A lover’s farewell song

What is blood to the moon but an alien wetness ?

What are the fading of your senses to Saturne’s rings?
How does the sun feel about your increasingly irregular heartbeat? About the flutter of your eyes?

The softness of your skin, your breathtaking beauty: they do not matter to the stars.

And Mars has no business with your pained breath that I watch so closely.

Your fear, your anguish, your unfaltering devotion to me. They truly mean nothing, not a single thing

to the universe.

My love,

You are but the product of a hazard, dissipating.

There have been countless of you before you, and a few more at the same time, a futile event lost in a sea of futility.

Why does love exist?
Is it a desperate attempt from our brains to give meaning to things, to make sense of this life?

Why does love exist? And if it must exist,

 Why do you have to die?

A polite individual is half-erased

They spend all your early years sanding your rough patches, your asperities
toning you down
doing their best to enhance whatever seemed to go in the right direction with the least turbulences

You are a successful adult, well-adjusted to society
when you are as smooth as a pebble
Polished. Polite.
I wish my growth had knocked over hearts
turned buildings upside down
ripped open oceans
But I didn't make a single ripple
I swallowed back anything that was about to overflow
time and again
and it crushed my insides little by little
leaving me in the end
forever imploding
as soft and inocuous on the outside
as a tiny glass marble

yet as on the verge of deafening you with mad roars of pain on the inside
as just about any other girl.

Rotten Lemon

I keep squeezing and squeezing wounds but nothing precious, nothing quite quintessential ever comes out
Nothing revelatory
I keep spraying blank pages with tomato sauce or drops of my sticky lymph
it is like nothing run down my veins but the premisses of blood

The only season there is

I can't accept this loneliness. Sometimes the urge to share is overwhelming. To save time, might as well throw myself into a wall. If nothing can't ever be conveyed in all its purity, then what is the point of anything?
We need our illusions
Lucidity is a trap. You're wasting your time trying to look at things as they really are.
Run.
Drown yourself in your fantasies.
Learn to breath underwater. 

Forget there ever was a surface.
There is no relief in truth:
we are much too random.

If I love you enough I'll make up a God for you
I'll make you up stories with heroes bound by destiny and fate
If I love you enough
I'll swear to you you were made for big things
and that your wishes will be fulfilled eventually
that we transcend each other
"I thought it wasn't possible
but look at us"

I'll weave you the most beautiful lies
to keep us warm
Keep us warm and safe
at all of Winter's nights

Puzzle pieces

Like some codes seem to make more sense before they are broken, you meant something to me as long you were wrapped in queerness and mistery. Now that you lay here, bare, revealed, milk-white skin covered in sweat, you turn out to be as absurd as everything else. Like an image beautiful and magic, torn down to puzzle pieces to reveal it's intrinsic nature - which is what? A handful of atoms thrown down at the stars
that landed here, close to me,

could have landed somewhere else, could have taken any other shape.

I'm not home outside

I'm not home outside. Being home, really home, means being relaxed. I'm not relaxed outside. I'm on guard and ready to snap; ready to fight. You can't take me by surprise. I won't lay comfortably here with soft limbs.

I'll bite. This is what the outside calls for: a certain amount of stiffness; a readiness to bite.

Someday my prince

One day when I cannot stand it anymore I'll either be brave and jump
Or be a coward and jump

Leaving behind one way or another this crippling bitterness that seem to have settled in my heart.
Thinking about old age and death is for when you're not fighting. Too much underserved leisure time. We pay a price.
Must we explore all of our own recesses, all of our creases to get a sense of who we are and feel that life is indeed a gift?

Must we be always 100 percent awake and aware? When is the time for drifting and wandering? When is the time to lie down? When is the time for softness, slowness and ushered whispers? Is it forbidden to the lazy ones, the cowards, the closeted?

When we're not fighting our way out

we stay in limbo and we feel it
so
acutely.

The very second we stop trying we start falling. The closest we can get to victory is in the movement of fighting. But victory itself is out of reach and we must accept it.

But victory itself is 

out of reach

and we must accept it.

An imaginary aim to keep us sane.

We dream of sublime rewards, of paradises
We tell ourselves our best lies
to ward off despair.

For all I am isn't much

For all I feel isn't much
For all I think isn't much
For all I fear and all I love
Isn't much

I think it's worth a scream
It's worth cutting myself open and pour everything
Blood and organs and dreams
Spill it
on the floor

And say to the crowd drawn in by the scent of raw flesh and drama

Look this is all of me
All that's going to waste now or eventually
And that wasn't much


That was close to nothing.

**

We are but a pathetic bunch of rats crying for attention and approval at an empty sky
'Till the end of time we will yearn to fill up voids.

La lune de jour

Visible les jours de grand soleil et d'air frais en automne, la lune est quasi transparente, semble l'enveloppe d'elle-même; semble sa peau, qui aurait conservé l'ébauche de ses formes. Mue ronde et pâle abandonnée dans le ciel.

Fantôme minéral.

Qu'est-ce que t'en sais?

Qu'est ce t'en sais? Tu sais pas.
Peut-être que tu seras comme moi une pré-trentenaire pathétique
A ne pas supporter de voir filer entre tes doigts ton statut de jeune
Qu'est ce t'en sais?
Avec ton arrogance, ton acuité ta fraîcheur, ton ignorance
Tu crois que tu fais mieux que les jeunes d'avant? Jeune je l'ai été avant toi
Et ton père, et ta mère, ton voisin et le mec qui vit à 14 mille km d'ici et tout ceux qui sont vieux et tout ceux qui sont morts

Et toi tu fais comme eux avant toi : tu crois que t'es la première.

Daydreams

I daydream of death. The somewhat soothing prospect of an end. I daydream about being unfit for this world - so unbelievably rough as experienced from a scrawny, feeble little soul. It's just daydreaming though, the daydreams of an immature mind. It doesn't come from any hardened resolve, some kind of profound truth that I was able to face. I haven't given up yet - I haven't had the courage to give up yet - a prospect so dreadful - I'm just playing with ideas and cliches. The answer to a felt, hopeless void can only be death. In between there can only be pain and illusions. And cowardly, I'm living for what I consider as illusions. Nothing, no one can ever fill me. I'm just in for more ugly hidden pain. Still I live on, passively. Deep down I feel slightly disgusted with myself. But that's ok, I'm used to self-induced nausea now. Someone please tell me this though: how is it that I keep fantasizing so ardently about being saved?