PROPHECY

VERSION FRANÇAISE

We are packs of vanity-thirsty dogs 

roaming time

our consciousnesses crashed on the highway 

like puddles of neglected lives 

that flow in the middle of the landscape 

of rest area

our empty  maws by despair

are seeking a last drop of day

to breathe light

without fatigue

this sense of self

a mixture of colors

that doesn’t mean much

then don't forget to keep 

a sad shape for memory 

and remember of course to change

the water of the flower to prevent sadness

from fading

 
 
 

reversed angels’ skin

doesn't shine anymore and the clay dogs 

have dried their tears

a misfortune nest for the bird

in disgrace

 
 
 
 

you seek to understand the intention

of your torturers

there is none

 
 
 
 

this quality night

in a quality suit

men murdering our hopes

 
 

this memory of oblivion when shadow

breathes

appearances

a garment

 
 
 
 

blind in Winter

get out of the labyrinth

 

we should be able to say ‘fuck’ but with

beauty

 
 
 
 

death noise

it's dark when I cry and my tears

breathe a death noise

 
 
 

the cold-mouthed dictator of dreams, 

the laundry crying at the bottom of the tub

lighting a candle to bless the forgotten

the intimate caress of flowers

fog of impatience

 
 
 
 
 

red’s day

 
 
 
 

chained to misery these blind dogs 

are guiding our nightmares

the fruit is eaten, 

we devour our own soaking entrails

as a cannibal

mouth closed to remember that

burns are unnecessary initiations

 
 
 
 

whould create gray out of words

some kind of mush

filling in the blanks

gray pages waiting for some

thing to happen

a kind of recipe when there is nothing

to say

gray pages of mush between us and

a labyrinth where the mute exit has ceased

shouting

 
 
 

losing him

 
 
 

my hands are keeping memory of the poison

I would like to wash them forever

 

pages of signs written on the back

of time

that stick to the sweat

of forbidden verbs

highlight the line with mud of this

torn horizon 

the longer border

 
 
 

pissing into donkeys' mouth

 
 

effort

sitting in a double chair

a hard thong digging into the mouth

and the split vagina

 
 
 

rotten sidewalks lost knowledge

exceeding their deadline, they can't

follow anything more than a path filled 

with shit and suffering

collapsedWinter cabins 

the moved soil and the dead still 

receiving mail

 

planted in the heart an animal jaw

that doesn’t lie

the wounded eyes in the swing of time

this graceless flirting,

this discrete speech

that sticks to the wall papers washed with fatigue 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

in this caravan a woman looking

hundreds of confessions

lost sputum

sobs of treason

slaps of insomnia

and the split vagina

 
 

the external law takes over

 
 
 
 
 
 

matrix is a door

 
 
 

wounds at each foot

everyone is going somewhere

a bravery gift in the arms

to cross the river

 
Kotsuhiroi ©
 
 
 
 
 
 

repression passes by the mask

that covers

the fertility of this mouth which affects

the real

the germ

turning the eye away from heaven 

turning against oneself

 

two chairs on a bed

jackets for dogs

 
 
 
 

pissing water

and wounded hair

servitude

I was hot, headache

disorder of these rotten mattresses

dragging their stench 

of those sleepless night

 
 
 
 
 

sucking

to open his name

tired skull in suspension of the memory 

of things

the mouth of the river

memories locked

 
 

those architects who built these cities

sorrow of the world

 
 

the vertical

passage

the nest

curtain down

full of habits

of forgotten sentences

of nameless colors

of tired elastic

a pile of things that fall


wounds of solitude in lost

skies

 
 
 

the river of abandon away

open sky visible from nowhere

the mud of the beginning

a tree-bone


the body filled with boredom

he lost his tongue of lies

 

hair in my hand

a maternal material in the matrix

of the hand

Kotsuhiroi

summer 2015

VERSION FRANÇAISE

 

I remember those wounded eyes

this smell of train

dirty and wet

of this cold rain

of all these rotten hours


a painting without delight

in this extinguished light 

accidents of certainty

this myth language 

in the daily life of days


like a frozen hell

the following dream turns the page

things have been made