Exhalation

Do graceful people aesthetically and emotionally enjoy their own grace?
If not, then I don’t want to be graceful.
I wish to be a consumer of grace.
At the first glimpse of it, something would awaken within me and start flowing into my veins
reach my heart in a matter of seconds constrict it then spasm it with the softest grip
and overflow to the point I would soon salivate something glowing and pure
eyes rolled back to the heavens
I would be shiny from throat to breast
from that thin, delicate liquid
that erupted at the first sight of

something graceful
coming from someone unaware of their own grace
who maybe suffers
whose mind is maybe filled with grey thoughts
craven yearnings, ugliness and despair.

J’aurais pensé qu’en se faisant connaître nos étrangetés
on se serait rencontrés vraiment
qu’en se collant peau contre peau
on se serait envahis et absorbés mais
on est toujours toi et moi
uniques différents et étrangers
séparés par un écran de peau de gélatine et d’os
on est toujours

hors de portée

(X) Dévotion

Et si je mettais sur ta peau
mes lèvres juste
à l’orée de l’ombre où ton flanc se dissipe

Et si à la lisière de la nuit j’apposais furtivement
quelque empreinte digitale à révéler plus tard
quand saupoudrée de sucre glace et de ma chair humide,
tu irais au fond de ma gorge
au clair de la lune
guetter les météores

Ma main dans ta chatte à tâtons
étroit enchâssée de tes cuisses épaisses
doigts englués en quête de corail et de perles
sur mes lèvres tu viendrais te poser
vampire, gouffre et libellule

Par les brûlures profondes de
nos peaux emmêlées
à bout de souffle
cent ans écoulés au matin
et si nous expirions alors
comme des soufrières ?

Et de ta bouche le sang
en rigoles, ruisselets, en torrents et rivières
à tes larmes mêlé m'inondant aurait des airs
de derniers sacrements.

Everything is horrifying. I'm in a constant state of horror.
Something is digging a hole inside me
tearing and shewing
something with a slimy mouth and fanged-like teeth
but human, definitely human

Notebook's tidbits

Dans le voisinage des bouleaux
à l'écorce blanche au feuillage bruissant
on peut avoir des certitudes ou au moins
des incertitudes tranquilles.

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(Ai-je l'air aussi disponible que je le suis ce soir
moi qui enivrée scrute et intensément désire
le coeur choyé par de soyeuses vapeurs éthyliques?)

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La bruine, le défilé blafard des réverbères prosternés.
Inlassablement, les essuie-glaces balaient les constellations
que la nuit postillonne sur mon pare-brise.

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Quand tu le prononces, mon nom devient
orodispersible.

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Votre voix monte tant dans les aigus
elle soulève les mots avec elle
vague haute drainant les algues
ils ne pèsent plus rien
je ne vous écoute plus.

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Immobilité de l'air. Blanc dans la lumière de la lune.
Dressant ses branches comme des imprécations.
Nuit après nuit, depuis les tréfonds de ses racines jusqu'à la cime,
il hurle;
mais autour de lui jamais rien ne tressaille.

Coercive love

First there’s a motion
then matter catches light
scattering seeds of illusion

Eyes mimicking depth
the appearance of a saint
the eeriness of your face
and your lips, scarlet paint

(Did you really think
we could become one?)

Just one steps away now
there’s a doll with claws for hands
and a face like a silvered window

Into mine dive your eyes
as I step back in terror
you’re looking for comforting lies
I’m a person not a mirror

(For I am made of bitterness, dying cells
and chattered glass)

Screaming out loud:
“if our hands hold each other,
our skins will merge, so will our blood!”

Your foolish innocence
in itself is treason
to instil love furtively
may induce fatal rejection

(Your fingers feel like chards on my body,
eyes intent and teeth bare)

Avant la nuit

L'air perd de sa transparence un court instant s'imprègne d'or
Et ça brille fort et ça étincelle comme un bouquet final
mais avec des éclat doux, clapotis de lumière
colorent avec des doigts légers nos joues qui tiédissent, papillonnent entre les cils
puis le soir advient clôt la journée
comme une paupière lourde.

trickle

Sometimes within the grand elusive machinery

I catch the glimpse of a gear and it
makes me want to cry

dry tears phantoms tears
in pretend nostalgia for illusions
I never had in the first place

But this negativity might be caused by the thick intricate mess
that is the back of my neck
said the doctor today
(the mysterious nature of the relationship between the body and the mind
truly is the scariest and prettiest thing)

Should I ever manage to find a way to unlock
the muscles and bones there
I would then let that whole body-part
unfold and unroll
until it gets
as long and smooth and contorted as a boa

the flow of softness and peacefulness
at last restored
in a symbiotic harmony.

But keys are nowhere in sight
and the tangles in my neck keep suffocating the joy, blocking its way

Only the ugliest emotions are fit to survive
in the most extreme conditions
viruses and bacteria
my thoughts
flooding in my head
drowning my brain.

Eating is one of the only easy things left to do
in this world of mine,
first-world problems girl.

I would write about actual situations
instead of talking in abstractions but I
have no sense of self-entitlement
not really

Let me talk about the real thing and I would fall to pieces
successfully excavating and removing
what little validity I allow to my emotions.

It wouldn’t be a depiction
so striking and pure like they come up with,
them word-players, magicians
but a pitiful and dissonant conglomerate of morphemes.

But why might I ask
why is one supposed to be at their artistic best
when in utmost despair?

Are people who make such claim
aware of how tiny the mind
of a depressed person comes to be?

As far away as might be from a place of beauty and transcendence
such a constricted place

In here,
the ugly stays ugly
the dreadful gets worse
the sadness mutates to apathy
all thoughts are like grey sand
intensity of any kind of feeling
gets tone down until it feels like the gauntest routine.

But perhaps...?
Perhaps such a motionless environment
is where a delicate fragile thing slowly gets to grow?
A rare bred of flower solely born amid rotten corpses – memories and dreams
- a discreet breath carefully, slowly, silently exhaled
(one is cautious not to let it get caught in their throat)

and that thing is
the purest and most precious yearning:
 

A yearning for Out

The smallest trickle - instead of the stream of gasoline
that usually keeps you going
as an incentive to live on -
now run through you but
that trickle is
quintessential.

And that is what they meant,
that such singular substance was always
the most and maybe the sole
appropriate driving force for creation

and God I really hope
that is not what they meant
and if it was
then I wish with all my might
they were the snobbish kind and misled.