MORBID DISAPPOINTMENT
These messages of love are troubadours, teaching the lesson that loving forever is “the prayer.” The orison that unsettles God in His reason, breaking Him without detour at the heart of His home. God’s eyes are filled with tears, His head in tears. His heart in pieces, memories crumble from shadow into light, dangerous evil lies in wait for me. Soul laid bare, unarmed, My body deceives itself, with a life in a test tube. The ordeal of a weakling, from shadow into light, dangerous evil lies in wait for me. Double life, double drama, My breath is fading, love cannot be bought. Neither gold nor glitter, From shadow into light, dangerous evil lies in wait for me. Wrongly pursuing the lady, White-hot or in heat, Her poison never ceases Until death, ever ready. From shadow into light, dangerous evil lies in wait for me. Dressed in black, her charm, Scorpion of my heart, All evil, mind in turmoil, My death will be your feast. From shadow into light, dangerous evil lies in wait for me.
THE DISTRACTED ONE
If you want a kiss… Mmm…! Look for me! Find me! If you want to hurt me, run far from me! If you follow me step by step Ouhhh! What a crash! If I slip beneath your sheets, Then…! I tell myself… Hurry up, boy! Me here, you not! What to do with you? If I feel like having some bo bi, then BA BA BI BO BI, me, me! If you want to kiss me, look for me, find me If you want to hurt me, run far from me. You there! Me not. I won’t move an inch. Me here, You not! BABABIBOBI! * Me, me! If you want to kiss me I don’t care about myself. I move towards you. Me here! You not! I won’t take revenge, for once. BABABIBOBI! * Me, me! for driving me mad. I wanted your heart—me. Me here! You not! You there! Me not!
RAINDROPS
Raindrops, though not gentle tears, the sun that shines and charms, both messengers of the wildest dreams! A part of me soars towards the stars above. Higher still are moments of granted love, so warm, so strong, I wager on fate. No orifice, not even in mischief, will ever replace the gentle orifice, that damp cave and more than empty, that only my yearning soul could fill.
MANNA
Her word slipped from the sky like manna. May the words I gather still resound, gilding honesty, which subtly signals to me …to present a joyful heart upon my palm. Was she a fairy, a poet, or a merry gypsy? I still drift on the echoes of her voice. So high, so far, like the flight of an ideal, a wild happiness that binds atoms. From that precious sound emerged… What am I saying?… Emanates! An imagination elaborate yet translucent, with a vibration clear as crystal, like a rare flower with precious balm. Among the artists of this planet who, like me, Côme, have long searched, as best they can, for living inspiration to help them through, could I be the one whose muse leaves an Ariadne’s thread…
THE EXISTENCE OF LOVE
Has love ever existed? I love and am not loved, Sincere and generous… I search, I search. Is this a quest for the impossible? Where to find it? Could it be a utopia? A melody of ideas. The urge to explode! To burst and pour myself out… Into the dream of a beloved. Does this love exist? Has it been born? I love tenderly. I want to live in step with my time, whirling in the same momentum. But if this muse… Love had come to me, Would I have known why?
KEEP WARM
Take me at my word. Dying of laughter To say that you know it, isn’t so bad. Keep warm. Something to say Everything is to be done. Take me at my word. Don’t turn your back. I am not. Not a Bingo card My face isn’t… Tic-tac-toe. Bingo! When my X blocks your O. My heart cries Tic-tac-toe. Words, words, oh! Oh! Oh! Mum’s the word, mouth lost. Words, words, oh! Oh! Oh! Qué tic and tac! Qué tic and tac! Qué tic and tac! Qué tic and tac! Like a train. In my bath Qué tic and tac! Qué tic and tac! Qué tic and tac! Qué tic and tac! Watch in hand, take my hand, the day after tomorrow. Father, mother Permanent. Lose now, but allow it. Speak before… After, it’s the wind. With the bit between its teeth! Through words and games. Oh! Oh! Oh! Mum’s the word, mouth lost. When my X blocks your O, My heart cries Tic-tac-toe.
MIRRORED REVERIES
Yours. The one that isn’t. The one that will never be. I dreamed of holding a dream. Mine. The one born from… …the dreams you dream. I dreamed of creating dreams. A game that does not exist That searches for gold. We all dream unique dreams. Dressed in a tunic. We dream that we are eating. I dreamed of choosing my dreams. Then selling them at auction, Until none were left.
SPELLING CLAWS
Here I am, standing before you. A leaf trembles less than I do. Too many raw emotions! Quickly, I imagine my own hand Slapping me outright To set me straight. You read aloud. Bewildered. Mistakes burst forth in cascades. Farewell, delicate ideas! I should have waited until tomorrow… Polish the wrapping. Redo my homework. Come on! I had been told, after all, To proofread myself so I could grow. Ah! Foolishness persists. Here comes the clever one’s embarrassment… The peacock’s shame. Oh! my French… Québécois. I wanted my joy Immense… enough to make me shiver. What do you want me to say? Would correcting myself be in vain? Stress, like a lock, Has padlocked my crazy brain. Like a killjoy clown, I say: Look at my nose! Look! Go ahead and laugh your fill. My spelling leaves you unsatisfied. My nose, far too attentive, Sought only intoxicating love. And this one… I had lost it. No trace left: no draft, no proof. So I summoned the digital shadow, A breath of faceless ink. It returned my words to me—or their reflection— And I signed, shaken, but grateful.
ROSEBUD
Like a rosebud In the morning, all dewy, The first word of prose, The end of emptiness Or the beginning of something else. My soul has returned. Had it fled?… Lost. It found me barren! Sickly and morose, Around its neck, it took the reins Towards the void that unsettles. But my soul has returned. In a strange pose. I was then, greedily, searching For reasons behind andropause… With one quick glance I saw you, like a flower in bloom! Yes, it has returned, For I have a soul only at the sight of you.
FEATHER PEN
If I had the pen of your friend, the author, I would let the words fly away without fear, spread their wings diaphanous, glowing. Near you they would surrender as my heart does not dare. If I had the pen of your friend, the author, I would invent new echoes that would never die; they would repeat, for you, beautiful one, sounds that brush lightly, that whirl without frightening anyone at any hour. If I had the pen of your friend, the author, my verses would be flesh at rest, stones of colour, velvet and sparks. Like a heart touched by a finger, that would burst with sheer happiness. Ah! If only… I would be a poet of the mists and emperor of the moon.
SECRETS
One day, I hope for words… Words that will be gentle or grave, Perhaps released all at once, Breaking free from their cage. They will play upon the ego, To loosen hidden wounds, Like a hero’s tears Flowing without cease, Drowning strength and courage. Yes! I have dreamed of such words, Gathered like a small village, Washed clean of every rumour. They will let secrets take flight, Yours and mine… in wisdom.
THE CHILD AND THE SEA
A child, feet in the water, Wondered where the sea had come from. “Where do these beautiful, proud waves come from?” He said aloud. He searched for more and more words, To find an answer to his fancy. But a tear made the mystery well up in his child’s heart. To console himself for his troubles, He picked up a shell from the ground. And held it to his ear, already familiar With the sound of the ocean and its echoes. “Why are you crying, bambino?” He heard from that singular voice. Without being surprised by the stranger Who sowed a jumble in his head. He repeated the same words, Much like yesterday’s: “I want to know where the sea comes from. To understand why it is so beautiful.” “Little one, get your brain working. Think very hard about your mother. You know that she too comes from a mother, And that we can go back even farther. In fact, do you see the level of the ocean? Where boats and hot-air balloons disappear? That is where mothers and the sea come from. From that place where everything is but a stream. You think that is far away, little hero? Don’t worry, look behind you. Together, they are both your nurturers. For your mother drinks beside the stream. Down her throat descends a drop of water, Which, like the very first one on earth, Hoped to grow vast and become sea. And become the jewel of life.” The child received this answer as a gift, And concluded from his companion’s words: “Thank you, I understand that Mom is a sea, That resembles this drop of water. Whether I am here or in a castle, To better myself and find delight, I need only look at my mother, For she is the most beautiful thing there is.”
FREE ZONES
Between two free zones, I soared high and happy, Natural and balanced, Playing my own games. I wandered through fragmented dreams, Singing my fire even higher; Laughing only, avoiding wrinkles And the first grey in my hair. Indulging in arid dreams, In rain-soaked loves, Clinging to acidic exchanges, Forgetting to be true and brave. Then you arrive, like a timid angel, Awakening me to good, to better things, Erasing foul nightmares within me And thorny paths. Thus, cleansed and lucid, I formed archaic vows Forged by my pale and frigid soul, Which you, muse and companion, breathe towards God.
SO MUCH, SO MANY
So many love songs, So many poems, So many beautiful writings, Already invented. So many little words, So many tender feelings, From admirers to their beloveds, Already confided. So many glances, So many smiles, So many tender experiences, Have been felt. There is so much, so much That I would love! So much of everything That I would love to give. But in creation, There is no exclusivity. So many troubadours I would love to see inspired, Living through you.
WIND OF OBLIVION
A wind of spirit drives oblivion away. It gives life back. Like a rebirth. Like the Renaissance.