Poetry
2016
FR/EN
PROPHECY
We are packs of vanity-thirsty dogs crossing time
Our consciousness has crashed onto the highway
like puddles of abandoned lives
flowing through the midst of a rest-area landscape
Our empty jaws
out of despair
search for one last drop of day
to breathe
a light without weariness
This feeling of oneself
a mixture of colours
that means very little
And not to forget
to keep
a sad shape
for remembrance
And of course
to remember
that the flowers’ water
must be changed
lest sadness wither
The skin of angels turned inside out
no longer shines
and the clay dogs
have dried their tears
A nest of infortune
for a bird
fallen from grace
You seek to understand the intention
of your torturers
There is none
This night of quality
in a suit of quality
Men murder our hopes
This memory of forgetting
when shadow
breathes
appearances
a garment
Blind
in winter
to leave
the labyrinth
One should be able
to say fuck
but
with beauty
The sound of death
It is night
when I weep
and my tears
breathe
the sound of death
The dream-dictater
with the cold mouth
The laundry weeping at the bottom
of the bathtub
To light a candle to bless
the forgotten
The intimate caress of flowers.
Fog of impatience
The Day of Red.
Chained to misery
these blind dogs
guide our nightmares
The fruit is eaten
Like a cannibal we devour
our soaked entrails
The mouth closed
to remember
that burns
are useless initiations
To make grey with words
a kind of porridge
and fill the empty spaces
Grey pages
to wait for something to happen
A kind of recipe
when there is nothing to say
Grey pages of porridge between us
and a labyrinth where the silent exit
ceased to cry
To lose it
My hands keep
the memory of poison
I would like
to wash them
endlessly
Pages of signs written
on the back of time
clinging
to the sweat of forbidden verbs
To underline with mud
the line
of this shared horizon
The longer frontier
To piss into the mouths
of donkeys
Effort
Seated
on a double chair
A hard tongue
going into the mouth
And the sex
separated
Spoiled sidewalks
have lost consciousness
Their expiration date passed
they can no longer do anything
but follow a path
filled with shit
and suffering
The collapsed huts
of winter
The earth turned over
And the dead
still receiving mail
Embedded in the heart
an animal jaw
that does not lie
Wounded eyes
in the swaying of time
That graceless flirtation
that discreet discourse
clinging to the wall
of papers washed
with weariness
In this caravan
a woman watching
hundreds of confessions
Lost spit
Sobs of betrayal
Slaps of insomnia
And the sex
separated
The external law
takes over
The matrix
is a door
Wounds on every foot
Everyone goes somewhere
A gift of courage
in the arms
to cross the river
Two chairs on a bed
Jackets for dogs
Repression
passes through the mask
that covers
the fertility of this mouth
that touches
the Real
the germ
To turn one’s eyes
away from Heaven
To turn against oneself
To piss water
And the wounded hair
Servitude
I felt hot
my head hurt
The disorder
of these rotten mattresses
dragging their stench
of those sleepless nights
Sucking
to open
one’s name
A weary skull
suspended from memory of things
The mouth of the river
Memories locked away
Those architects
who built these cities
The world’s sorrow
The passage
Vertical
The nest
Curtain lowered
laden with habits
forgotten phrases
nameless colors
worn elastic
a heap of falling things
Wounds of solitude
in lost skies
The river of abandonment
moving away
And the open sky
visible from nowhere
The mud of the beginning
A bone-tree
The body
filled with boredom
He has lost
his tongue of lies
I remember
those wounded eyes
that smell of train
dirty and damp
that cold rain
all those rotten hours
A painting without delight
In that extinguished light
accidents of certainty
That language of myth
within the everyday
of days.
Like a frozen hell
the next dream
turns the page
Things have come to pass
A maternal matter
within the matrix
of the hand.
Kotsuhiroi
Winter 2016