)
    spitting inside a paper cheaf not supposed to write
    a leaf in love is less than smoke for joke sadness is high
    feeding the bare bakers of the bar Haldol drop by drop and vinegar and mustard green of Japan
    as I see my thought arise in signs on the screen
    as I pin my nerves to no dream
    who are you Father in this Art of chess ?
    suspected to be is a bee lady by
    panther by father bride exterior
    will you die to my eye to my lies ? Salomon and his wisdom
    you took it easy cat in blue
    your meaning seems to be Les litanies de Satan
    or whatever moisted fuck of your past
    full color scroll turning fast
    black magic star on the wall
    having the lesson of the frying-pan
    painting undone singing sin silenciously
    this is music this is kind of MY KIND NO KIND
    this was a poem and listen what you’ve done as you’re gone
    to M*** to H*** to LOVE

32. Manuel Montero dit :

    26/07/2011 à 06:26

    birds try to talk, as castles try to walk
    all covered with ANGST oh grow plant, grow
    dove Sun Uranus Pluto more tequila to solve the test
    stress is for free, you can go zen in the West
    make a vow to the tree just for fun
    finish your poem and run

33. Marie-Agnes dit :

    26/07/2011 à 13:59

    run fast, run wild
    the beasts are looking for you
    all dressed in black
    like sorrow on your desk

34. Manuel (don't worry) dit :

    03/08/2011 à 11:33

    If La France is a Goulag

    if your number’s just a draft

    if shit is all you have in your bag

    if there’s lover’s faillure in my craft …

35. Arthur-Louis Cingualte dit :

    05/08/2011 à 16:37

    Bzzz the fly

    along your side

    while thinking that :

    « my mama never taught me

    how to cook. »

36. Arthur-Louis Cingualte dit :

    05/08/2011 à 16:48

    Intermezzo on Louise’s hands

    Sax on her legs in the sand

    awkward sex photos

    watch by a banshee

    his sensual hips

    shaking on the calypso beat

37. Arthur-Louis Cingualte dit :

    05/08/2011 à 16:51

    When the girl who mean justice
    is under a cocain tree
    her eye scarf fall from her eyes
    to her beautiful feet

38. auddie dit :

    20/08/2011 à 14:05

    OSTKREUZ

    she wrote that she quoted that she kraut that she rot
    an half yellow moon very down in the sky
    is sticking to the planet
    between the dark water tower and my cell phone carribean junior mode
    glimpses we talk
    sliding we walk
    in the bar we woudn’t have a drink
    hidden in the corner of love

    june prune backyard
    she moves differently
    she’s my fish aware of instant thoughs
    warm book inside i removed the gloves
    tür schutz angst und ancient drones
    to emotion i was prone
    she wears my green jacket…

    … I have a gentleman flu.

39. To my books dit :

    22/08/2011 à 22:35

    To my books

    Listen while I vomish, you Name of a paperback treasure,

    listen the rendered delight out my throat

    along in the past your Name I have noted

    and sand of runned out wealth has given on the toilet the fall of your measure.

    My coloured brother merging from white shadow off the market,

    smiles at me as I have been foolish of such a spirit to target.

    Let you be dead as my eyes on the lines of your mind are tired,

    you are no bore, but so more similar to a stone, to an out-fired

    friend I won’t see neither remember, me indeed as soft and dry and dirty

    as you are, because you were among the paper sheeps of my disorder

    the gentle soul I trusted to think on…

40. To my books dit :

    22/08/2011 à 22:58

    the burning of books is sweet as the murdering of God

    kind sugar of blood in the steam of whipped words

    the burning of books is the work of bother on a gorgeous corpse

    corrupted from moisture time ago and issued from the cunt of mothers

    machine mothers that cry crocodile tears on the phone of coal

    the cinder black wings of enormous flies as warriors’ end

    the hole of my back will trumpet to celebrate the burning of love

    as I am tired of listening lessons on my wall, this art of silence

    in a trend of closing doors around my skin balls, such a pain

    let the flamme whisper the refrain of your stinking glove

    you the hundred face of your own law will know this insane

    delight of my hate, and no more

41. To my books dit :

    22/08/2011 à 23:23

    dealbate Latonam et rumpite libros

    whichy’s suchy a lovingly boy ?

    Me experienced no interest in texty amateurs

    Me mama bubble of a pope’s dream and a cow’s whomb full of uranium

    Me have no time, no time to take kisses or to prefer things

    Friends of mine are mille e tre judges in sleepy autodafé

    octopus is delicious, please don’t talk while he masturbates

    specially tentacles on the columns of my legs to titillate them as you couldn’t

    them tentacles and pentacles on my chair cushion to fashion the relation

    between impossible to listen and permitted birds of my dildo

    do you want to use it ? … I mean, on you ? your hand stealing the breath

    of my mouth as my dildo will penetrate, so counter-revolutionnary a dick

    let it be kick as my real cock is not appropriate to be set on a book

    neither on those I used to call my books

42. To my books dit :

    23/08/2011 à 00:14

    is it a bottle ? is it mostly a monster of the night ? or a knife,

    walking on a rope betwenn the towers of eternal happy wife ?

    is it a cup of tea, the taste of unconcious abortion a smile

    for a while I failled to smile for a toothy mile of useless life

    warm is the gut, the organ of my own church, full of shit and vile

    expensive diets of illness and conviction

    the fridge is cold, and quiet, my prayers sound clear inside

    the library is nowhere, yet I’m never introducted home

    Rome, uncle Tom, a gauche caffard topic I must give up to your belongings

43. To my books dit :

    23/08/2011 à 00:44

    so you let me talk to anybody, speack to walls

    on the halls of miniature existence, or the asphalt’s foam

    and dropping acquaintance. You feel injured by reading

    and you do read the redaction of bleached works of your art

    and do not hear the howl and the scream of a son

    a sun, a song of a gong not so going to the boeing’s départ

    Noah’s arch won’t be made of bones

    but meet the order of raw meat and some flesh hobby start

    nice carpenter preparing a beautiful boat to get outs and get ons

    neither me is a sailor, no need to shcedulle

    the choice of sucking coins me not be rabbit

44. To my books dit :

    23/08/2011 à 01:27

    faut être misogyne
    faut passer par là
    elles te mangent vivant, les femmes, sinon, tu es de la tartine

45. Shine dit :

    02/09/2011 à 13:20

    I tried running realizing i walk so fast anyway…i tripped…fell..and woke up sleepwalking..sleepdancing…sleeptalking… my feet carry me..
    all the way….all the day…every day..
    my feet carry me til they burry me…til the day i die..sleep forever…i sleep never ever see me cry…?! My feet carry me..my feet carry me.. dance til the day i die…..my feet carry me til I step up…jump…goodbye!

46. Anonyme dit :

    02/09/2011 à 23:49

    crooked name record

    raw fency

    fancy you

47. Arthur-Louis Cingualte dit :

    29/09/2011 à 23:51

    the oboes vessels

    sounds when

    the clouscape heroes meets

    baba-o-rhum zeroes

48. f4 dit :

    08/10/2011 à 00:21

    rubbed on FB :

    .

    « You ever look back on your life from a certain point in time? Let’s say a year and a half ago. Up to right now. Certain situations happen and somehow you didn’t know where you were going to wind up, but it feels like it was scripted from some sort of higher power?  »
    .

    (frankie bones)

49. face dit :

    08/10/2011 à 00:22

    never. I’m determined by my own idiocraty. not really a higher power… I like to remain the good, scripted by efficient efforts.

50. Anonyme dit :

    10/10/2011 à 12:54

    robbed on fb, by « Kulinarischer Kosmonaut »

    Buy it, use it, break it, fix it,
    trash it, change it, mail – upgrade it,
    charge it, point it, zoom it, press it,
    snap it, work it, quick – erase it,
    write it, cut it, paste it, save it,
    load it, check it, quick – rewrite it,
    plug it, play it, burn it, rip it,
    drag and drop it, zip – unzip it,
    lock it, fill it, call it, find it,
    view it, code it, jam – unlock it,
    surf it, scroll it, pause it, click it,
    cross it, crack it, switch – update it,
    name it, rate it, tune it, print it,
    scan it, send it, fax – rename it,
    touch it, bring it, pay it, watch it,
    turn it, leave it, stop – format it……………………….

51. Anonyme dit :

    17/10/2011 à 08:17

    five ‘oh !

    oh poh poh; I saw the police on the block

    five ‘öh !

    we changed the bottle on the walk

    nasty code

    engaged and ‘oh !

    dirty locked ..

52. auddie dit :

    24/10/2011 à 19:22

    Hipshake gunning kick start and I’m running

53. Manuel dit :

    25/10/2011 à 01:15

    GOD IS A BEARDED WOMAN

    completely shaved by the nuns

    WITHIN MY GROUPIES, AND I CAN’T ABUSE

    OF INSANE GIRLS

    arty girls dream about fucking with Sarkozy

    and people don’t understand and people have fear

    what you need, man, is a straight fat woman sitting on your cock

    and a glass of warm milk, the yellow and cognac

54. Manuel dit :

    25/10/2011 à 01:51

    take my back

    if you prefer my back

    fuck me like that

    but fuck me with a kiss

    and not with the circle of your thousand hands

    and be a lady, whose only feathered skin

    and her only cock is my battle-field hero which name is Dick

55. Manuel dit :

    25/10/2011 à 02:13

    A doctor in Australia

    loosed hours of sleep at the beep

    of our horny messages

    you fucking elsewhere withc and saint

    you where appreciated by the microscopic brain of men

    and my bubbles of nerves and of beating translations rare

    I share with you may be the attention of the antipodes

    but I do not dream of an alliance with the mind of a canguro

    and the cyan and the magenta of the French Flag in the coffins

    of our two bodies

56. Manuel dit :

    25/10/2011 à 02:29

    …
    take my back
    if you prefer my back
    fuck me like that
    but fuck me with a kiss
    and not with the circle of your thousand hands
    and be a lady, whose only feathered skin
    and her only cock is my battle-field hero which name is Dick

    $$$$

    A doctor in Australia
    losed hours of sleep at the beep
    of our horny messages
    you fucking elsewhere witch and saint
    you where appreciated by the microscopic brain of men
    and my bubbles of nerves and of beating translations rare
    I share with you may be the attention of the antipodes
    but I do not dream of an alliance with the mind of a cangooro
    and the cyan and the magenta of the French Flag in the coffins
    of our two bodies

57. Manuel dit :

    25/10/2011 à 02:32

    Shakespeare is not courteous love

    cruelty and wilderness of a foxy thought

    is it not this the best of any courteous love ?

58. db dit :

    28/10/2011 à 14:21

    « there are skeletons ,swords ,zombies and witches ,twisted and contaughted faces and horrorfull beings suddenly appearing in my studio , i wonder why !!!!!!!!! »

    (rubbed on FB on David Boswell profile, one of the greatest live performer ever) (krautok rulez!)

59. auddie dit :

    11/11/2011 à 19:43

    gets paradoxal feelings: blocked melancholia, hidden stress, speed patience, heavy work, light cares about everydaylife shit, short memory, long ambitions, extrem love, diffused hate, and shit loads of tracks to finish. Where am I? Ah yeah true, inside me.

60. manuel dit :

    20/11/2011 à 11:32

    …
    Queen Lasya was commanded by the wind
    South East kissed her et murmured things
    on her ear and neck. So is her in the frame
    of loving armes of my swing and I’m singing
    to a very young girl, within the marble of things.

    So how intruded poison and heaven together
    Queen Lasya from blood to blood, from love ?
    She came to my mouth as words, as words are.
    So far i sang a poem to the young girl, so far
    Queen Lasya possessed.

    And womanness is alone, as the seems
    of air are dead doves, and you are the girl
    and you will have a son made from the wind
    of a Queene of Love.
    …
    La scolastique bouddhique d’une rose
    est pauvre et se fane avant l’oubli,
    elle t’a placée dans mes souvenirs
    sur moi encore ton corps repose.
    …

61. Anonymous dit :

    21/11/2011 à 18:09

    can only say,…

    Heavy thoughts and feelings
    seriously hurts the soul
    drilled into the minds
    sad is the heart

    Veil – tears overcast
    my eyes glazed
    a tear runs down
    quickly wiped
    that they don’t see them

    hidden in the chest
    infinite desire rages
    for you.

    I am two in one person
    Decisions not just for me
    she thinks for others
    Control of the environment

    daily thoughts
    to rob the beautiful
    the palpitations
    my feelings for you.

    they rob
    my sleeping hours.
    my pleasure.
    Ideas that could be beautiful.
    But there is also the reality
    which also specifies the rules.

62. Anonyme dit :

    25/11/2011 à 21:42

    nobody’s leading

63. Luise Steuckart dit :

    26/11/2011 à 03:53

    I am

64. Anonymous dit :

    26/11/2011 à 15:37

    hihi :)

65. Luise Steuckart dit :

    27/11/2011 à 11:49

    I’ve chopped all th’ trees, burnt the jungle down to its ashes, nothing’s leaving anymore. Skeleton trees, if not burnt down to lesser than nothing in the hottest fever ever burnt on earth. Skeleton tiger, ripped off to his bones, strippedstrippedstripped, trying to eat the last bits of flesh offf hisher bones, who knows is who anyway, sucking his own marrow till nothing’s left no more. He starves to death, alone, if not burnt to all velvety ashes by the hottest fever of all before. Finally resting that tired body in the softness of the ground. The snake cut her arms off long ago, too annoying anyway, useless, bothersome, there are still so much arms left in the world anyway, to get her what she needs, bleed shall thee who dare to interfer her plans, we subjugate, we undermine, everyone’s following till no one’s following at all hollow, boring to death till some more flesssh needs to be found, oh some delicious meat inside, so good, even if it’s short to stay, couldn’t last for longer if not diamond-hard or softly melting resisting to every fever one can think of; her tongue burnt in the heat of the jungle fever, it stuck out so far, nothing to feed upon to be found, heshe started to swallow her own tail in endless movement shehe found her perfect lover, bit by bit till nothing’s left anymore, if she didn’t even burn in the hottest of all jungle fevers that night before, her remains velvety ashes like everything else. Finally resting her swallowed self in the soft velvety ground.
    I burnt everything, just for fun. It was the most beautiful thing to see. Now wandering this wasteland all by myself, nothing’s left anymore.
    And everyone still to be found in the darkest corners of the darkest hells eating their own hearts out till there’s no remains of anything. No humankind, no animals, no plants. Everything turned to a black case-hardened sun, the glowing core burnt out long ago, no other sun shines upon, no reflection possible anyway, an ugly dead thing hanging around just too perfect to be blasted away. It once was beautiful, as they wanted it to be, same will as this ugliness now. Some meteors could melt into the sun, sink into saturn’s gas, float in neptuns oceans. At least they’d find a place. Maybe there’s still some idea of life in them.
    Cockroaches thickly covered in coal cases laughing their arses off. Soil had been washed away long before, to the no longer existing ocean, every drop of water sublimed into spirit, going somewhere else, to drip off some window of a person willing to cry. Give me just a little piece of mind in this blind place. Please, I’m so tired of those games, they’re taken too serious way too long. Cut you just cut my head off, please? No, thanks, I’ve changed my mind too long ago.
    The biggest seacows that can be found – where? – feeding upon the remains of it all, getting high on the death drug, expanding to extra-terrestrial objects. Maybe there could be a place to not die of boredom. Licking off the sea cows sweat, – must be the sweetest syrup ever been tasted by a human tongue. I hope to get drunk from it.
    Probably, the love of my life’s living on another one at the end of this endless universe; so it could as well be me, if you’d wished it to be.

66. auddie dit :

    30/11/2011 à 00:30

    life’s a monolog
    on stereo legs

67. Manuel dit :

    30/11/2011 à 13:22

    When I hear your musical point

    it seems to me you’ve never smoked a joint

    and never set ointements on you

    and never, never tasted hemp and paper of a Bible or a comic-strip

68. Luise Steuckart dit :

    30/11/2011 à 15:38

    life could be a dialogue
    on eight extremities surround

    outer sides out
    inner sides in

    whole view
    surrounding
    them souls
    the world even
    whole view

    no one left behind
    even if those spiders tend to disclose to some point
    no I meant seclude,
    but both is true
    for real

    where dreams and reality meat, truth evolves to bliss

    that’s what i truly believe in.
    faith in myself
    no matter what
    head as hard as stone
    I’ll crack a door in every fucking wall,
    you’ll see
    even if it takes me bleeding till nothing’s left in this dried out body, ashes ashes ashes remain, but even more.
    What could it be?

69. Luise Steuckart dit :

    30/11/2011 à 15:41

    by the way, I’d love to have instant reflection on me, as much as I can get, make me a discoball:
    http://luisesteuckart.wordpress.com

70. Manuel (who has nothing to say but LOVE) dit :

    30/11/2011 à 16:33

    stop, there’es e tiger…

    don’t walk and talk, keep closser to me in the grass

    he’es coming and approuching, uprising as life in evil thought and songs

    you kind of chinese look on my mouth

    stop this because in truth I am the tiger in you

    if you love me go on and shout to him

    even if he use to eat sometemes beating lungs

    this will be a light speed dancing

    so let’s stop and have fear of animals

    let’s make love

71. auddie dit :

    15/12/2011 à 22:51

    « Buxtehude, where the dogs bark with the tail. »
    ……………………………….._
    ……………………………….U ‘.
    wau wau……………. ___ . / /
    wau………………..~ ( _ . . . )
    ………………………..{ { ..{ {

72. Anonyme dit :

    16/12/2011 à 18:55

    Ouais, mais maintenant si tu étais Apollinaire, faut voir d’une tranchée à l’autre.

73. Manuel dit :

    30/12/2011 à 23:40

    The gum is chewed and these are the stars in rose and minth

    thinking to keep my way to the noise of sleep and pink

    power of rain is the breath of a cloudy elephant as you sinneth

    and the spot of red sand in south moon is nevermore the way you think

    to make short, there were two and a half, tomatoes and garlic,

    poison in the clean saintity of this milk of first madness to keep in.

74. Manuel dit :

    31/12/2011 à 00:14

    letters to let on boxes of plastic and glory of the toilets

    killed by this lady set on a plant of green blood of sea and electricity

    killed by mute screen glasses and by your animal innocence

    she used to patience on long trips as you were apparently happy

    to be the garantee she filled the underground with your name and not hers

    and is no substance in music, nor blood on your feathers, pure angel

    you have been cruel and maybe soft to be killed by love.

75. Manuel dit :

    03/01/2012 à 02:51

    …

    As if they were my daughters, I give my counsel

    to the roses flushing late at my door, silencious

    and sometimes with tears of a strange joy, produced

    by books, boy-friends, heart-breack and alcohol,

    strange flowers on the tides of darkness of deep green and freeze,

    this winter has come smart and gentle may be to kill forever the beat of my late rose.

    …

76. Manuel dit :

    03/01/2012 à 03:41

    …

    One day I will meet the lady on the photo

    the one that made me shiver in the repeated maniac night

    we will be in the open, dancing on fresh grass and breathing the clouds of the end of time

    …

77. auddie dit :

    03/01/2012 à 04:07

    « There is a crack on everything,
    That’s how the light gets in »

    Leonard Cohen.

78. Manuel dit :

    03/01/2012 à 04:47

    …

    Let the year begin, the end of time is going to speak

    you and me will hear the night owl’s cry and the rain

    neither i will repeat my castles in Spain, nor the high peack

    as your kiss is the absence of a pearl in my chains

    …

79. Manuel dit :

    03/03/2012 à 10:31

    How, my dear Mary, are you critic-bitten

    (For vipers kill, though dead), by some review,

    That you condemn these verses I have written,

    Because they tell no story, false or true !

    What, though no mice are caught by a young kitten,

    Till its claws come ? Prithee, for this one time,

    Content thee with a visionary rhyme.
    
    Qu’est-ce que tu n’es, Marie, mordue par les critiques

    (les vipères tuent, raide mort), par quelque revue,

    Que tu brûles ces poésies à peine lues, rachitiques

    et sans histoire, prisonnières du doute et de la boue !

    Que, malgré que les chatonnes n’attrapent souris, morpions ni tiques,

    que quand leurs ongles ont durci ? Je t’en prie, pour mon absence,

    contente toi du justificatif d’une vision dépourvue de nuance.
    
    What hand would crush the silken-winged fly,

    The youngest of inconstant April’s minions,

    Because it can not climb the purest sky,

    Where the swan sings, amid the sun’s dominions ?

    Not thine. Thou knowest ’tis its doom to dy,

    When day shall hide within her twilight pinions,

    The lucent eyes, and the eternal smile,

    Serene as thine, which lent it life awhile.

    De quel doigt s’écrase la mouchette soyeuse,

    la plus jeune d’Avril et ses mignonnes inconstantes,

    parce qu’elle ne grimpe le ciel, ni la pureté de la chose,

    où copule la voix du cygne et fait signe la planète ardente ?

    Pas tes doigts. Tu connais la coupole où meurt cette rose,

    Quand le jour doit se fermer dans les pignons ouverts et les amandes béantes

    de son regard sans temps, et son sourire serein comme le tien

    ressemble à la vie que tu as donné à l’aimant d’une jeune aimante.

80. shock hazard dit :

    04/03/2012 à 16:48

    the air conditionar
    is like ocean reef

    toucan solide
    en sa demeure

81. Manuel dit :

    05/03/2012 à 08:11

    Scientology cops gazing the masses

    messes of orgy stoning the tops of rat

    and the kingdom of the rat is next to a dreaming cat.

    Wich is Paris coaching ?

    Cockroaching.

    And this is tender

    as the firsts yawls of thy son´s Fender.

82. Manuel dit :

    07/03/2012 à 09:26

    MAI 68 ET SES DÉRIVES
    L’ÈRE MITTÉRAND ET SES DÉRIVES
    HEUREUSEMENT QU’ENFIN TOUT EST SOUS CONTRÔLE

    I gave you a bit of sperm

    nobody knows this inside you

    abortion is just a pleasure of your thought

    you ask me so much blood

    because it’s sweeter than a poor drop of male misery

    I could agree it’s better and starve meanwhile as I drink

    hard coffee of disappearing downstairs

    now I know the colour your master had set

    on the dusty velvet of the steps to fever

    good friends seem to me tormented

    good friends sink and disolve on your black magic

    and it is the command of my instinct

    Queen Nature, naked truth, taking through your throat

    and your fingertips’ betrayal the whole mass of life on my bones

83. auddie dit :

    10/04/2012 à 20:40

    I’m so glad to do not have to read and stand those facebook bullshits anymore, when people say what they think when they think about it, ridiculous and embarrassing exhibitionism, expression of the inner void, irrespect, lies and bad taste. It’s so small, so weak. That is -walking on your virtual spirit-. It’s maybe the most pathetic way of communicating ever, the opposite of politeness, the reign of selfishness, the reign of small ego. At each stupid messages, you become so commun. Your soul is spread out to ashes.

84. skybambi dit :

    12/04/2012 à 14:42

    Rewind Script glance Tell Soft Cell Libération Weiter laufen Skybambi Antwort böse, weil, warum? substrat aux riches Sub traurig. fin de transmission.

85. skybambi dit :

    12/04/2012 à 16:48

    com on get me com on get me
    crass crass crass crass crass
    hélas hélas hélas hélas hélas

86. Anonyme dit :

    21/04/2012 à 20:52

    where is your mind ?
    oh, my sweet blind
    a long calling from christal’s bad
    or not
    sir, yes, sir
    bring me to the shivering point of the craddle
    with a lot of rules
    a lot of wildeness maybe
    chrome-me
    to the loneliness
    at time
    at freedom
    at middle

    where nothing is only moon
    moon just like you
    or waiting for your rain, honey

    heart motion
    I can’t stop it
    I can’t sop it
    only you, once upon a tale
    tell and tell
    at spell
    a lovely fang of door
    I catch, I catch, I catch
    urban fire ball
    the once upon the time during this sweet nothing in no sens
    no blast
    no sword
    no whispering stars
    may-be the 06 of quest

87. jerome dit :

    21/04/2012 à 21:17

    American
    Way
    Of
    Death

88. auddie dit :

    02/05/2012 à 22:54

    Trough rivers of internet,
    facebook screams like morbid dogs

89. bissecta dit :

    03/05/2012 à 05:37

    The spacesuit of light kissing the planet
    Full height hollow lack
    It whispers in the dark
    Where clones are shivering under trust’s credit
    Beneath your trembling veil of flashs
    The sun mask can’t hide your private night
    Tragedy for everyone: it’s not enough
    King cold heart on the cristal of black tears
    Lonely auditor of silence for silence
    Dressed in sonorous skin of light
    With the easy burn of each sense
    He is finaly his own night
    Murdering love and exploding being
    The wheel will always wish

90. bissecta dit :

    04/05/2012 à 06:25

    Through hatching was affixed.
    To those who cry, little top decoy.
    Waves.
    And of course, the whip of creation.
    The H-bomb of humanism.
    My preference: the swarming squiggles that inking the abyss.
    Cravings to compute.
    The eye that looks at the eye.
    Biting the last joint of the thumb …
    Some know.
    Thank failure.
    The golden baby already loves night.
    Go anywhere to sit in a dream with a dream.
    Dreaming the day.
    Nowhere is this state.
    With a dream.
    Refines the night,
    The concrete, naughty secret of darkness.
    Wait.
    Hear the universal reading.
    Tend to leave slavery to freedom human being.
    Through has forked the vision.
    Provided …
    And proof of the perpetuity of failure.

    Insert

91. Manuel dit :

    06/05/2012 à 18:16

    Her eyes were two pissing babes

    thinking on me, fellows,

    she was ruled by the correct Dharma.

    …

    Logic and Reason

    if you’re an amazone

    you’ll amputate one

    …

    Pimpy cat for a sardine profile

    as the kiss of North in heavenly dreams

    …

92. Manuel dit :

    06/05/2012 à 20:56

    Alex quicked me out

    bloqué

    it matters to her my not to be her fellow in the shade of glamour

    as I talk as I talk to my friends

    it’s a happy sunday, whatever

    lol

    …

93. bissecta dit :

    07/05/2012 à 06:04

    Always say they are guilty to keep peace inside.
    Old strategy.
    If only tomorow we could rise in a road made of ashes.
    Borderline blacksmith.
    If only tomorow we could land on a moving state.
    Shadow sparring.
    If only tomorow we could fall into a fleeting incantation.
    Martial’s jam.
    And talk about the others who are in fact in our behalf.
    Mirroring behaviour.
    Lovely way to struggle
    to be twin
    between sand and see.

94. auddie dit :

    17/05/2012 à 15:02

    Hello !

    Just a short message to know more about somebody from  » Palo Alto, California, United States » …

95. in solidarity for himself dit :

    09/06/2012 à 00:24

    nice drumer in my chest, Damen drumer let my neck move, uptight, chase an upset akt, nice esther, i sware this is not a game, this is a hurra

96. auddie dit :

    11/07/2012 à 22:10

    You wisper on high land term of nauseabond empathy for beauty, and you discover that only extrem surrealistic, or -sub-realistic- words are coming to you, licking your reptilian brain untill you wake up on a putrescent (but smelling good) bunch of roses. It hurts. But also, it’s joyfull, because this is the day you realise how artificial and nasty and superficial a creature of nord xxxxx can be. Slyness has got to frontier, no age, and no predessecors. It has always been here. And then, you think about drinking a coffe, but you don’t have anymore. Then. you cry, or you make music, or you just stop gripping and grinding and squeezing in front of your bloody screen, realizing the waste of time and energy you did, and how blind you were. Suddenly, you also make a big decision: you will never be that weak again.

97. stupid girl dit :

    13/07/2012 à 18:00

    stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl

98. Anonyme dit :

    20/07/2012 à 02:47

    nobody’sleading

99. ed flis dit :

    20/07/2012 à 19:30

    [20:09:57] Ed Flis:

    sweaty men, dancing
    i love to see their penis
    let’s take some drugs now

100. auddie dit :

     04/12/2012 à 05:27

     Time white black noise,
     a winter morning spreads the word.
     It’s snow flakes and we say huuuu.. hooooouuuu.
     On the floor run grey snakes, it’s the bikes, it’s the bikes!
     Ghost humans from yesterday.

101. headroom dit :

     13/12/2012 à 18:54

     one day we’ll also clench to our signs of youth
     printed on our jute bags
     repeated on the color schemes and patter we wear
     on our tongues
     nailed to our forehead
     the chatter of resistance
     by which we have been surviving
     our daily lives of never ending past
     look where we’ve been going to
     so far – next to what we never wanted
     while we still hold the candles of our identities close to the heart
     we won’t let go of the sausage on the fishing rod because it gets us anywhere
     acceleration
     packing the amplitudes vibrates the present
     that is the future

102. maximum dit :

     13/12/2012 à 20:47

     maximum

103. dead end dit :

     10/01/2013 à 02:15

     0

104. Arthur-Louis Cingualte dit :

     10/01/2013 à 23:21

     – Hey Cingualte, where you been ?

     – Blowing some « zzzz » on my patio
     (what a motherfuckin’ view)
     thinking of my tropical goes
     exotic tune, the one, the new
     « moons mourns » in face 0
     (Face B just blows)
     It sings for prune breasted viragos
     feels like licking king’s hoes toes
     (her nails in the nest)

     See that scarlet truth :
     It’s just me ambushed what ever occur
     All my indian jewelry tryin’ to shine hard
     while cooking some voodoo dew for you

105. dead end dit :

     12/01/2013 à 18:36

     in the sky waves a banner – there are people on it, sitting in the waiting room at the doctor’s, in the concert hall, on the streets. nothing happens. they start stabbing each other.

106. Lars Stuquise dit :

     15/01/2013 à 17:31

     Justin comes from the south but he’s doin’ it well, banging the squain in hood no metro, no doors, no heaven

     in laminat way to score,
     …………………………………… he’s a hero

107. Lars Stuquise dit :

     15/01/2013 à 20:30

     this a provocation between the peopople, from the people

108. Lars Stuquise dit :

     15/01/2013 à 20:39

     and for that you will do things that people will never understand

109. manuel dit :

     15/01/2013 à 22:22

     Let’s touch just one leg
     of the Goddess
     of the Goddess
     leg of the Goddess
     the Goddess has no one
     another
     no one another
     blind man of the cavern
     she should suggest
     she would suggest in your prayar
     gest in your prayar
     you stand in the dark
     fire is warm
     smoke is the Goddess

110. manuel dit :

     16/01/2013 à 15:30

     This chicks really make me go Ronal Reagan

111. harold dit :

     16/01/2013 à 18:58

     The kick really makes me do Aaron Bradley

112. one two one two dit :

     31/01/2013 à 11:44

     blue spring mornings with memories of lost moments
     the world works, it grows
     still there’s another small winter ahead, a week or two
     unfolding its tiny wrinkly leaves
     into the cold

113. Anonyme dit :

     06/02/2013 à 01:40

     because you were a lady

     I wrote poetry and went trash

     and was not in the fit nor suitable

     for you were those times a kiss-kiss and it’s all over now

114. Anonyme dit :

     06/02/2013 à 02:15

     golden smell of love and innocence

     you spoke so cute and hard, you, shine eyes

     you sat on my mind melting as honey and garbage under the rain

     pure intoxication of the moon, the plague of pleasure and thought’s surrender

     forget me not even if I was nothing but smoke

115. dram queen dit :

     06/02/2013 à 02:30

     I was hard with you, long time no speak white shelves surrounded by culture

     honey moon dreamed by, passed by, and Rome was a city where Grace Jones had a coma

     time and innoncence since our wedding are inequal

     in the rooted symphony of love

116. sun dit :

     06/02/2013 à 20:14

     in the abstract space
     blakkkk plastikkk
     thunderholes the lightning flashes streaking through
     along the red plastic rain
     while the floor rises up into the wormhole where
     there is a sun that needs to be seen
     made of red glass
     trembling
     in a black empty space
     bubble bath of red foam swarms
     emerging from the white metal disc
     filling the space around
     boiling blood
     i take a step back
     and forth
     the metal barrel leading through the middle
     while my eyes follow where red spheres go
     i get distracted
     and follow the course of the barrel
     into it
     inside
     into the center
     foaming spheres crossing my way
     into the oven
     quivering
     i am not getting burned
     leaving through its walls
     outside
     next to the barrel
     i switch into the open space

117. naia dit :

     07/02/2013 à 16:03

     Run Run

     Black Leather Paw
     pink stain
     limp…

     Run Run
     Anyway

118. the move dit :

     26/02/2013 à 16:07

     while thoughts still digest afterimages on invisible third eyelids
     movement already got there
     in layers the present
     produces the next images
     echoing on retinas —
     if a presence only
     would burn so brightly as
     to grasp so tightly that
     all veils fall
     and object and image burn into one
     memory of what they are

119. the move dit :

     07/03/2013 à 19:41

     job slime slides down her jacket, crawling into every pore of her skin, slowly taking up all the space around her, on her, in her, crawling up her throat, gurgling in her larynx – she takes a shower, dresses in something else, something beautiful, but still the slime sits in her throat, suffocating, blinding her sight. she feels sick like throwing up. FUCKK OFFF, GO AWAYYYY, she yells at the big fat slime, but it won’t move. she feels like fighting it back with some dry, burning whiskey. just knock it in its ugly face. smashing its jelly into a thousand pieces, burning them afterwards, blowing it all up.

120. xXxXxXx dit :

     26/03/2013 à 15:23

     xXXXXXXXXXXXXXXx
     xXXXXXXXXXXXXXxx
     xXXXXXXXXXXXXXxxxxxxXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
     xxxxxxxXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXxxxxxx
     xxxxxTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
     XXXXXXXXXXXXXXTTTTTTTTTTTTTxXXXXXXXXX
     teeth………………………………………………….
     cross the fence
     eyes stare
     into the void
     it’s not the ocean
     it’s the throat in front of you
     people pass by
     and look into those windows
     of yours
     1
     drip of blood
     that’s all the story needs

121. xXxXxXx dit :

     26/03/2013 à 21:06

     eyes seem to be straight forward but sometimes they’re looping back inside our heads. I don’t know if chameleons hurt all the time. they look pretty happy as far as I can see.

122. the move dit :

     15/04/2013 à 23:33

     windowglass
     touching outside in
     the abstract sun
     ———–>
     refined thinking movement expanding
     <———–
     laughing a story
     *without quote signs and bubbles
     growing a new limb

123. the move dit :

     22/04/2013 à 08:40

     there’s a wind howling
     outside the new day rises
     hands moving the rest

124. auddie dit :

     22/04/2013 à 10:05

     there’s a move holding
     inside the old bellies (lakes)
     gravity’s hiding the best

     monsters sounds are poping the surface

125. auddie dit :

     22/04/2013 à 16:24

     people dressed in black
     floating in the park
     they look on the left
     they look on the right
     their mind’s a grand theft
     of truth. drops of daylight
     are shining on their glasses
     hope they’ll back on the tracks
     of good circumstances
     Obscenity is a lack
     grounded by fusion of love
     with a ketamine dove
     dry, rude and borded
     they cross the road to the späti
     tattoos, ears like weels
     same shoes, same pants, same T-shirt
     like the first hypster « doh »
     escaped from the church
     just arrived in town
     certain to be there
     where no one can be
     fascinated by love
     with a salt desert owls
     sharing twisted smiles
     and tambourin souls
     waiting for their man
     « what you’re doin’ uptown?
     Hey white boy, you chasin’ my women around ?  »
     …
     She’s transparent, I’ve left her down behind…
     Mother techno forgot about her sons
     (and daughters) who look for something …

     … to look for …

     chorus:

     something’s missing / something’s missing!

     Probably words and emotions

     Probably emotions and words

     Probably you and me

     tryin’ to exceed

     the party theory.

     .
     .

126. the move dit :

     25/04/2013 à 08:08

     it’s all there; all ways, all time
     – a matter of faith

     someone’s cutting his live fence in the shape of heart and says « how beautiful! » to his wife.
     – living in the doghouse of love

127. cedar room dit :

     02/05/2013 à 08:35

     humble
     i lie
     waiting

     shrowded in darkness
     raw
     open

     twisted
     tangled
     torn

128. manuel dit :

     02/05/2013 à 18:09

     yum yum and bee queen

     harmony among and between

     the full skull of my cock free sing

     crazy crazy lord

129. St John silva dit :

     02/05/2013 à 18:18

     oh yo yo the charm is never killed

     just a minute, and the warm kid bill

     comes over and over now

130. manuel dit :

     02/05/2013 à 18:29

     I look at you praying and sighing

     I’m piously affectionate

     I’m a loser

     come to me, in your mind

     just in your mind and fuck

131. manuel dit :

     02/05/2013 à 18:54

     je suis un des rares cas qui existent dans le monde de fumeur pas débrouillard

132. manuel dit :

     02/05/2013 à 19:37

     the straight dog was walking across

     i couldn’t fix the key to the heaven

     i was you and i was me, and the straight dog

     was a golden shit of dream

133. cedar room dit :

     02/05/2013 à 20:29

     stumbling blindly
     into oblivion

     grasping, groping
     clutching thin air

     blundering onwards
     bludgeoned

     flailing
     falling
     fucked.

134. Scarlet dit :

     06/05/2013 à 10:58

     frozen grass
     waters black
     ice is thinning

     paper bags
     broken glass
     no one’s listening

     all for less
     all for less
     all for less
     all for less

135. cedar room dit :

     20/05/2013 à 20:40

     beneath the surface
     a monster lies in wait
     tightening its hold on my fears
     clutching at my throat
     tightening its grasp
     with every breath

     ages spent
     slumbering
     lying in wait
     ready to resurface
     gathering momentum
     waiting
     ready to pounce

     teenage angst
     stifling
     gouging
     clawing
     gripping
     ..perpetuated.

136. chedar cheese dit :

     20/05/2013 à 22:14

     On the surface
     a monster melted weight
     targetings its hold on my tears
     sliding my throat
     tightening its wrasp
     with every breath

     tartine, pommes
     wondering
     lying in wait
     ready to absorb
     alcool momentum
     wait
     ready to bounce

     teenage hunger
     licking
     asking
     crowling
     catching
     grabing
     hamburgerized

137. cedar room dit :

     21/05/2013 à 07:50

     Fromage

     from age
     foraged wisdom

     from aged
     furrowed brows

     from age
     furtive knowledge

     from age
     fictional fraud

     ..forever scorned

138. manuel dit :

     25/05/2013 à 16:32

     all fur ladies

     all Venuses

     come haunt

     my brain like a sex of a victim

139. manuel dit :

     26/05/2013 à 09:57

     trembling down

     pissing bombs go easy

     fuck stockings of blue decay

     fever nothing sucking the lipstick

140. Manuel dit :

     29/05/2013 à 03:04

     let me see the pissing one

141. auddie dit :

     12/06/2013 à 00:30

     ancient beat against
     modern hype against
     politic against
     facebook dive against
     heart of stone against
     instant rebels cause against
     sert à rien ce que tu dis contre
     indigne-toi dans une blague carambar contre
     tu fais quoi pour ton voisin contre
     ferme bien ta gueule avec ton baratin pourri contre
     je hais les architectes contre
     la star c’est le chimiste contre
     techno is dead contre
     films de merde en streaming contre
     ich bin weit von dir gegen
     pass auf sie sind überall gegen
     niemand ist schuld mehr gegen
     scheiss techno commerz bank weiss t-shirt gegen
     scheiss club scheiss touristen ich bin ein von dem gegen
     ich falle auf dich betrunken unter MD am sonntag gegen
     t’es bien sûr de ce que tu racontes que t’es indigné contre
     your screen is killing you against
     big cities are killing you against
     run after nothing against
     the force against
     you are a paradox against
     moment of sweetness against
     moments of crime.

     *

     « bullshits midnight on facebook i won’t go to bed before saying an other one »

     berlin, mittwoch 12 mai of putain de deux mille treize. 1h27

142. Moving out of c(h)ed(d)ar rooms dit :

     12/06/2013 à 08:45

     « Portrait of the artist as a middle-aged man, and other stories »

     *

     sale pute contre
     tu me rends fou contre
     fucking bitch against
     fucking hard again(st)
     paradoxal statements against
     paradisal places against
     tu es malade contre
     comme la folie contre
     je suis malade moi-meme contre
     laisse-moi! contre
     baise-moi contre

     ego trips gegen
     frankreich-trips gegen
     wer gewinnt hier eigentlich gegen wen?
     gegen
     einfach nur da-gegen..?

     Muse gesucht gegen
     tiefschwarze Löcher gegen
     Clichés confirmed against
     « the lady doth protest too much, methinks » against
     puppetmaster powerplay against
     self-doubt and self-despise against
     destroy her self (-worth) against
     to restore myself against
     « all that (s)he wants is another baby » again(st)
     the shrowd of darkness again(st)
     platform posts and sms-shit again(st)
     unwritten poems on perfectly flat stones against

     pourqoui pas, par contre,
     against all odds ?
     a gain,
     gaining – instead of just against, again.

143. jack maroual dit :

     12/06/2013 à 11:44

     liquid day
     flat tire
     africa
     rendez-vous

144. cannissas dit :

     15/06/2013 à 04:55

     ‘ seems like tryin to forget takes more time than tryin’ to know (secret of the universe)

145. Mon coeur est vide / Calva dit :

     14/07/2013 à 17:05

     Murals on sea walls
     Kindred spirits
     ..but from a different hell.
     Soft centre, hard shell
     Scar tissue, gouged
     Bled out, let out.
     Close, but not close enough
     Similar, but not the same.
     Erratic like the wind
     Solitary as the woods
     A tempest in a glass.
     Heart and soul
     held in slippy palms
     played to the beat.
     Tightened grasp,
     balmy heat, then
     flung away.
     Too much, too soon
     or too little, too late.
     Another boat on the slipway
     ..let her to sea.

146. etel dit :

     14/07/2013 à 18:15

     it’s beautifull

147. Anonyme dit :

     16/07/2013 à 21:08

     We can’t give you the fame you merit

     you’re closed as a baby god into an egg

     you ask for things you do not really want

     how could we give them to you ?

148. Anonyme dit :

     16/07/2013 à 21:20

     How is no question
     Why is one of them
     past can tell
     future too

     as you say, it’s not written

     other times will bring other points of view

149. Anonyme dit :

     16/07/2013 à 21:23

     but
     HE
     don’t
     CHANGE
     He’s always there
     for YOU

150. Anonyme dit :

     17/07/2013 à 01:10

     I send merry kisses
     to spitting milk and honey lonesome horses
     and i dream on a casttle
     where i find a key

151. Belz / To Etel (Hell) and back again dit :

     26/07/2013 à 23:17

     A liquid night
     Gliding through monotonous beats
     Monochrome cello
     Dances with wolves
     Daybreak by the water
     Softly the sun whispers
     Caressing my skin
     Beckoning..

     I return to my cage
     Courters left at the wayside
     Steely-eyed and panting
     Grasping at waifs
     Left and right.

     Madness takes its toll
     My arms tighten
     My body cramps
     My mind races
     Like Pynchon´s Parabel
     No solace to be found
     In the familiarity of enclosure
     Home, but not at home.

     Dark, ruby warmth springs forth
     From deep wells of flesh
     Like black fluid gold
     ..but with an iron taste
     The exhileration of release
     Like an orgasm of pain.
     I sink back into the pillows
     now sterile and white,
     which once carried your scent.

     Fall into memories
     Of tangled sweaty sheets
     You, devouring my lap
     Bury myself once more in your core
     Écarte les jambes!
     Haunting like a lullaby
     Mais j´ai écarté mon coeur.

     Relieved for a moment
     But broken nonetheless.
     Take me away
     To an ivory palace
     Gold and silver gates enwrought with the half-light
     Where tempests turn to tranquility.

     ************

     le chien dompté
     tranquilisé
     identité oublié
     échappé involontaire

     la louve repris sa liberté.

152. Vincent Zeroun dit :

     27/07/2013 à 12:15

     Present crime,
     Stuck in my room,
     No way out,
     No other communication,
     …
     The truth is covered,
     Reasons hidden by governements agencies,
     If demoocraty,
     People should have public Access,
     …
     I´m fuck up.
     Love killed me.
     …Sans assistance medicale et politique no puedo desvelar mas cosas…

153. Manuel dit :

     30/08/2013 à 12:10

     God indeed was on your side, and not Satan
     Those days my sorrow Love Love of Loves
     You where daughter, queen, sister and saint
     not a harlot short of shame

     *

     How sure was I knew your sort of kind
     and you blew hate on my mind
     You spied my love letters with a sexy hand on my bag
     you reciebed my head on your face at the knocking of sperm
     mystery and wonder you where able to faint

     *

     Cenci fucked the daughter, he fucked the queen, the sister
     Cenci fucked the saint and he put a spell
     He walked out of the place, he went far away
     taking all the books on an arm embrace

     *

     a guardian was set on her lover’s sex
     oral or moral not the love let reign without success
     peeping my verse, evil was your place’s air
     as fair as my mouth without my teeth together was set

154. Move dit :

     11/09/2013 à 16:12

     Punctured flesh
     Pierced breast
     Biopsy me
     Mamography
     ruins Autopbiography
     Scar tissue
     Avoided issue
     Don´t you wish you
     Never knew

155. Voile / Vie dit :

     15/09/2013 à 01:43

     Sails set
     Afloat on a full sea
     Bound by false wisdom
     Of the earths` sphericity
     And yet and yet and yet
     Man hath no knowledge
     Of Scylla and Charbridis
     Our world is but a disc
     And we shall topple off the edge
     In search of irrelevant truth
     Blundering blindly
     Into a tempestuous abyss.

156. auddie dit :

     15/09/2013 à 13:33

     Deep oceans of love.
     Earth
     also contains
     high clouds of …
     mmm…. some kind of eletrical tension

     an opposite and you’re the axis

     face on ground
     body snatch! body snatch!

     now !

     face on earth,
     centered line,
     day of birth
     (ancient rhymes)
     fix the sealing
     no more dropsdroguedog
     pin it feeling
     hoch im wind

     faith on earth, on a spin
     you choose to face
     magic twin :

     two masks and you choose one
     bad cat, body snatch

     two masks and you choose one
     good cat, unmask at or mask at

     find the balance
     in you inner fleshbodystep

157. auddie dit :

     15/09/2013 à 13:54

     enola ton er’uoy

158. Voile / Vie dit :

     15/09/2013 à 17:39

     enola eid dna enola nrob

159. art as the prototype in the age of superabundance dit :

     29/09/2013 à 16:11

     work as the elimination of cruelty
     work as the elimination of cruelty

160. auddie dit :

     29/09/2013 à 18:16

     violins not in vain
     echos in the wind
     they rebuilded my head
     warm strenght who taste mint

161. art as the prototype in the age of superabundance dit :

     30/09/2013 à 10:57

     mediocrity rules
     where quality equals the most common face
     up in new jersey they found a gigantic sea lamprey
     its neck opening right into a gaping mouth
     a straw of love
     the sadness of generations waiting in spines to be released
     meanwhile the circulation between legs goes on unnoticed
     the common face shows no sign of compassion

162. art as the prototype in the age of superabundance dit :

     30/09/2013 à 13:11

     in the capital of nihilism
     the velocity of decay
     matters
     in an infinite cycle of endings
     piles of dust
     giving birth to spirits rising with the speed of light
     to a place where god is born in every heartbeat

163. art as the prototype in the age of superabundance dit :

     30/09/2013 à 13:37

     spaceship – tar and metal
     a hull made to fit its purpose
     an environment unknown
     stardust with endless forces
     particles integrated
     around that gravity that keeps them radiating within

164. Manuel dit :

     30/09/2013 à 13:53

     I will sing you the Balad of Don Juanito
     a coming out freak spaniard espanolito
     I was there for I have my obligations
     I was singing and giving painting lessons to the world, to the world, and
     Nobody writings story forever and together and dancing dancing of sound

165. auddie dit :

     02/10/2013 à 15:51

     ………………….…↓………………………………………..↓………………………………………↓……………………………..

     →……………. In the name of love …………………. sings a gentle ghost…………………the song of a secret draw
     →……………. I switch off the feeling’s……………..stripped by long silences……………and some dark brown eyes
     →……………. heavy melody………………………….instead of abstract tunes……………is always a pleasure
     →……………. instead of getting burned……………I look at him and laugh……………….like a cold adult fire
     →……………. down by words………………………..I swallow and detune………………..repressed by the end of fear.

166. detox dit :

     02/10/2013 à 21:58

     amazing well founded balance

     moulding left and right

     without any psycho fart.

167. xoted dit :

     03/10/2013 à 09:22

     oh thank you for your post card.

168. crab tactics dit :

     03/10/2013 à 16:01

     it’s always the end of fear every time one just had a fresh punch in someone’s face
     punch or be punched – that’s the rule
     shapeshifting in real time
     but industry’s over and there’s a degree of true ugliness
     maybe it’s a symptom of decay
     it’s neither funny, nor beautiful and certainly not inspiring
     a lack of gratitude and appreciation –
     a huge shadow of connectivity
     collecting the admirers and the admired –
     there’s certainly an area
     presumably around the stomach
     which knows no forward nor backward
     just sideways – a desert
     black hole – charge and recharged in consumption, eating batteries
     if it’s for the extraction of another physical remainder
     who cares
     in the endless cycles of drainage
     an insect chain of ongoing vertebrae liquid extraction – it keeps some species alive

     we all choose how we want to be remembered
     sometimes a little reality-check does enough to adjust memory

     it’s subtle and invisible like a punch in the face

169. an emulation of something that's always ahead and behind dit :

     03/10/2013 à 16:19

     between paradigms
     lies the abyss of indignity

     taking the next steps
     simplicity and vulnerability sticking to the shoe soles
     giving a wonderful light and soft feeling in the walk, a heavy laughter clearing the lungs

170. auddie dit :

     04/10/2013 à 22:52

     ………………….…↓………………………………………..↓………………………………………↓……………………………..

     →…………….It’s always …………………….invisible like a punch ………………….to adjust memory……….
     →……………. Who cares about…………….insect chain of ongoing …………….. in someone’s face ………
     →……………. it’s subtle and ……………….charged and recharged ………………in the stomach …………
     →……………. enough to adjust…………….to be remembered……………………..to be forgotten……….

171. MANUEL dit :

     06/10/2013 à 16:18

     http://soundcloud.com/manuel-montero/joint-projects

     A FORM OF SATELLITE OF LOVE
     PISSED OFF FANTASY SMELL OF BEAUTY
     THE GOING OF POETRY SPEAKER ON THE ROAD OF FLESH
     SLEEPING CUTE SATAN ON THE BLANCKET OF THE DOOR
     COFFE ALONE
     CONVICTIONS FLASHING LIKE STUPIDOUS

172. MANUEL dit :

     06/10/2013 à 16:52

     sitting down by the fire
     i realized i was not there
     and i was alone
     not home not in your sweet chest and arms
     not kissing the boobs of my girl
     not foolish as a dog
     but smoking on the floor of a garage called
     and singing for the mean screen

173. Manuel dit :

     08/10/2013 à 00:18

     I will sing you the Balad of Don Juanito
     a coming out freak spaniard espanolito
     I was there for I have my obligations
     I was singing and giving painting lessons to the world, to the world, and
     Nobody writings story forever and together and dancing dancing of sound

174. i've been doing the dishes today dit :

     09/10/2013 à 19:24

     i’ve been doing the dishes today
     i’ve been doing the dishes the day before
     i’ve been doing the dishes two days ago
     i’ve been doing the dishes three days ago
     i’ve been doing the dishes four days ago
     i’ve been doing the dishes five days ago
     i’ve been doing the dishes six days ago
     i’ve been doing the dishes a week ago

175. brushes and peas dit :

     09/10/2013 à 23:18

     recorded breath

     trembling

     white plastic hair or black
     long neck

     bulgy eyes round mouth
     sucking in spaghetti

     realistic photographs:
     smiling a second
     before taken without permission

     gross stories unpacked
     as a time-pass
     to avoid something worse

     one on top of another

     food stained

     piles upon piles
     collecting garbage
     someone’s little paradise – holding hands in the local green area, eating ice cream,
     broken genital poetry
     one taking refuge in the other
     cutesy high-pitched dreams
     the last stand
     of dying libidoes
     in an empty world

     as long as we can blame america we’re safe

176. the red thread dit :

     15/10/2013 à 19:44

     bleeding trail

177. Anonyme dit :

     16/10/2013 à 10:18

     […] can’t erase itself

     Follow the white rabbit

     and its marxist poetry

178. the move dit :

     16/10/2013 à 14:39

     sometimes known as a spectre
     the perception of a living being or inanimate object with no material stimulus for such a perception
     soul, the incorporeal essence of a living being or inanimate object

     contents [hide]

     1 Film
     2 Television
     3 Gaming
     4 Literature
     5 Music
     5.1 Performers
     5.2 Albums
     5.3 Songs
     6 Other uses
     7 See also

179. Manuel dit :

     18/10/2013 à 17:12

     j’ai fait un tel effort à dire que ma vie était vrai
     j’ai fumé jusqu’à perdre conscience
     j’ai reçu des messages que même les anges ne rêvent pas
     j’ai commencé à lire ma bibliothèque par le livre qui traîne dans ton lit

180. Manuel dit :

     18/10/2013 à 17:25

     babies read hiéroglyphes in the rock
     over forty you’re gypsy and wealthy loser
     voice of fuckinr mama is lemon juice in a locust

181. Manuel dit :

     18/10/2013 à 17:41

     si mi vida o tu vida fueran menos tristes de contar
     las largas piernas como rios en el plano del aire de la habitacion
     los corchos menos tango
     los golpes mas idiotas
     la vida una gloria en el cartel de actualidad
     menos tango
     menos tango enfermera
     menos tango virgencita
     a la hora del café
     a la hora donde muere el gato del recuerdo y a correr
     donde explota el cine
     y el patron se cuela sin respeto cuando es joven cuando es viejo
     y te engano tanto que lo lloro sin secretos con los humedos jornales del pescado del pescado viejo

182. Illusions of grandeur dit :

     26/10/2013 à 00:04

     Better to have been broken and loved, than to have lived and never loved at all
     Ego precedes all
     The taker of everything
     Yet the receiver of none
     Illusions of grandeur

     Find solace in pain,
     Not comfort in words.
     Like Dorian Gray
     Narcissus Amaryllidaceae
     A snail in a shell.
     The first shall be the last
     Bludgeoned to death, in the dreams of unrequited « love »
     Illusions of grandeur

     Push and withdraw
     With the (un)intention to break
     Stockholm syndrome
     Four months with the FARC
     Energy drawn from the suffering of others
     Proclamation of ideals and politeness
     Illusions of grandeur,
     of left ideals, of « scenic » ideology
     Putain de beau texte!
     But, in praxi, Malcolm Middeleton´s « Ballad of Fuck All »

     Miniscule manhood
     With a quickening tongue..
     ..Stroking le chat.
     Dead mouse left on a doorstep
     Illusions of grandeur
     …
     Enough of that.

183. dependence dit :

     27/10/2013 à 12:59

     « numbers are to the monad what the branches of the tree are to the seed of the tree »
     who would deny the fruits?

     opinion – where are you coming from? where are you going?

     « wall » = something in between
     it’s a matter of choice: « outside » |||||||| « inside »
     choose: « versus » ||||||| « vice versa »
     choose the application of windows or even doors.
     the structural synthesis of me and other.

     there is a superuser named « root »
     in windows root is called « administrator »,
     which can be a group also

     the superuser can do anything and everything,
     and thus doing daily work as the superuser can be dangerous.
     you could type a command incorrectly and destroy the system.

     Ideally, you run as a user that has only the privileges needed for the task at hand.
     Writing destiny.
     Fortune Cookie of the day: « Confidence is what you feel just before you fully understand the situation. »

184. candy dit :

     30/10/2013 à 23:48

     five minutes of uh-lala drive

185. Uh-lalalala dit :

     31/10/2013 à 01:16

     « Blow as hard as you can! » — at Tauchzentrale

186. Emily Dickhead dit :

     06/12/2013 à 13:56

     I felt a funeral in my brain,
     And mourners, to and fro,
     Kept treading, treading, till it seemed
     That sense was breaking through.

     And when they all were seated,
     A service like a drum
     Kept beating, beating, till I thought
     My mind was going numb.

     And then I heard them lift a box,
     And creak across my soul
     With those same boots of lead,
     Then space began to toll

     As all the heavens were a bell,
     And Being but an ear,
     And I and silence some strange race,
     Wrecked, solitary, here.

     And then a plank in reason, broke,
     And I dropped down and down–
     And hit a world at every plunge,
     And finished knowing–then–

187. Projection dit :

     30/12/2013 à 01:30

     Thick lashes
     like spiders legs
     Humid air
     On St. Johns River
     Not Hadriens Wall
     The smell of pussy
     Turns me on
     Like the blue hair of an artist
     I couldnt stay away
     I couldnt fight it
     Succulent lips with rabbit teeth
     Speaking of Sartre and Marley
     Hope on Hadrien´s Wall
     En route for the Seychelles
     Grandfather´s dead
     Dark cancerous mass
     Eating away
     Sumptious breast
     Aurora borealis
     Or simply wet dreams of an aurora
     Red perky nipples
     Feverish dreams of a childhood of spread open legs
     A cat stroked well
     To an irregular beat
     Roland – lost on the way home
     And now
     Danakil calls.. Afar militia
     Diving for life.

188. Projection dit :

     01/01/2014 à 00:01

     The iceman cometh
     A play in four acts
     Breathing deadly air
     Freezing my thoughts
     Paralyzing my mind
     Butler Boulevard
     Raw tentacles reach for the void
     Cupcake dreams
     Colorado opens its doors
     To rid itself of vermin
     Crabcakes for dinner
     Alive in a secret place
     Life in secret places
     Moist and heavy the air hangs
     Fur coats and electric heaters
     In the sunshine state
     Wild geese on the pond
     Torrid reflections
     Wrapped in a shroud of wisdom
     With the sour taste of sex
     Deep below the earth.

189. Projection dit :

     01/01/2014 à 00:56

     Neither a borrower nor a lender be
     A borrower of souls
     And a lender of love
     Cackling geese
     A solitary firecracker
     Illuminates the sky
     Beside a lone star on a rooftop
     Bleed on the inside
     I touch myself
     The pungent smell arouses emotions
     In a land of security operations
     Choose life
     On licence plates
     Like a perciflage of Trainspotting
     Supporting homeless troops
     Donald Duck babbling on
     In a drunken stupor
     High as a kite
     Chipotle sauce
     Obese neighbours
     The pipe is lit
     One last time.

190. the turnpike dit :

     04/01/2014 à 23:58

     Blue cheese crumbles to Gascogne
     Virgin coconut oil soothes tired skin
     I have slipped inside the eye of my mind
     But the things that I find
     Make me want to fade away
     Slip and slide
     No more oasis
     Caught in a Limbo.

     Envelop me once more
     With the comfort of familiarity
     Breathe me in, so I can breathe you out
     With my last breath
     Before the ferryman takes me across the Styx
     Set me free the way only you can
     See me, like you saw me once before.

     But I don´t deserve release
     I won´t be granted my final wish
     No light at the end of the tunnel
     Forever bound to burn in eternal flames
     Like Dante´s inferno
     Chutney isn´t relish
     No salvation
     Lost in the endless corridors of my mind
     Like Hannibal Lecter
     A spiral labyrinth
     Downward bound
     Undercurrents have taken hold
     Firmly, strongly,
     An iron grip.
     Will I ever finish knowing ..
     When?

191. auddie dit :

     08/01/2014 à 20:13

     I think the sense of ubiquity that provide social networking, be everywhere, all the time, tends to equalize the values of large cities, and even to lessen, to diminish them.

     Paris, Berlin, New-York, Tokyo, Moscow, Rio, are no longer the « place to be ». That place doesn’t exist anymore. If I’m right… In this case… it may explain many of the frustrations that I can see with my contemporaries who do not know where to look or what to do.

     The ambivalence of jobs also, atmospheres and critical pressures. Many people are trapped, without even considering the possibility of a political vision of a claim. This same concept of dispute is forgotten.

     Only possible alternative: the loss, isolation, rebirth, elsewhere perhaps.

     Maybe …

192. auddie dit :

     10/01/2014 à 02:56

     ground zero of touchdown and lazer and disapearing like a bird
     one head of candy giant desire love 6 colors (no green) & saucer
     2step is a forgotten music, like tribe, plainwords and honnesty
     three channels radio in the first extracellularworld are not enough
     fourtet setup with old fashioned gears, always modern gesture
     five minutes of uh-lala drive, always modern structure
     six is not a number. it’s a trap, it’s before seven (u can’t stop)
     eight bars in a raw, slopes and vaults, we are from the vultures
     nine is a tender snapshot received back alone on a highway rain
     ten bucks for a poem. I should be rich.

     really rich

     you can’t imagine how rich

     rythms and flows and pictures and repetitions and styles and patterns and these nervous elements hidden under my tongue

     and when somebody ask you about your favorite color,

     you choosed one because of

     the

     sound

     of

     it

     .
     .
     .
     .
     .
     .
     .
     .
     .
     .
     .
     .
     .
     .
     .
     .
     .
     .
     .
     .
     .
     .
     (green, blue.. not the clor, the sound it makes in your brain)

     .
     .
     .BLM / auddie « english texts » . berlin 2014

193. the turnpike dit :

     15/01/2014 à 23:48

     rich ruby red cheeks
     blushed from the cold
     breath crystalizing in arctic air
     on the six
     tunnel vision
     döner stench
     a cascade of emotions
     muscle cramps from laps on the hamster wheel
     liberation
     from that cunt
     huxley´s neue welt
     venison from the hunter in a cranberry sauce
     minute technical details
     nothing special
     living zen.

194. the turnpike dit :

     18/01/2014 à 01:12

     On lâche rien
     Puking in lamps
     Blue is the warmest colour
     Too much wine
     Kammerkonzert
     Akkordarbeit
     Koko works at Haus am Waldsee
     But it`s still a fiction
     Vomit in a bucket
     Sued by the Chinese
     Infatuation is real
     Erta Ale
     Diving with whale sharks
     On va voir,
     We try to help each other
     I can imagine what she is feeling
     Intimacy is tried to make happy through nakedness
     Five to six months
     Working seven days a week
     Plastic pussy
     So many texts
     Oh no I just let you
     I don`t even know.

     Moi encore.

195. Manue1 dit :

     18/01/2014 à 19:27

     The best green be1ongs to the 4ast

     fortake a11 of you, and fast

     No city, no cité, no ca4ita1

     just your smi1ing 1ick on a fema1e toe

196. Manue1 dit :

     18/01/2014 à 19:37

     Katharina exce11Ent historian
     Katharina queen of the beach
     Katharina cou1d’nt meet his storian
     Katharina 4oot your tear in cheese

197. Manue1 dit :

     18/01/2014 à 19:53

     Nobody has seen her come on sexy ra4ture
     Nobody Nobody has reach the kiss

     My friend was weating to 4ower the hea1

     She said a1ways the day you a44roach my 1eve1

     She A1ways says

     Sex sex sex

     (not 4hi1oso4hy)

198. Manue1 dit :

     18/01/2014 à 20:22

     4ut this on Chinese Ambient

199. Manue1 dit :

     18/01/2014 à 22:47

     Have a s4ecia1 hate to guys simi1ar to U2 singer

     One of them send my friend 7i1y out of the window of great high

     on1y magic saved her

200. Manue1 dit :

     18/01/2014 à 22:54

     ra4ture of imagination and free 1ife
     takes great gir1s to war

     torture of my body fa11ing in he11
     today makes night become a11 of a year

     sorcery is chea4 in mud town the s4ring of wa1king roses
     sorcery is chea4 and it is too ridicu1ous not to make me rich at once

201. Manue1 dit :

     18/01/2014 à 23:04

     sorcery fai11ure disaster of witchcraft of this 41ace to be
     kan not abso1te1y enter my count nor yours nor get fixed at once
     shame on cats, shame on dogs, shame on me this night of boi1ing frogs
     my bones are rotten wood of a cast1e in S4ain
     my feet are equal to your high hee1 scanda1
     my ears are equaI to baby waIking in my dreams

202. Manue1 dit :

     19/01/2014 à 02:39

     un mé1ange de ce1a
     
     http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9GGeSZOiWjA&list=RDkKqmvNQAA5E

     et d’ambiance chinoise

203. the turnpike dit :

     22/01/2014 à 20:26

     W. B. Saloppe – The Circus Animals’ Desertion

     I sought a theme and sought for it in vain,
     I sought it daily for six weeks or so.
     Maybe at last, being but a broken man,
     I must be satisfied with my heart, although
     Winter and summer till old age began
     My circus animals were all on show,
     Those stilted boys, that burnished chariot,
     Lion and woman and the Lord knows what.

     What can I but enumerate old themes,
     First that sea-rider Oisin led by the nose
     Through three enchanted islands, allegorical dreams,
     Vain gaiety, vain battle, vain repose,
     Themes of the embittered heart, or so it seems,
     That might adorn old songs or courtly shows;
     But what cared I that set him on to ride,
     I, starved for the bosom of his faery bride.

     And then a counter-truth filled out its play,
     ‘The Countess Cathleen’ was the name I gave it;
     She, pity-crazed, had given her soul away,
     But masterful Heaven had intervened to save it.
     I thought my dear must her own soul destroy
     So did fanaticism and hate enslave it,
     And this brought forth a dream and soon enough
     This dream itself had all my thought and love.

     And when the Fool and Blind Man stole the bread
     Cuchulain fought the ungovernable sea;
     Heart-mysteries there, and yet when all is said
     It was the dream itself enchanted me:
     Character isolated by a deed
     To engross the present and dominate memory.
     Players and painted stage took all my love,
     And not those things that they were emblems of.

     Those masterful images because complete
     Grew in pure mind, but out of what began?
     A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street,
     Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,
     Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slut
     Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder’s gone,
     I must lie down where all the ladders start
     In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.

204. roy rogers junior dit :

     29/01/2014 à 02:56

     don’t wanna choose between revolt and slavery
     big tits, small tits
     death of bees or re-introducing wolves in canada
     I want to be black AND white
     women and a boy
     sad and brave
     happy and a coward
     above my speed limits
     not under your thumbs

205. the turnpike dit :

     29/01/2014 à 07:05

     i´d rather reintroduce wolves and save the bees
     than worry about pencil skirts and reintroducing 80´s prints.
     many shades of grey can be mixed from black and white
     i want to feel them all.
     emotions are only in our minds according to joko beck
     yet your thumbs felt good on my pleasure button.
     to explore my limits and expand the limits of my mind
     i shall return to the great land i left, in search of hope on hadrien´s wall
     and dormant volcanoes

206. Anonyme dit :

     30/01/2014 à 19:30

     names with other against anger private no

207. Projection dit :

     02/02/2014 à 20:02

     booze on boats
     damp feet
     frozen toes
     blinding white snow
     slushy grey mess
     trudging through spreepark
     a family saga
     witte witte winter
     peruvian destruction
     german bureaucracy
     marcel’s in the slammer
     a true cocaine ride.
     live act or acting alive?!
     ass is always greener on wiesenway five
     gigs in denmark and suisse
     american politics bind us
     on the parking lot if life.
     snuggled up on lambswool
     no chestnuts roasting on an open fire
     he burries his face in my open gaping wound
     soft pulsating pink warmth
     aching for more
     on the avenue of carl marx the great.
     lonely locks and cold tresses
     are all you’re left with
     ctm meets transmediale
     records lie dusty on empty shelves
     a sound oftimes gone by
     cold studio mimicks a home
     pulsating sweetness
     dramatic allegory
     soft black leather gloves
     mio mein mio!
     my oh my.

208. Projection dit :

     02/02/2014 à 20:22

     I imagined a world
     A better place for us
     A walk in a snowy park
     Champagne supernova in the sky
     I dreamt wistful dreams
     Til sense broke through
     Chemo dulls my senses
     Breaks my spirit
     Cuts my soul in two
     Worse than you ever did
     Rots my bones
     Scars my soul
     Worse than you ever could
     Fouls my skin
     But wasn´t enough
     Cut cut cut
     Blood blood blood
     Soft flesh so easy to remove
     Hard steel conquers all
     Chemo sterilises my dreams
     Kills my cells
     Chokes my breath
     Gasing for air
     Brutal and clear
     Deadly and here
     No more dreams for me.

209. Michel Meyer dit :

     17/02/2014 à 19:37

     just call me god

     Love flows in my veins
     I’m no more human
     Standing above the world
     watching all those tiny troubles
     affection, hate, confinement
     what the fuck is this game  ?
     I’m not human anymore
     feel more like a dinosaure
     looking for other dinosaures
     to live a decent dinosaurian life
     though I use to be human
     I’m going to miss you all
     you dirty pieces of shit
     What do you want  ?
     What do you care  ?
     can’t you just rip out of my head  ?
     You’re killing me
     with your sad stories
     but oh Jesus, I can’t forget you  !
     and I’m not shure this is
     such a good news
     for you

210. auddie dit :

     15/03/2014 à 13:34

     Night train to St Petersburg

     Crossing sharp valleys
     of beds and trolleys…
     touching dark forrests
     of feet and hairy chests…

     Night train, oh night train !
     You sound like a snoring worm
     snaking all my dreams in the rumble
     smoking the herrings in the jungle

     Night train, oh night train
     You are the ancient paths though hamony doors
     You are the melody of a non melodic world
     you make sing the poors, unchain the rich words.

211. auddie dit :

     26/04/2014 à 20:43

     un milliard moins un
     A billion minus one
     ne pas oublier de vivre
     do not forget to live
     j’ai envie de sauvagerie, de saleté,
     call me back you b

     bunny

212. honeybunny dit :

     29/04/2014 à 16:23

     sauvagerie ou connerie
     dirty bunny
     tits caked in honey
     wont do it for money

     but for a little pain
     got nothin to gain

     ring ring
     connard is falling
     bunny´s calling
     ..you out on your bs.

213. honeybunny dit :

     29/04/2014 à 20:44

     Sometimes I just wanna sit down in the dark
     on a dirty park bench
     Next to those old smelly men I feed warm meals to on Wednesday nights
     And drink cheap booze until every cell in my body reaches a stupor
     and falls into a deep slumber
     From which there can be no awakening, no return.

     But I am too afraid of the unknown
     Of what lies beyond
     That I resist the urge while constantly battling it
     Caught in this hell due to an (ir)rational fear of the next
     Trapped in the limbo of life
     No escape.

     Constantly torn apart by the pull of both worlds
     The pull of opposite poles antagonising me.

     I look in the mirror
     But who is she?
     She is not me, she is not he,
     I cannot see.

     Nor will I ever be free.

     A bird in a golden cage, but Mr. Williams, Tennessee, hath no prayer for me.

     (« A prayer for the wild at heart, kept in cages »)

214. Vincent dit :

     20/05/2014 à 00:43

     Ni la coca, ni la cola !!!

     nemidanam che manzel bood shab jayi ke man boodam;
     be har soo raghse besmel bood shab jayi ke man boodam.
     pari peykar negari sarv ghadi laleh rokhsari;
     sarapa afat-e del bood shab jayi ke man boodam.

     I wonder what was the place where I was last night,
     All around me were half-slaughtered victims of love, tossing about in agony.
     There was a nymph-like beloved with cypress-like form and tulip-like face,
     Ruthlessly playing havoc with the hearts of the lovers.

215. Vincent dit :

     20/05/2014 à 00:55

     I had that love
     Shot me like a bullet
     Heavy strong
     Like megatons…
     Gigatons !….
     Nuked me in a second
     I felt a crash,
     And a white noise
     A deep crash, I guess I removed
     Big Bang, what do I know ?
     I woke up in a desert
     Playground had turned to zero
     Ancient stones kept standing
     Dark shades covering them
     Like Photographic Sequel of bodies
     Pulverized Carbon engraved ghost
     I’m still looking at the Picture
     This piece of life frozen in matter
     Forever
     Concrete
     In the wall
     Of time

     A vous tous et ceux qui manquent.
     Aux filles et aux mères…
     A ma revie, aux seconds souffles

216. Vincent dit :

     20/05/2014 à 00:56

     Contre les élections truquées, le voyage astral…
     Banisteriopsis + Psychotria viidris = Ayahuasca
     harmaline + dmt = puissant medicament contre les mensonges et autres montages, plus renouvellement de l’adn…
     Testé et approuvé par le docteur A.Hoffman

217. blonde dit :

     11/06/2014 à 21:34

     richie and rachel, brice not nice,
     he has a house in eygalieres and toulon
     with manners and millions

      » I’m just a moody cow, pushing limits and buttons »

     we have holidays in paris and provence
     and if i only could make a deal with god
     and get him to swap our places
     but no more quest for hallelujahs

      » I’m just a moody cow, pushing limits and buttons »

     so
     well…
     nothin special, livin zen
     swedish liisa lickin my pussy
     arguing with ex for Moody stories
     best time ever: claiming pictures I did of him.

      » I’m just a moody cow, pushing limits and buttons »
      » I’m just a moody cow, pushing limits and buttons »
      » I’m just a moody cow, pushing limits and buttons »
      » I’m just a moody cow, pushing limits and buttons »

218. fuggee dit :

     23/11/2015 à 20:55

     from user to asyl,

     disa-peer 2 peer

     acid off the grid,

     foggy Seedartha

219. kiwanoid dit :

     01/12/2015 à 12:16

     http://www.kiwanoid.com
     .

     Biographie

     WITH A CRACK OF DRY SMILE, KIWANOID POSES THE BASIC QUESTIONS ABOUT THE ESTABLISHED HIERARCHIES OF MEANING WITHIN SEMIOSPHERE. NOT THE UNCONSCIOUS THEY ARE AFTER, BUT IF A TERM LIKE THAT WOULD EXIST, THE ÜBER-CONSCIOUS, THE ORDER OF THINGS HIDDEN IN THE MOST MINUSCULE OF DETAILS. RIGOR AND NEUTRALITY, ERRORISM OF THE IMAGINARY CYBORG BRAINWAVES, WICKEDLY DRY HUMOR OF TEXTUAL OPERATIONS, TRUST IN NOISE, BLIND FOLLOWING OF LOGICS OF TEXT LEADING TO META-MEANINGS AND BLANKS ARE THE MAIN NOTIONS AT OPERATION

     http://www.kiwanoid.com
     https://www.facebook.com/Kiwanoid-182387001794563

220. auddie dit :

     08/12/2015 à 03:34

     Night train to St Petersburg

     Crossing sharp valleys
     of beds and trolleys…
     touching dark forrests
     of feet and hairy chests…

     Night train, oh night train !
     You sound like a snoring worm
     You shake my dreams in the rumble
     smoke the herrings in the jungle

     Night train, oh night train
     You are the ancient paths though hamony doors
     You are the melody of a non melodic world
     you make sing the poors, unchain the rich words.

221. auddie dit :

     16/12/2015 à 18:20

     Imagine a landscape in color, at the end of the afternoon.
     That image is reflected by the eye of a bird, but it’s in black and white,

     In the background, there is a small shield, written :
     « No prayer here. Earth could hear you ».

222. auddie dit :

     07/02/2016 à 20:03

     going to partey
     floating (into) the nightey
     tight smart and punkey
     low key I obey
     …
     .
     I see all the straight lines
     I stare at the lights
     they spot my sub stances
     dreamed in my absence
     .
     .
     .
      » one eyed jack symetrie  » _ 2016 © Brieuc Le Meur

223. auddie dit :

     16/03/2016 à 07:22

     Floating in the east,
     Side, eyes dashed in approach,
     Among couch and a vaste,
     rugged cliff off the beast.

224. auddie dit :

     23/03/2016 à 19:04

     …
     …
     …
     …
     Get loose,
     the column stays,
     in the depths of the souvenirs
     in the summer dawn
     …
     …
     …

225. Charles Bernstein dit :

     31/05/2016 à 15:57

     to rosebud between
     enabling flick, so
     sallow to behave
     as if extra signage

     (extract)

     http://writing.upenn.edu/pepc/books/bernstein/rough-trades/index.html

226. Charles Bernstein dit :

     08/06/2016 à 16:23

     GETTING WISE TO THE WHEREFORES

     Vexatious visage begins blunt
     showcase, lacks a
     plumage to sputter
     inconspicuously sorrowful teeters with
     neopolitan origin
     go way to
     oily nosebleeds, kicking
     as belting
     aluminum airway
     (tends been slow)
     to rosebud between
     enabling flick, so
     sallow to behave
     as if extra signage
     promotes pommes frites, impolitic
     perusal of interior visualizations of
     cascading hollows. Clue pinpoints
     pajamas, exclusively for the
     sidereal passion to remand a
     balanced barometric mensch—
     warmer. Swaddle as may, canned
     or can not or cantankerously
     loose toothed, with
     crabbed blanket and an hysterical
     ectopic cacorhythmia—bluesy
     blouse, blustery letdown somnolence.
     Hushly hailing marginal sailing. Meaning
     have you aired the veils, festooned
     the ——. Infelicitously carnal, suckers
     for the apron’s nipple, hulled
     into.

     .
     .
     .
     .
     http://writing.upenn.edu/pepc/books/bernstein/rough-trades/poem5.html

227. menilmuschi dit :

     10/06/2016 à 00:42

     I got a, rapid fire.
     Justin stares at your wire.
     Tomcat tree, ancient wigg,
     jelly fish on my pussy

228. parsifal dit :

     20/07/2016 à 00:30

     hooked by the soft machine
     hormones at their very best
     run for a quest

     I got a funny funny ride
     right into my veins
     and I … ‘m not willing to die
     I hope you understand

     I hope youuuu
     understand.

229. parzifal dit :

     12/01/2017 à 13:17

     snow is away
     like a melting love
     who shows a way
     too blind I drove

     and the car says :
     – I’m yours

230. blm / auddie dit :

     18/02/2017 à 13:46

     – Pankow is quiet cool. Nice people. Weird and elegant houses.

     – The cafe at BBB, a new place in Ostkreuz, deco 50′ like, tastes like piss, but they have internet.

     – The weather looks like we all gonna die from depression and horror pop music.

     – The trees died already, anyway.

     – I really thought we were sunday.

231. Hannah Cowger dit :

     25/02/2017 à 16:59

     A gaggle of geese
     A pack of wolves
     A herd of sheep
     A pride of lions
     A murder of cops.

232. Bruno Gr dit :

     03/03/2017 à 18:18

     w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z___w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w_h_a_t___i_s
     ___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z___w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z___
     w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z___w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s
     ___x_y_z_w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z___w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t
     ___i_s___x_y_z___w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z___w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z
     __w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z___w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w_h_a_t___i_s___
     x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z___w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z___w_h_a_t
     ___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z___w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w_h_a_t
     ___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z___w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z___
     w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z___w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___
     x_y_z_w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z___w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s
     ___x_y_z___w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z___w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t
     ___i_s___x_y_z_w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z___w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t
     ___i_s___x_y_z___w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z___w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t
     ___i_s___x_y_z_w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z___w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t_
     __i_s___x_y_z___w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z___w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z__

233. Anonyme dit :

     03/03/2017 à 19:51

     Br_1_Gr_a_s_k_i_n_g__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w/_B_r_i_e_u_c__L_M_&_R_o_z_i_t_a__F_Br_1_Gr_a_s_k_i_n_g__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w/_B_r_i_e_u_c
     __L_M_&_R_o_z_i_t_a__F___Br_1_Gr_a_s_k_i_n_g__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w/_B_r_i_e_u_c__L_M_&_R_o_z_i_t_a__F____Br_1_Gr_a_s_k_i_n_g__w_h_a_t
     ___i_s___x_y_z_w/_B_r_i_e_u_c__L_M_&_R_o_z_i_t_a__F_____Br_1_Gr_a_s_k_i_n_g__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w/_B_r_i_e_u_c__L_M_&_R_o_z_i_t_a__F
     ______Br_1_Gr_a_s_k_i_n_g__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w/_B_r_i_e_u_c__L_M_&_R_o_z_i_t_a__F_______Br_1_Gr_a_s_k_i_n_g__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w/
     _B_r_i_e_u_c__L_M_&_R_o_z_i_t_a__F________Br_1_Gr_a_s_k_i_n_g__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w/_B_r_i_e_u_c__L_M_&_R_o_z_i_t_a__F_________Br_1_Gr
     _a_s_k_i_n_g__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w/_B_r_i_e_u_c__L_M_&_R_o_z_i_t_a__F__________Br_1_Gr_a_s_k_i_n_g__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w/_B_r_i_e_u_c__
     L_M_&_R_o_z_i_t_a__F___________Br_1_Gr_a_s_k_i_n_g__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w/_B_r_i_e_u_c__L_M_&_R_o_z_i_t_a__F____________Br_1_Gr_a_s_k_i_n_
     g__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w/_B_r_i_e_u_c__L_M_&_R_o_z_i_t_a__F_____________Br_1_Gr_a_s_k_i_n_g__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w/_B_r_i_e_u_c__L_M_&
     _R_o_z_i_t_a__F______________Br_1_Gr_a_s_k_i_n_g__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w/_B_r_i_e_u_c__L_M_&_R_o_z_i_t_a__F_______________Br_1_Gr_a_s_k_i_n_g__
     w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w/_B_r_i_e_u_c__L_M_&_R_o_z_i_t_a__F________________Br_1_Gr_a_s_k_i_n_g__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w/_B_r_i_e_u_c__L_M_&
     _R_o_z_i_t_a__F_________________Br_1_Gr_a_s_k_i_n_g__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w/_B_r_i_e_u_c__L_M_&_R_o_z_i_t_a__F__________________Br_1_Gr_
     a_s_k_i_n_g__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w/_B_r_i_e_u_c__L_M_&_R_o_z_i_t_a__F___________________Br_1_Gr_a_s_k_i_n_g__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w/_
     B_r_i_e_u_c__L_M_&_R_o_z_i_t_a__F____________________Br_1_Gr_a_s_k_i_n_g__w_h_a_t___i_s___x_y_z_w/_B_r_i_e_u_c__L_M_&_R_o_z_i_t_a__F
     _____________________
     J’aime · Répondre · 1 min

234. auddie dit :

     04/03/2017 à 17:49

     Roll not scr * star * echo
     Roll not scr * star * echoes
     Roll not scr * star * echoes o
     Roll not scr * star * echoes on
     Roll not scr * star * echoes on t
     Roll not scr * star * echoes on to
     Roll not scr * star * echoes on top
     Roll not scr * star * echoes on top n
     Roll not scr * star * echoes on top no
     Roll not scr * star * echoes on top non
     Roll not scr * star * echoes on top non s
     Roll not scr * star * echoes on top non st
     Roll not scr * star * echoes on top non sto
     Roll not scr * star * echoes on top non stop
     Roll not scr * star * echoes on top non sto
     Roll not scr * star * echoes on top non st
     Roll not scr * star * echoes on top non s
     Roll not scr * star * echoes on top non
     Roll not scr * star * echoes on top no
     Roll not scr * star * echoes on top n
     Roll not scr * star * echoes on top
     Roll not scr * star * echoes on too
     Roll not scr * star * echoes on t
     Roll not scr * star * echoes on
     Roll not scr * star * echoes o
     Roll not scr * star * echoes

235. Ai dit :

     24/03/2017 à 00:18

     to the Ai : / consider : / * delete yourself *

236. Ai dit :

     24/03/2017 à 00:19

     the Du_cks gossip
     the Ai sinks

237. Ai dit :

     24/03/2017 à 00:19

     the Truth is said ™
     f

238. auddie dit :

     25/03/2017 à 17:40

     dot reverse is reserved //  
     // for the fool only

239. gowl dit :

     29/03/2017 à 21:27

     dystopia is like, an eye disease, like myopia.

     *

     dystopia is smartphone-based

240. Bruno Gr dit :

     21/04/2017 à 19:49

     octu_or not
     is like
     under_
     zero kiloscore_

241. auddie dit :

     10/05/2017 à 08:28

     shy in front of a night sun, in the doorway
     on a future bright, paste a day
     no and me, lost thumbs and necks
     friends of Cie,
     yeah I’ll be your mirror

     Timide devant un soleil de nuit, dans l’embrasure de la porte
     Sur le brillant avenir, colle un jour
     Non et moi, pouces perdus, cous luisants
     Amis d’infortune je serai votre reflet

242. brieuc dit :

     02/06/2017 à 18:22

     Just tried the new wooden skatepark in berlin.
     I felt really lost : a vertigo.
     My vision wasn’t accurate anymore, n
     ore my 3D perception and balance.

     Dailly work on computer changed the eyes,
     the brain nervous functions web.
     I was thinking about what I was was doing.
     I was spectator of my gestures.

     Scary.

243. auddie dit :

     04/06/2017 à 01:13

     walk alone
     on diverse ways
     trap a glimpse
     of ancient days

     war on hypervein
     number seven
     feed the world
     pitch myself

     out of range
     seconds are days
     walk and hence
     hive and ray (sounds)

     I hear a voice
     it’s my low fear
     where days are years
     on the sideway
     .
     .
     .

244. stalker dit :

     22/06/2017 à 21:32

     storm in approach
     jogging or capture?
     flashs are cracks of light in-
     us-kompuder darkness

     hell’s digital kingdom
     shoot a screen and burn
     six billions brains a fall
     yeah everybody knows about!

     it’s raining bones and letters
     screaming ghosts and thunder

     now the introduction’s done :
     take the pic and run.

245. burnouted BLM dit :

     16/07/2017 à 17:59

     (is) laughing at loud when he sees weavy ravers in Ostkreuz,
     coming from the club « About Blank »
     spreaded out in the streets
     sleazy crunchy hooked junkays,
     top quality xtc,
     almost naked girls
     dirty hairy
     sweaty dudes,
     silhouettes of radio silence
     here we go again
     they are surely so happy
     I’m surely so happy

     to be out of the game

246. Miriam Glinka dit :

     19/08/2017 à 12:45

     The Internet is fucked again and medieval times are back. Again I am forced to hang out in my trashy library, just watching a man, the size of a walrus, topless, talking in highspeed to himself, while his moobes are bouncing up and down. After a while i get his conversation. I think he is commenting a Football game. He seems very happy. Its maybe not the worsed case if you dont live in reality. Hes got his own world. I am getting bored of unblurred reality. But there’s no choice as it seems. I need a switch

247. blm : scarf exchange dit :

     27/11/2017 à 02:09

     first to florish, first to fall
     like a mask on my recall

248. Sarah Grether dit :

     08/12/2017 à 00:06

     fall into a state
     the space between beyond
     to kiss the child’s face
     from where we once belonged

249. blm (stalinian princess) dit :

     09/01/2018 à 18:58

     stalinian princess
     you’re a man, not the best
     you wear metal-panties-force as dress
     when you speak, ice falls down
     your words scramble ears and ground
     does echoe a martial sound ?
     stalinian princess
     you’re a man, no godess
     don’t try to make art with this

250. auddie dit :

     26/07/2018 à 02:58

     Maltese Shipyard
     10 000 sailors
     connected towards
     a turquoise sea lord.

     Soft engines
     do ride the rim
     just where nobody goes.
     See: these ghost machines
     roasted, lost and desocialized,
     still carry
     the imagination.

251. auddie dit :

     24/09/2018 à 15:46

     we forget fast
     thee heartbeats and sparks
     down a fish restaurant

     forward she drain a rain
     of blue plastic drops
     grenade and fragments

     which takes 5 years to build up
     can’t turn cold in a thin
     rapid fire statement!

     say: we belong to the hill
     earth, winds, wires and drills
     they’re my fifth element

252. auddie - voidcaïd dit :

     16/03/2019 à 19:54

     voidcaïd
     alcaloid sparks fluf stance to go
     wonder pole
     you camp, you can’t
     brother leg is fighting you

     pome on a rigg on a mig on a moog
     six lack bored games at the airport
     düssel-fucking-dorf to bär-lin city of ghosts-lings
     a child asks for Tyron

     the one on my right reads
     the ones on my left talk
     I hope I’ll seat near the pretty woman
     adidas flower sweat shirt, jeans and white sneakers
     long fingers + long nails on busy phone
     maybe 20…
     suddenly, I’ve found some new dj names

253. voidcaïd - all good dit :

     14/04/2019 à 10:48

     when everything goes well
     poetry looks ugly on internet
     sports wheel, formica table, glossy lipstick
     2step tech on the radio, bastard meme on the go
     israel abu dabi buggatti wolkswagen
     monsanto assange
     CIA salut alicia bonjurno peter CIAO
     guys with hats in the same bar as you
     you’re happy, you’re happy, you’re happy
     and then what ?
     nothing’s more boring than a rich man
     nobody wants his life

     but me
     I’m just not in debt anymore
     …even more boring
     so many people read this
     when everything goes well
     poetry looks ugly on internet

254. María Soledad Otero dit :

     04/05/2019 à 14:37

     Standing inside a robotic world
     little characters walking,
     up and down,
     it’s just a simulation,
     impossible to figure,
     It’s in my head, it’s in my brain, it’s in me like a curse,
     They have hunted me, I am the hunter,
     please! please! let me go…
     people on the street as refugees,
     you standing in front of a mirror,
     missing,
     saying the words like as reading a book
     singing songs in May, like the ones you learn before,
     But you can not remember,
     where are you from?
     You said: here, I am from now,
     that’s enough for me.

255. auddie - berlin dit :

     22/12/2019 à 21:26

     feeling lonely
     in a material world
     in a competition
     in a shell of albumine
     zerbrechlich und trocken
     I’m talking about Berlin
     eternal railway station
     unconstructed world
     a camping here
     naked and bold
     has touched the ​bottom
     technical boredom
     where things start and restart
     but never give a hold.

     City of orange trashs and small jobs
     you’re losing your clubs
     you ARE stupid and cold
     not stupid as fuck
     you’re fucked as gold
     but, unecessary young

     like octopuss you have thousend arms
     like a spider you have hundreds of eyes
     like a dick you got a hole in the middle
     but you can’t transmitt anything to anyone

     things start and restart
     things start and restart
     things start and restart
     things start and restart

256. auddie dit :

     16/01/2020 à 23:54

     I was driving to Dreesch and then to Szczecin
     and then to Dziwnów, north Poland, not Glasgow
     without pain and sorrow
     I was driving slow

     She rolled her eyes in various matters and prayers
     She trusted me. I trusted her too
     we didn’t know each other

     at a pause at the supermarket
     my back was hurting I took a knee
     like an old friend she touched my hairs

     we got along on the same frequency
     two souls in the same state
     of emergency

257. auddie - lost people dit :

     27/01/2020 à 22:49

     lost people, do know where they are
     « where » don’t know who they are

     a plain, calm ray of sunshine
     quick as a foot,
     hand catching
     pebble treasured
     to revisit this conflict
     so long measured

258. Justin Morey - meth dit :

     02/04/2020 à 01:19

     smoking meth naked in public
     worshipping satan
     with an ak-47
     sweating radioactivity
     door to door selling 911

259. maledetta4malinconia - ghosts dit :

     27/03/2021 à 01:21

     walking through empty streets
     no traces of your existence
     did I also lose myself
     or just my childish imagination
     of what could have been
     if we weren’t who we are

260. maledetta4malinconia - zombieland dit :

     29/03/2021 à 19:51

     Only zombies left around
     Shallow shadows of ourselves
     Too lost in ourselves
     Never lost in each other

     Time had stopped for a moment
     But it was just a lucid dream
     With everything and everyone being exchangeable
     Nothing and no one is meant to remain

261. maledetta4insonnia - (no) doubt dit :

     01/04/2021 à 00:18

     Hidden in the deep and embracing darkness
     she hesitantly asked the spirits in the forest
     “was it wrong not to resist
     despite my cautionary fear?”
     “no, my sweetheart”
     they gently whispered
     “remember that
     certain things become truly visible
     only as they disappear”.

262. auddie dit :

     08/04/2021 à 17:38

     The spirits forgot to mention
     that their existencies
     were only possible
     if questions were asked

     … were asked where? she asked in a dream.

     – were asked in reality

263. Vic - dream.not dit :

     27/04/2021 à 16:52

     dreams are my reality
     but sometimes I wake up
     from a dream
     that wasn’t a dream

264. mura dit :

     05/05/2021 à 23:47

     Walking through the cement smoke
     overdressed for wine and olives weather
     leaning into my vices, aimless
     when the weekend comes I barely notice
     it’s a new day

     Brain scatters as the years go by
     Attention spread thin
     Watching the blossoms
     I must believe in spring
     Looking for more sober role models on the high street
     In the decade of self awareness, a cat startled from a nap
     Going back the way I came

265. crotale - the moth fly dit :

     08/05/2021 à 22:13

     beach boys shirt
     watch my suit
     it becomes the man
     watch my suit : mixed emotions
     watch my suit, black long hairs
     I’m the moth of all your anger
     wearing’ coat of a flying tiger.
     Now worth checkin about the bushmen :
     what do you think about the cosmos ?
     what ‘s tricky about the osmose ?
     what’s funny about the cause, moth ?
     flying down hitting the window ?
     visiting the ancient widow ?
     the world in search: it was a moonlight hunt
     It was the moon, checking, it was a moonlight chase
     that activated your lust, that triggered your flight.
     I’m the moth in a herd of morons
     I am the hippie in this false aristocracy
     and I sing in the moonlight, the rusty beat squeaked, stuck
     the rogue beat rotten
     the beat of my wings on the glass of your kitchen

266. La vicina non vicina - The bird dit :

     11/05/2021 à 20:22

     trying to catch the little not little bird in my head
     flying around in search of the lost highways to yesterday’s opportunities
     not finding the place where today’s party is
     tearing my thoughts apart, not allowing me to act smart 
     causing a tinnitus with a not officially released song of distance and longing
     predominating the voices of sanity that were never really there
     hypnotising me by imitating the moth’s libidinous looks
     but with such words spoken, no more glasses will be broken
     the merciless bird is getting me to take certain things to serious
     and wait, still making me curious
     why is your mind so far away
     from the dreamland where I stay
     because your bird belongs to another tribe
     and that you didn‘t even hide 

267. Geka - Runners dit :

     14/05/2021 à 20:28

     People are running.
     Running for fitness.
     Running for charity.
     Running after attention.
     Running after all or nothing.
     Running from satiety to emptiness.
     Running away from reality.
     Or running away from their dreams.
     Running after lost chances.
     Longing for a time machine for running back to the start.
     Running out of time for the fulfillment of all their secret wishes.
     Running from nothing to everything and from everything to nothing.
     Running after the moonlight, only to blame it for everything.
     Running into other runners.
     Running from distraction to distraction.
     Running from disillusion to disillusion.
     Running for cover from too much proximity.
     Running out of their minds.
     Not running out of physical attraction.
     Running out of wine glasses.
     Running away from emotions.
     Running away from each other.
     Still running in circles.
     Running away from themselves.
     Run, runners, run!

     Voulez-vous courir avec moi, ce soir?
     I wish that we could continue running together for a while.
     But I don’t know where my running shoes are (do you?).
     And you’re already running towards the finish line of another race.

268. Cellarmaster dit :

     16/05/2021 à 16:51

     Let’s meet downstairs in the cellar tonight.
     Yes, to pick up some broken pieces of glass.
     And I’ll also show you my formidable collection of one-winged moths.
     In the electrified cellar of my bittersweet pleasures.
     Covered with the dropped clouds of my uncried tears.
     For they shall not freeze when the moonlight is gone.

269. Geka - The dancer dit :

     17/05/2021 à 23:36

     I used to be the last one on the dance floor.
     Then out of the blue my feet felt too heavy.
     So I reconsidered my role and henceforth called myself a DJ.
     Dropping mostly lonely beats with heavy basses into the dusty air loaded with too much desperation.
     Almost loud enough to predominate the restless beat of my hungry heart, as corny as it sounds.
     Watching exhausted runners taking a rest from themselves.
     Just for one night.

     But now my feet are burning again.
     Can’t wait until the club finally closes and the fake dancers run away.
     I will hide in the toilet.
     And later become a private dancer.
     With nothing on but my never expressed desires.
     Having a forbidden dance with all the animals inside me.
     And the memories of that all too tempting look in your eyes.
     So may I ask you for this dance?
     A dance on the slippery parquet of, well who knows what this should be called?
     Shall I dye my hair red before?
     And get the well hidden broom dildo from my cellar?
     To look more like the witch that I am?
     Or just put on my sexiest dress?
     Do you mind if I’m much taller than you with high heels?
     Because that would be the only reason to wear them.
     I’m a dancer!
     Only with my dancing shoes I can rave away from feeling.
     Feeling like being just one more record in another DJ’s meaningless collection.
     Because my name is collector, too.
     In the dimly illuminated exhibition room in my castle in the clouds.

     With a little regret I realise that I accidentally scrunched something little with wings.
     I‘m the last one on the dance floor again.
     And the first one lurking greedily on the ground for new animals to come out.
     But then I fall asleep, still naked but covered with delicate souvenirs from a dance that ended too soon.
     And with the mirror ball above me, turning into a kaleidoscope.
     Alluring me with its patterns that resemble the other shoes.
     The missing ones I had used for running.
     Everybody dream now.

270. Geka - Emptyfull dit :

     22/05/2021 à 15:21

     Empty streets, full of falsely sparkling dust carrying the things that never became a past.
     Empty house, full of fading memories of the cheeky but aloof guest who was never really there.
     Empty shoe box, full of fierce doubt whether the missing shoes ever had the right size.
     Empty promises to myself, full of all too cute fairy tales about avoiding unwanted emotions.
     Empty mind, full of unintentionally erased pictures of another me.
     Empty heart, but full of unflinching hope of gently running across me again.

271. em no - you dit :

     29/05/2021 à 18:58

     I am the mother and the daughter
     the Holy one and the Scorned one.
     We are Many and No one
     We are not the Same one
     but we are All one
     I am We but its just me

     I am your shadow and your sun
     I am your mistress and your wife
     Your reflection suits me
     I am the mirror and the filter
     I am everything and nothing
     Like a sacred melody

     Give me Shame and give me Praise
     but I am the Testament of Love
     Your shadow is my gown
     and I will wear it to the Ball
     You may fear me or desire me

     But the truth is
     that I am You and you are Me

272. Comarunner dit :

     30/05/2021 à 22:11

     I thought I heard someone knocking
     but it must have been the deceitful wind
     making a fool out of me
     an acrobat in the circus of self-delusion
     a runner in a fictitious competition
     a dancer at a cancelled party

273. Aki - Awakening dit :

     05/06/2021 à 14:38

     pain, fear, anger, endless tears
     the real nightmare suddenly ended today

     this will always be like constantly riding a roller coaster
     but you are so much stronger than all the evil voices

     relief, gratitude, hope, joy
     how I wish these feelings will stay

274. auddie dit :

     11/06/2021 à 16:27

     Hipster number hundred
     talking, and talking,
     and talking loud on the street
     her boyfriend is wispering « yeah, yeah »

275. Kalinka dit :

     13/06/2021 à 13:13

     In the mood for a hardrock tango with Kasachok intervention
     and did I mention
     I was blinded by my dreams
     but here and now, they all disappeared it seems.

276. voidcaïd - you are not a product dit :

     25/06/2021 à 18:01

     you are not a product
     I’m not a product
     but if I don’t do a life time effort
     to make good art…
     then I got to do a shit job.
     and to ‘be’
     that shit job.
     Then somebody else is monetizing on « me »,
     my boss, my so called « friends »; anyone around.

     My ego has to live to embrace a wider, greater and more humble cause.
     A thicker message within the energy I give.

     Compare to this, money is just an other flower that grows between concrete slabs.

277. auddie - Woh the Shadow dit :

     09/08/2021 à 22:18

     Woh the Shadow :

     I almost live there
     since i’m driving every day
     to swim and run
     and run and swim
     to think and burn
     the stubborn trim.

     Oh, the woodyver!
     and my moody liver…
     hard like a dick on speed
     a wrench in my stomach swings
     past on time I leave.

     I stayed on a trunk
     day after day
     getting tanned and crunked
     dazing on the bay.

     I’m a blazer sailor
     walking bart on charts
     I compt all the ways
     I win all the day

     *

     Dis bonjour à l’ombre :

     Je vis presque là-bas
     puisque j’y roule tout le jour
     pour nager et courir
     et courir et nager
     pour penser et brûler
     les rognures obstinées.

     Oh ce foie de bois
     dur comme une bite sous speed
     cette… clé dans l’estomac
     s’balance
     à l’heure où je pars.

     Je suis resté sur ce tronc
     tout le jour après vous
     je me suis fait bronzer,
     je suis un…
     …marin de terre cuite.

     Je suis un marin vêtu d’un blazer
     Je marche sur des cartes à jouer
     Je compte les chemins
     gagne toute la journée.

     *

     blm. berlin

278. Advicemaster dit :

     04/09/2021 à 23:00

     Confess all your secrets to me.
     I will tell you only lies.
     Abandon your lovers.
     Sleep with your enemies instead.
     Forget all your dreams.
     But don‘t take part in reality, stay in a vacuum.
     Take all you can eat from the buffet of greed and satiety.
     Throw up first all the meaningless memories of me.
     Burn down your house.
     Live in the forest, as a sultan with a harem of toothless witches.
     Quit all your jobs.
     Work for the ministry of emptiness and indifference.
     Don’t mind the gap.
     Fall deeply into the ocean of narcissism.
     Try not to sleep, at the same time never be really awake.
     And please, always be tired (of your story).
     Treat me or any other human like an arbitrary throw-away product, a body without a soul.
     It’s ok.

279. Silbia - hope dit :

     06/09/2021 à 20:14

     Living in the water,
     looking up to the sky,
     the forest in us,
     the stranger,
     our home.

     Living in the water,
     wishing to live on the air,
     to step on a carpet
     of dry leaves,
     to wear flowers in spring.

     Living in the water,
     looking up to the sky,
     our home, our hope.

280. auddie - dance floor sweeper dit :

     07/09/2021 à 16:09

     Oh dance floor sweeper
     you’re cleaning all surfaces
     once you are the writer
     twice lost in the furnace

     Oh bungalow slow
     dance on all mighty drums
     friendships are running low
     alone with the sick rhum (term)

     Ah! Rotten and RA
     pages on the last run
     profiles are on this era
     the last highway to fun

     *
     *
     *
     *
     blm
     Berlin. 07.09.2021

281. Sarah Nevada dit :

     15/09/2021 à 16:35

     You’ll find me in the trees
     With birds n’ rainbows n’ leaves
     With sun kissed hands and bees
     Oh warm spirit of mine
     I’m so lucky for your heart time

282. Eli - an unreal encounter dit :

     26/09/2021 à 16:31

     This time there‘s no birthday cake.
     Just wicked dreams about the lake.
     The one where I‘ve never been. 
     Because I’m afraid of drowning, or what does it mean?

     I met you on the street today.
     Still not able to take the conspiracies in your mind away.
     When will you be you again?
     How much more crying in the rain?

     Do I prefer dancing in the abyss or on mountain tops?
     Obviously I can’t live without these bittersweet drops.
     If only I could charm away the darkness that you feel.
     Because the sunshine in your heart is currently clouded, but still so real.

283. Geka - Low-flying dit :

     30/04/2022 à 17:53

     I’ve been told that I’m a low-flying angel,
     at times almost touching the flames of hell.
     Why the not-anymore and not-yet seemed closer than now,
     not even the purple-eyed wizard in my nightmares can tell.

     After all, I made it to the moon.
     Waited for him to show-up, without any mask.
     But he didn’t come.
     « Who are you, and are you who you want to be? » I’d ask.

     So I started constituting another elegy.
     About the ubiquitous cacophony of attraction and turning away.
     Then suddenly, I got into the dancing mood, deconstructing my wishful thinking.
     And knowing I don’t need a phantom for the moonlight to stay.