Every means of communication what is call languages are mysteries
I am a foreigner in an insulated capsule
I taste. I explore. I take samples to try and break loneliness
I'm learning. Maybe, one day, I will be truely able to write and talk.

samedi 29 octobre 2011

Doom of Exiles by Sylvia Plath

Now we, returning from the vaulted domes
Of our colossal sleep, come home to find
A tall metropolis of catacombs
Erected down the gangways of our mind.

Green alleys where we reveled have become
The infernal haunt of demon dangers;
Both seraph song and violins are dumb;
Each clock tick consecrates the death of strangers

Backward we traveled to reclaim the day
Before we fell, like Icarus, undone;
All we find are altars in decay
And profane words scrawled black across the sun.

Still, stubbornly we try to crack the nut
In which the riddle of our race is shut.

dimanche 28 août 2011

Strip Joint by Ellumbra (2011)

Would you strip away
All that is warm with hope,
Full of promise,
With the scalpel of your curiosity,
Pare me to skeletal bone,
Enchained forever by your sight,
Your eyes,
Your knowing,
A camera, to steal another soul,
A cage, repealing flight,
A pot, in which to miniaturise,
Is that who you would have me be,
A confirmation of mortality?

read more @ : Cloudpillows (Ellumbra)

mercredi 24 août 2011

stuck in a puddle

how is it ?
not really disgusting
this mud feeling
glued methink
is not such a big tale
let it pass

but now
I 'm slowly sinking

dream's time

I can't see the way

Shadowed words all around
like alien jellyfisches
so sweet so tight so bright

I wish
I wish you could fly me
once more
but it seems
flashing its white teeth
stucks me in that puddle
with a drifting breath

à Joséphine, tursiops amicus 

mercredi 25 mai 2011

Poppies in July by Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

Little poppies, little hell flames,
Do you do no harm?

You flicker. I cannot touch you.
I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burns.

And it exhausts me to watch you
Flickering like that, wrinkly and clear red, like the skin of a mouth.

A mouth just bloodied.
Little bloody skirts!

There are fumes that I cannot touch.
Where are your opiates, your nauseous capsules?

If I could bleed, or sleep! —
If my mouth could marry a hurt like that!

Or your liquors seep to me, in this glass capsule,
Dulling and stilling.

But colorless. Colorless.

samedi 2 avril 2011

After Moreau (Jeffrey Ford)

"Tell me something I don't know," I said. Till then, it's roots and leaves, fucking in the wallow, and bobbing in the flow, dreaming of the cosmos. Infrequently, there's an uncertain memory of my family I left behind in the old life but the river's current mercifully whisks that vague impression of pale faces to the sea.

After Moreau A fiction by J. Ford  

samedi 12 février 2011

Out in the dark par Philip Edward THOMAS (1978-1917)

Out in the dark over the snow
The fallow fawns invisible go
With the fallow doe ;
And the winds blow
Fast as the stars are slow.

Stealthily the dark haunts round
And, when the lamp goes, without sound
At a swifter bound
Than the swiftest hound,
Arrives, and all else is drowned ;

And star and I and wind and deer,
Are in the dark together, - near,
Yet far, - and fear
Drums on my ear
In that sage company drear.


How weak and little is the light,
All the universe of sight,
Love and delight,
Before the might,
If you love it not, of night.