la mienne incruste
la bêtise des pavillons
mangez-vous en saison
 
soif de réalité revisitée
à déchirer mes insomnies
le chat sale le chat
 
ça finira toujours plus tard que prévu
des souvenirs
s’il pleut de l’azur
 
je suis tannée de prendre l’air pour fuir le pont

quelque part
à l’ombre des néons du labo
la nature au son du téléviseur
 
de n’avoir pas de pattes à leur chaise
avoir une idée dans ma boîte crânienne
murmura-t-il en jouissant de ses grasses matinées
 
les dirigeants révolutionnaires
à attraper ton téléphone

jusqu’où irons-nous en road trip
Twitter est une pelle mécanique fluette
je ne te dirai pas ce que je referai
 
les strophes s’assombrissent là où il faut détruire
c’est l’éveil
le cadavre le saloon l’hôpital je te connais
 
soir
le choix est impossible

Every night the mind of the sun strikes a chasm through the mountains. But a part of us remained out there in the empty halls. And only thought of the lines, of the way they resembled, the way they coloured and charmed and I don’t know what. The view was hopeless. I had fallen out of a spotted sleep and into a deep melancholy and now I drove on through the sorrow of the landscape.

You described the cars, their drive, their noise. Like that. And another day: This is what my dreams looked like at the time. When I ran my fingers across the shadows, a wound screamed out from deep inside the white of the bones. When I see you. And down through the skin to the bones, glittering-glittering, and through the bones until darkness merges with marrow. Desertion. Assertion.

The black night is unfathomable, blindly I walk. In the night a distant voice had almost fallen asleep. In the evening, the light seemed to move closer to my skin and there is a happiness flickering in front of my eyes. And words, and words, and. Darkness we just called darkness and let its blanket pull itself into the day like a turbulent cloud filled with the most fragile gravity.

Someone has turned his sweater inside out. In the images, my language had become hostile: And another day: The intimacy in writing The eyes barely touching the pages. When I woke up, I was certain: Like sitting on a tongue, just looking out there. I wrote nothing down in that period. Over the rubble. Under the blue, blue sky. If only you spoke with silence, but you said nothing.

The plain turns into darkness and stone.

The books rested around the coffee. When I think of that place, I think it is beyond everything. And that sky; was a crazy day. I read your lines The first couple of days still quiver in the top layers of my skin.

I wrote myself into a frenzy back then. From the smallest details we find, every morning – in the shining light that is bright – our way into the most important scientific truths.

The mind of the sun. The someone listened to the woods. In the sunlight we quiver like something resembling a precious stone resembling a glittering from the depths of the earth. Star continent.

The cloud hid something from the birds. The Town of Avedöre, three forgotten bars of a pop hit.The Town of Avedöre, three forgotten bars of a pop hit. The Town of Avedöre, three forgotten bars of a pop hit. The Town of Avedöre, three forgotten bars of a pop hit.

Through the hole in the fence. In the images, my language had become hostile: Somewhere in there is a small sparkling green. Now I sail on dawn’s canopy of light. Where does ruined language want to go? Through the hole in the fence. I flick through the pages of some random book. And another day: Behind the diamonds. The someone listened to the woods. I get the day going, writing quietly.