Rêves de Foudre


When you told me that dreams are made of spasms
I giggled and uneasily caressed your arm
And when you told me that when you wake up
For the first few seconds you hear the core of the earth
Like you hear your heartbeat
When your breath ran out in the long dive
I starred at you impatiently and asked
When you were going to cut off the rubbish
And you replied within the thunder of the earth
That you hear the song only for a few times
That you see the dust around you lighting up
And dancing on the edge of time
In the echo of this beat
Yet I told you not to hassle me
I told you that the choices have been made
The pulse exists no more
The song does not reach here any more
I rose from the long dive of your words
And told you that if you crave for spasms
I will offer you one for the end
You looked at me and your eyes
Were pretty
I had made them, they didn’t even blink
While I dragged the dream to the light
You didn’t even blink
When I opened my eyes at the peak of the spasm
I smiled victoriously
That I heard no core or beat
But the cigarette would have been sweeter
If you had only blinked.

Novocaine


Let it out and you will see them
Worn-out knees, arms extended
Amphorae full of honey to offer
Let it out and you will see
Deathly facades, filled with lust
Staring at the nest, thirsty for dirt
Let it out and you will see them
Wrapped in songs, porters of an oblivion
That’s never forgotten and never returns
Let it out and they will come.

Here I keep it, locked
Here I keep it in heavy chains
Not searching for citizens, not hungry for life
Here I have it, under my heel
On the dark soil that stinks and smokes
Here I keep it locked
I can no longer stand it barfing its breath
On everything that blooms, on everything I love.

Let it out and they will learn
What you are worth, what you drag, what you want
Where you come from and what you go by
Let it out and they will see
Let it out and they will know
What you’re made of and what keeps you there
The lewd wounds jabbed with blood
Let it out and they will know
Let it out and they will cry
For the wrong that is you and they no longer defy
Their dry eyes solely give birth to sand
Let it out
And they shall be saved.

Here I keep it, locked
Here I keep it with nails through its neck
Its Gods are not missing, it’s craving for wreck
Here I have it, with the rope around its throat
Far from my own self’s crooked orbit
Here I keep it locked
Not enduring the laughter of war
Not sustaining the scent of the smoke.

Let it out and you will learn
What you’re made of, which snake you hold in your palms
To which end you move forward, in which madness you match
Whom you’re taking down with you, whom you betray and where
Which dreams you would live in if you woke up elsewhere
Let it out and you will know
The world how it ends
How the time grows older
And the blossom decays
Let it out and you will learn
To look and to see
To cherish the doom
And to bear the end
Let it out and you will see.

It looks back at me
It smiles
And lights up a smoke
And asks:
“What’s the worse that can happen?”

And I have no ready answer
I cannot think one wrong
That will be good enough
And I blush just a little
That I must for once dawn
With the way to explain
That I can no more infer
What to do to myself.

“What’s the worse that can happen?”
And it is no consolation
And it is no solace
It’s the premise of an old design
It’s the search for a toast
For a spondee, a sacrifice.

But what is there to say
What to say when the ashes don’t burn
What to say when the grand
If are little
They burn out so fast
What to find and to speak
What to find and to lose

This I respond
This I ask
“What do I have to lose?”
And it is no consolation
And it is no solace.

Falling Leaves


It was, he told me, at the Yellow Leaves Square
Underneath the blue steeple with the dead clock
It was, he told me, there where he first saw her
She waved with her breath at the Other Sky
The Other Days, the full of lament
She came as they all did, that’s what he told me
Yet something wiggled deep in her shadow
It was, he told me, when she feared
That he was made of bad clay, or sand
Whether, he told me, he would dry her immaculate bloom
She held, he told me, a fire within her palms
Such of the Christians at the pilgrimage
The face was pure white, the picture blurry
But among the pale hands, thin lines sparkled
Such people draw, he told me, in their beginnings.

I knew naught to tell her, he told me, ashamed
Fists tight in the coat, a grin made of snow
It was, he told me, like speaking to an alien son
Afraid you might forget and spill the spell that cracks
And so he sat, he told me, quiet with his chin against his chest
Until the din caught him, caressed the words
And he felt far within his soul the night bending
And like some orbits of a planet without a star, the pace got quicker
How could he speak, he told me, that he lived to die?
How do you tell the old king that his walls have fallen?
How do you tell the sick child there will come no other day?
How could he speak that, unlike her, he could dream not?
It was, he told me once, at the Yellow Leaves Square
Underneath the blue steeple, those hours when it tolls no more
It was, he told me once, there where he only saw her
When smiling he slipped away from her hands and from the light
And shedding tears of frigid sand, he forgot how to love the world.

D-Day


The current days have no limits
But only distance
That, which is separated by two tracks.

No night will ever change such orbits
It might just make the red traffic lights
Appear silver – just that.

The current days make no circles
What arrives knows its time well
And passes it on to those that forget to depart.

There are no wrongs or truths
Inasmuch as the rails might have names
The wheels will always slide in parallel.

There are no more perilous bridges
And in a clichéd counterbalance
There are no hand breaks either.

And the long distance which you have covered
Don’t ever calculate it as a percentage of the total
Because velocity will refute you.

It is nothing special, really
Steam, oil, gas, really
Aromatic hydrocarbons.

The frozen landscapes from the window
Will no more be photographs of blinks
If you come and sit in the front next to the driver.

In the front seat, smoking is permitted
And the ticket collectors are waiters
Of dark chocolate – to each his own.

In the front seat, smoking is permitted
And the promises are Gordian
You know, such that cannot be loosened – only cut.

You know

Yet not with such swords
Only when the Iron Age comes
Will the debarkation ever be legitimate.