my alcoholism reared from the most respectable cultural sources: and ferocious. nothing than masturbation. the night sky was gently lit, it was such a peace as you realize that one of them can approach
 
pressed. i am not. his groans as another déja-vu is my kami kaze urge our love is an old alcoholic: with our little tea cups on the royal path between the esophagus and the liver.

are you?
give you a word, an aid to thinking: grater.
and the unfamiliar is modelled on the familiar.
 
the myth of life on earth is a dream come true.the myth of life on earth is a dream come true.
a ticking mouth, wandering.
oh, the above is both prayer and command.
 
ordinary people will run away.
to live close to death is only practical.

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.