Write and share your own texts
language : english (room) / genre : contemporary poetry
mode : scroll down / write / insert pseudo & anti spam chapka / post /
share the URL on fb
enjoy !
Write and share your own texts
language : english (room) / genre : contemporary poetry
mode : scroll down / write / insert pseudo & anti spam chapka / post /
share the URL on fb
enjoy !
write and share your own work
language : english (room) / contemporary poetry
scroll down / write / pseudo / chapka / post / share URL on fb
enjoy !
we all remember
hollydays in amsterdam
when life was light but the trip heavy
money stolen by violent guys in an empty street
**
**
**
we eat rocks
break stoks
eat fox
real foxes
lone gun
pure fun
magne
omni
** ** **
Blotti dans les draps d’une invention
Je. Ralentirai le temps.
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…)
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
.
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
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.
:
:
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
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
.
=/
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.
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
*
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.
$$
I can make one phone call
to the King of spirits in deep night
he will open all the palaces in the island of fair Isis
if he minds as he does.
There is no crowd to listen
but a single king in the body of an angel
trembling because of the knowledge
alone, alone
he watches TV as an ancient river
to make him purified,
he is the king of spirits
on the theater of interior bullfighting
he speaks from deep night to me.
Me, Myself And I
from Billy Hollyday to the hard rock of L7
are all females.
Vamps in Russ Meyer movies
turn to intelligent slaves when you are intoxicated
so the period of fairie queene makes you poet.
It’s tough that girl-friends and moon could
inspire a song of destruction,
where rules of music are distorted by queer.
I have seen the bleeding heads
on the neck-lace of a dark skinned
goddess, and fair on it,
like If I was in permanent war with the top of mankind.
As if she was the other one in my life
the black goddess was in accordance
to my wills of prince and poet.
Me, Myself and I
are all females,
so one of them is fair Death
and this is impossible to know which one
is going to deliver you from the two others.
I was killed on a rock and roll concert in 1992
since I am a spirit and a soul
without body,
only a neck-lace of bleeding heads.
Who are you this night ?
I am the same.
So tachycardia is the life
of ageing spirits,
killed many years ago.
Is soul going to call spirit ?
Just dial on the medecin door of each planet
the code, the number
of fair and wonder,
spirit will come down on you
to closer Death allow to drive you here and now.
You, my soul, are a princess, a fair,
you are called Eve because you are a portion
of the father.
You don’t want emptyness, and you dance to feel
of better spirits, of voices of children on your ear, your fair ear.
Now I wait the morning and the end of night
whispering cigarettes to my soul fair Eve
because of the light magic on domestic fire.
I think on people I know on the book of illusion.
$$
:
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.
:
*
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.
::
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
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
Sapphic dreams is wet dreams
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
with bones which sounds like marimbas
a keyboard for fever
a tango for ever
comes marching 1, 2, 3
with the mud dealer
,…cause im beautiful.who said that?!doesnt matter i have to believe-yes you should!but its weird,…definitely after that all.
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
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
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
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
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 »
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
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
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
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
run fast, run wild
the beasts are looking for you
all dressed in black
like sorrow on your desk
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 …
Bzzz the fly
along your side
while thinking that :
« my mama never taught me
how to cook. »
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
When the girl who mean justice
is under a cocain tree
her eye scarf fall from her eyes
to her beautiful feet
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.
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…
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
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
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
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
faut être misogyne
faut passer par là
elles te mangent vivant, les femmes, sinon, tu es de la tartine
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!
crooked name record
raw fency
fancy you
the oboes vessels
sounds when
the clouscape heroes meets
baba-o-rhum zeroes
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)
never. I’m determined by my own idiocraty. not really a higher power… I like to remain the good, scripted by efficient efforts.
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……………………….
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 ..
Hipshake gunning kick start and I’m running
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
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
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
…
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
Shakespeare is not courteous love
cruelty and wilderness of a foxy thought
is it not this the best of any courteous love ?
« 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!)
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.
…
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.
…
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.
nobody’s leading
I am
hihi :)
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.
life’s a monolog
on stereo legs
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
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?
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
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
« Buxtehude, where the dogs bark with the tail. »
……………………………….._
……………………………….U ‘.
wau wau……………. ___ . / /
wau………………..~ ( _ . . . )
………………………..{ { ..{ {
Ouais, mais maintenant si tu étais Apollinaire, faut voir d’une tranchée à l’autre.
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.
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.
…
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.
…
…
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
…
« There is a crack on everything,
That’s how the light gets in »
Leonard Cohen.
…
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
…
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.
the air conditionar
is like ocean reef
toucan solide
en sa demeure
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.
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
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.
Rewind Script glance Tell Soft Cell Libération Weiter laufen Skybambi Antwort böse, weil, warum? substrat aux riches Sub traurig. fin de transmission.
com on get me com on get me
crass crass crass crass crass
hélas hélas hélas hélas hélas
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
American
Way
Of
Death
Trough rivers of internet,
facebook screams like morbid dogs
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
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
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
…
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
…
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.
Hello !
Just a short message to know more about somebody from » Palo Alto, California, United States » …
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
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.
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
nobody’sleading
[20:09:57] Ed Flis:
sweaty men, dancing
i love to see their penis
let’s take some drugs now
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.
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
maximum
0
– 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
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.
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
this a provocation between the peopople, from the people
and for that you will do things that people will never understand
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
This chicks really make me go Ronal Reagan
The kick really makes me do Aaron Bradley
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
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
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
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
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
Run Run
Black Leather Paw
pink stain
limp…
Run Run
Anyway
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
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.
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
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.
windowglass
touching outside in
the abstract sun
———–>
refined thinking movement expanding
<———–
laughing a story
*without quote signs and bubbles
growing a new limb
there’s a wind howling
outside the new day rises
hands moving the rest
there’s a move holding
inside the old bellies (lakes)
gravity’s hiding the best
monsters sounds are poping the surface
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.
.
.
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
humble
i lie
waiting
shrowded in darkness
raw
open
twisted
tangled
torn
yum yum and bee queen
harmony among and between
the full skull of my cock free sing
crazy crazy lord
oh yo yo the charm is never killed
just a minute, and the warm kid bill
comes over and over now
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
je suis un des rares cas qui existent dans le monde de fumeur pas débrouillard
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
stumbling blindly
into oblivion
grasping, groping
clutching thin air
blundering onwards
bludgeoned
flailing
falling
fucked.
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
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.
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
Fromage
from age
foraged wisdom
from aged
furrowed brows
from age
furtive knowledge
from age
fictional fraud
..forever scorned
all fur ladies
all Venuses
come haunt
my brain like a sex of a victim
trembling down
pissing bombs go easy
fuck stockings of blue decay
fever nothing sucking the lipstick
let me see the pissing one
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
« 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.
liquid day
flat tire
africa
rendez-vous
‘ seems like tryin to forget takes more time than tryin’ to know (secret of the universe)
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.
it’s beautifull
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 ?
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
but
HE
don’t
CHANGE
He’s always there
for YOU
I send merry kisses
to spitting milk and honey lonesome horses
and i dream on a casttle
where i find a key
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.
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…
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
Punctured flesh
Pierced breast
Biopsy me
Mamography
ruins Autopbiography
Scar tissue
Avoided issue
Don´t you wish you
Never knew
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.
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
enola ton er’uoy
enola eid dna enola nrob
work as the elimination of cruelty
work as the elimination of cruelty
violins not in vain
echos in the wind
they rebuilded my head
warm strenght who taste mint
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
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
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
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
………………….…↓………………………………………..↓………………………………………↓……………………………..
→……………. 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.
amazing well founded balance
moulding left and right
without any psycho fart.
oh thank you for your post card.
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
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
………………….…↓………………………………………..↓………………………………………↓……………………………..
→…………….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……….
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
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
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
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
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
bleeding trail
[…] can’t erase itself
Follow the white rabbit
and its marxist poetry
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
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
babies read hiéroglyphes in the rock
over forty you’re gypsy and wealthy loser
voice of fuckinr mama is lemon juice in a locust
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
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.
« 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. »
five minutes of uh-lala drive
« Blow as hard as you can! » — at Tauchzentrale
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–
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.
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.
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.
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?
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 …
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
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.
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.
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
Katharina exce11Ent historian
Katharina queen of the beach
Katharina cou1d’nt meet his storian
Katharina 4oot your tear in cheese
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)
4ut this on Chinese Ambient
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
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
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
un mé1ange de ce1a
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9GGeSZOiWjA&list=RDkKqmvNQAA5E
et d’ambiance chinoise
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.
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
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
names with other against anger private no
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.
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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 »)
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.
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
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
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 »
from user to asyl,
disa-peer 2 peer
acid off the grid,
foggy Seedartha
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
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.
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 ».
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
Floating in the east,
Side, eyes dashed in approach,
Among couch and a vaste,
rugged cliff off the beast.
…
…
…
…
Get loose,
the column stays,
in the depths of the souvenirs
in the summer dawn
…
…
…
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
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
I got a, rapid fire.
Justin stares at your wire.
Tomcat tree, ancient wigg,
jelly fish on my pussy
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.
snow is away
like a melting love
who shows a way
too blind I drove
and the car says :
– I’m yours
– 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.
A gaggle of geese
A pack of wolves
A herd of sheep
A pride of lions
A murder of cops.
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__
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
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
to the Ai : / consider : / * delete yourself *
the Du_cks gossip
the Ai sinks
the Truth is said ™
f
dot reverse is reserved //
// for the fool only
dystopia is like, an eye disease, like myopia.
*
dystopia is smartphone-based
octu_or not
is like
under_
zero kiloscore_
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
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.
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
.
.
.
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.
(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
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
first to florish, first to fall
like a mask on my recall
fall into a state
the space between beyond
to kiss the child’s face
from where we once belonged
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
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.
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
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
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
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.
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
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
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
smoking meth naked in public
worshipping satan
with an ak-47
sweating radioactivity
door to door selling 911
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
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
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”.
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
dreams are my reality
but sometimes I wake up
from a dream
that wasn’t a dream
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
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
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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
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
Hipster number hundred
talking, and talking,
and talking loud on the street
her boyfriend is wispering « yeah, yeah »
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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
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
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.
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.