DO NOT FORGET
I will never forget. I will never forget the good, the bad. I will never forget the beautiful, the vile. Wherever you are, wherever I go. I will never forget. I will never forget. I will never forget. I will never forget the good, the bad. I will never forget the beautiful, the vile. For so long I tried to kill your soul, to erase you. No matter! I will never forget.
ADOLESCENT MEMORIES
In a dark and dusty attic, Among piled-up toys, a puppet searches for love. He searches night and day, among the stuffed dolls. They answer him eagerly. He asks them gently, they reply harshly. With countless reasons, saving themselves from the situation. “Me? I prefer the tin soldiers!” “No! I do not like demons!” Others speak much the same… “To you, I prefer teddy bears!” While some refuse even to hear him… “You are not even worth the gingerbread man!” All this wounds him deeply. He cannot help but cry. And yet he still searches for her, that doll with velvet eyes.
THE VOID
I can hold a conversation with anyone! Even with silence. And if it does not answer me, I tell it… tell it… tell it… “Stick out your tongue, Sir Void, so that I may sit upon it!” Solitude. A total and perfect intimacy between silence and me. Solitude—an opportunity for connection, for friendship, between my consciousness and my unconscious.
INSPIRATION
It is not enough to wait for inspiration. One must prepare for it. One must be patient if it does not arrive. For she adorns herself, arranges her hair to be even more beautiful. So that the chosen, inspired one may recognize her and realize that she is speaking to him. If he is patient enough not to lose her… when the flame passes through him, he will seize it, he will kiss her and she will kiss him. His unconscious will fraternize with his conscious mind. It will be a love of three. A kind of emotional ecstasy. Like a touch of gratitude toward the muse.
UTOPIA
I will marry utopia. I will invite that unattainable one into my home. I will approach her at the risk of my freedom! The impossible hypnotizes me, yet lights my horizon. I see her there, hidden beyond wisdom. I found her in a child’s dream. I cannot let her go. She clings to my hands and draws herself across my eyes.
MELTING
When the sun with a phantasmagoric heart begins to melt, softly, subtly, like a woman of unknown pleasures, sliding upon a sea of vanished desires, gazing at her memories lost in time’s mirror, it dreams of returning, of finding those magical ages again.
BITTER SADNESS
To love… A sin? A madness? A burden dragged through life. A growing bitterness born of obsessive refusal. A marvelous dream that ends… when chains of boredom frighten even she who enchants. Without knowing she kills, she haunts. The thought of not knowing where to fly. Of ignoring which path to take… Choosing a way out of that bitter state, to flee far from embarrassment. Sadness, sourness, harshness. Confusion without end. An ineffable sensation of dream, utopian love, of fable.
THE VOW
Never shall our eyes share a glance for the two of us. Yet an impossible vow has bound me to you. Like a naïve soul that consumes the sacred, the unknown absence. And light bursts forth, despite my ignorance. You are like an untouchable virgin. Who am I? Who are we? No one in time will dare believe what we… will become in eternity.
BLONDE MOON
Blonde moon that shines, nourishment of life, Shimmering intoxication of choices, dancing, gliding within me. You return to me, my friend, the tender and cherished desire for harmony, for a law, for a happy and upright heart! To strike down black and gray, through love, that unjust magic. Star that stirs my fear, I love you, you. Sweet strange young woman, blonde who unsettles me, you overturn my heart. Ignoring me, looking elsewhere. You move me, transform me. You amaze me, blend me. I hope for one day, one hour… when hope becomes happiness! Sweet strange young woman, blonde who unsettles me, I offer you my life gently, you refuse… and I fear it. Why fear the angel? The light, the being who exchanges? Come touch my glow, my love, your depths. Sweet strange young woman! You move me, transform me. You amaze me, blend me.
CONTRARIETY
One woman struck me down. Another finished me. Why does God refuse… that I be loved? Why is He so stingy… with gentle destinies? Am I cruel, arrogant? A liar or obsessed? Why does He refuse… that I be loved? Love can make one live, enchant. It will suffocate me, burn me, kill me! Why is He so stingy… with gentle destinies?
VOYAGE
To travel on this stranded ship? Risk my skin, my dreams, and my sins? Quick! Set it afloat so it may sail again, to relive those bitter hurricanes. Raise up these fears, these tears, this sickness and nausea, cast me upon the dreaded route… From soul-weariness and a life of hardship, to drown love, the fire of my hell. Sail toward that treasure of worn-out times. Find it by instinct, then carry it… Across virgin lands white with light. Draw upon them a thousand borders in ink. Rediscover, night and day, these territories, those sad lands that allow themselves to be seen. They, whose spring is but a black winter, will console my former existence. To merge with these places, images of the past. Drink the ocean, she who forgot me, through this ship of fragile temper— my dark memory, twisted beyond measure.
DO I HAVE A CHOICE?
Do I have the choice to believe in eternity? Whether it be nothingness or infinity. Do I have the choice to believe in every religious possibility of survival after death? Do I have the choice to hope for something beyond my life? Do I have the choice to draw from my unconscious all that I need in order to believe in “life after life”? Do I have the choice to risk others’ hatred or their deceptive esteem, if it is the only way for me to believe in a possible eternal love? Do I have the choice to consider myself mad, if madness is a possible path toward fulfilling a dream? Do I have the choice to fight for a dream… to the point of bleeding my imagination dry? Do I have the choice to believe? Do I have the choice to let others believe when I could become certainty? Do I have the choice to erase what is written? Do I have the choice to deny the existence of the ninety-nine others? Do I not have the right to risk death for the lives of others? Do I have the choice to go as far as the sacred? Do I have the choice? Do I have the choice to provoke my conscience at the risk of losing all hope, however small? Do I have the choice to attempt the impossible? Do I have the choice to love her in the only way I can prove it? Do I have the choice to look at those images that make me believe in her life… and think of her death? Do I have the choice to provoke my conscience by being cruel, if it brings me happiness? Do I have the choice to look death straight in the eyes? Do I have the choice to let myself be rocked by life, if it is through life that I can think? Do I have the choice to love my flesh when I know I cannot even touch her hair? Do I have the choice? Do I have the choice to love all that lives if it is through life that she existed? Do I have the choice to empty my heart by exorcising myself if it is to grow? I am a cold heart. A heart without emotion. I love. But I love without knowing what it is.
FAIRIES
I often encounter fairies, in dreams or in reality. They fascinate me with their beauty, and enchant me even through cruelty. I wish to offer my wild ideas, to sing, to cry out my desire to help, the burned witches… those forsaken ones, frustrated by the laws of strangers. This desire, in innocence, awakened a fairy, hidden far within my life, fatal hourglass. A character maturely, gently dreamed, who cannot save… not yet! But perhaps she spoke to me? Advising me to apologize with care, to the brat who climbed to the third landing, seeking a soul to soothe him. The deceiver was stunned! He regrets the insult to the fairy of the duchy, who, shaken by the troubled intruder, fears him and flees, offended. The saving fairy adds… that I should turn away from the beauty’s eyes, so that the future may greet me, as magician, as sorcerer.
BRIEF MOMENTS
Do moments arise in people’s lives, where intuition and wild imagination live in the same house? Each at once, like children playing ball with inspiration. Striking the current of the world of the living, turning fools into charming jesters.
MY MIND
The wind rises in my mind, like a gentle pressing hand, delicately urging genius on, psychic life into euphoria. The wind sways and dances in rhythm, comes and goes with fortune, with destiny or the immense. Its diligence is to keep dreaming. The wind flies high, yet low as well. It loses me when it changes attire, when it loses the north in the night. By morning we find ourselves dressed in boredom! But when, for the sun, it sings the ground note, the virgin trembles and follows the sound in flight. Until the new moon, tender and frivolous. She crowns herself fairy and offers my breath as tribute.
SAD LIFE
My life is sad and gray. I search for humor that brushes, touches the heart like a breeze, and laughter bouncing inside a mouth wide as a church.
I KNOW
I know, I feel, I listen, I hear. The time for silence has passed. My cry was silver, But your silence… falls asleep. Nothing was said. All is dead. I know, I feel, I listen, I hear. These breaths within you, that precede me, have played with my conscience, like a lyre without strings, without resonance.
VOID
I am a roll empty of meaning, yet unique. Coloring the wax, justifying the worst! I dance to the hellish noises of the street. To make life, remake it!!! A tempestuous, exhaustive, notarial character. Crushing the cloud suffocated by beer. Manipulating deodorant gas, scented with morning water. Suffocate! Crush!… Burst! Eternal post of luminous elixirs, vibrating from the intestines of President Baby Duck, smiling beast despite a flogging, one-directional, vacant stare. Beware of eyes slicing through multiplied neon sounds, with worn pencils of mathematicians with old beards and grimy glasses. I am a roll empty of meaning, yet unique.
THE DISCIPLE AND THE MUSE
To cross mountains and rivers upon a muse’s back. Carrying the disciple in her arms. Fleeing the neural profits of imagination. Intrinsic and tearing the cephalic envelope, with a gesture as brutal as decadent. Slaughtering one another thanks to the hospice of a long knife made of sweet bananas. I emancipate, I stretch like a kangaroo in flight, leaping over opportunities to adulterate words, through words… forgetting the evil word. Yes!… I… I… I… I! Seek the muse, find her at any cost! Otherwise she traps you in a net woven from the hazards of life. But this muse is not of your choosing.