Ce sombre nuage bât la chamade
En plein coeur de cette forêt
De tous ces hostiles camarades
Rompus à entendre tous ces secrets
Les vents courent de plus belle
Et le froid hêle ces insultes
A notre voile bien réelle
Celle qui brisa tant de tumultes
Comment peux-tu encore
A respirer cette mort
A préserver ta vertu ?
Tous les tourments de lumière
Ont disparu de ce bas monde
Insensible, droit et fier
Il ne perdra plus aucune seconde
L’unique fois aura suffi
A briser toute celles
Qu’il a maintenant trahies
Eteintes toutes étincelles
Comment faire alors ?
Pour éviter tes pièges
Qui, enfouis en ton corps
M’ont changé en neige ?
La vague glaciale casse et saborde
Toute l’âme des souvenirs perdus
Tous retenus au bout de la corde
De toutes nos forces confondues
La confusion règne et nous frappe
Chacun chasse ses chastes discordes
Ne faire que fusion de toutes nappes
Les sentiments s’empilent alors en ordre
Est-ce ici encore
Est-ce en cette saison
Cet ultime poison ?
02F30, 28 novembre 2011
Les chocs, les maux,
Les cicatrices sur l’email
Les blessures de batailles
Le poids traître de ces mots
On persiste à se faire mal
On s’intoxique à notre façon
On garde nos petites addictions
A vouloir le tout lacrymal
La douleur privée d’espoir
La solution à l’insoutenable
La délivrance impitoyable
L’intolérable refuge de l’art
Il faut pourtant mourir
Il faut quitter en un jour
Il faut oublier que l’amour
A tué l’esprit de ce sourire
Sans destruction perdurent
Ces pertes cruelles et fatales
Sans la beauté de ces pétales
Qui enfin secs, iront aux ordures
Mon seul espoir est le néant
La disparition, tout simplement
Je ne pourrai plus exister sans mal
J’ai perdu à jamais mon idéal
02F30, 16 novembre 2011
C’est sans une lueur d’espoir
Que j’ai revu tes yeux
Le noir complet de mes voeux
Ne se reflètent pas en miroir
La vie n’épargne donc rien
de mes bonheurs, de mes rêves
Et plonge jusqu’à la sève
Lame acérée pour mon bien
Tu me l’avais dit toi-même
Cette âme est pleinement noire
Et replonge chaque soir
Dans les abîmes où je sème
Ce vide en moi qui se creuse
N’absorbe pas la moindre lumière
Le refuge d’une solitude fière
La fierté d’une âme amoureuse
C’en est fini, te forcer d’y croire
Les aléas des illusions
Cette dépendance, ces prisons
Je ne veux plus jamais te revoir
02F30, jeudi 10 novembre 2011
C’est sans un nuage
Que cette pluie est arrivée
Un temps enlevé,
Jamais revenu à la nage
Dans ces liquides confusions
Rien ne fait de choisir
Et malgré maints moites plaisirs
Tout n’est resté que fusion
Ces angoisses à distance
Le lien de deux rivages
Qui sans même voir leurs visages
Vivent le contact des substances
Et on parvient à sourir
Des souffrances infligées
Des désespoirs, des lâchetés
De la toute beauté des souvenirs
Je donnerais toute mon âme
A contre courant, obstiné
Je persiste à vouloir traverser
Ce béant abîme amalgame
Mais une fois l’eau engouffrée
Ces deux tristes rivages
Se séparent d’âge en âge
Sans espoir de se retrouver
02F30, lundi 7 novembre 2011
Through the skies
It left this morning. This strange feeling of guilt, of being incomplete, of desire and lost dreams. There was nothing left.
As I was looking away from everything my sight needed to see, my eyes just couldn’t get away from the skies. My heart started pounding harder, faster. Getting out of my chest. My ears starting to heat up, and this damn tinnitus starting to boil up again in my eardrum. A strange feeling grabs me. I feel profoundly disembodied.
However, I’m still sitting perfectly still, pretending to be fully concentrated on my work. Of course. My colleagues have no idea. They never do.
As I look further across the reflections, reminiscent of my 5th grade window neon light flashes, I notice that all through the clouds, I’m there, flying away. Across the skies. It has left me. It’s lost. Or maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m lost. I don’t know what these words mean anymore. There’s absolutely nothing left, and I even hear these desperate words the way I’d listen to a pathetic love song in a nonchalantly half inserted earplug earphone. “Maybe I’m lost”. Pathetic.
The dreams, ideas and nostalgia, they don’t make it to my brain cells anymore. They just slide away, fly away, low above the surface, like a seagull speeding like hell above a sea with no wave at all. No wave. Nothing.
But still my body’s burning up. I feel sick now. Have to get a breath of fresh air. I’m litterally choking. I need to take a look at the skies without that thick skyscraper glass wall in between. I need to feel alive. I can’t. Even outside, even laying down, staring at the sky, there is no relief anymore from that dull, lingering pain.
I realize, the soul is something you can experience, especially when it leaves you. You head feels light as air, flying through the skies, while your body, devitalized, is burning up in hell.
Now, please, make me feel alive.
She lived on 25th floor. Sometimes, she woke up in the clouds.
Everything was white and pure. On her bed, she felt like floating through thin air. There was nothing but white tongues of light water vapour caressing the windows, leaving moist, and giving an exhilerating sensation of speed.
She closed her eyes and felt the sheets slide between her thighs. She enjoyed the sensation for a moment, eyes closed, her full lips slightly open. I could even hear a very very slight sigh coming out of the back of her throat. A sigh that could barely be heard, but this very sigh resonated in my chest, and made my stomach feel like I had been starving for days and weeks.
Up there, lost in the middle of the sky, she was happy. I had made her happy. And noone else could have made her happy. And she sighed, as though this happiness was natural, just about the cloud, the sheets, the 25th floor.
I was as transparent as the cloud, caressing her thighs, leaving a bit of moist, passing by fast, leaving this exhilerating sensation of speed.
Photograph © AstralPotErsatz
Nowhere to be found
She just woke up from a bad dream. The sheets, tangled over her long wavy hair, weighed almost a thousand.
It takes her a few seconds to escape from her choke, and get a clean chunk of oxygen. Her eyes are ungluing themselves slowly, mixing up the late morning lights with a blurry grey cloud, that moved swiftly upwards, from the bottom of the tight wool matress to the freshly painted ceiling.
It all might have been because of last night. Everything got drowned in an unusual abundance of white. The snowflakes, the rum and coconut, the cheesecake, the drugs. She had been drowned. Her head was moving further and further away from the surface of the swimming pool, and above was that white chlorine vapours, ascending in the dry winter cold.
But this morning, she could not get rid of that cloud, that had been staying in the room for minutes and minutes now. The chlorine stench became unbearable, so she decided it was finally the right moment to get away from all this, take a clean break, and escape in the country.
She was nowhere to be found, before, and after that happened.
Photograph © Lissy Elle
Can you really admit you are getting worse at something ?
Time goes by and your eyes learn and see artefacts of what life is made of. The more you know, the less stupid you get.
However, being wise can harm you: At one point, knowledge becomes enemy of all action ; understanding is paralysis and you have no choice but to regret what you have done or to use your brains to find some dishonest interpretation to all that.
That is precisely why I love the fact I am mentioning Paul Feyerabend’s Epistemological anarchism. It looks deadly relevant, though I just found out about it a moment ago. I could have afforded to get away with looking smart with that, but the truth is it will add to my tremendous “must-reads” list.
In a few years, I will have understood, and I will finally understand that I might have been wrong about the whole thing in the first place, thus proving my very point.
Guys, we just enunciated a paradox.
Good night, thanks.
Photograph © Brion Nuda Rosch