Catégorie : Écriture libre

The mirror

_

You’re a mirror to me

An image I refuse to see

The glass reflects

tempest and thunder

wrestling men and

red mimosas

My profile is scattered

in the hundred pieces

of shattered glass

Strawberries, meringue and whipped cream

–

Sour fruits chopped in quarters

Crispy chickens’ periods and sugar

Flagellated milk turned into

an afterparty

Edit : I’m not a dessert, I’m a mess

A bunch of flowers

–

A bunch of flowers

Took me by surprise

Petals rising

Enveloping me

Like a hive for its bees

I surrender

Pistil erect

Intoxicating

flavours for the nose

right in the middle of

the night

Let me remind you of

the hangers

They would make a beautiful

bunch of flowers

Baby mustard

–

Baby mustard is crawling in the playground

Where the storks buried their eggs

And two little girls are making broth

From sage, chocolate and cinnamon

When really it’s a pile of mud and a bunch of grass

A stick to stir the pot

Closer to a chopped trunk

than a pot – 

Really

–

Feeding baby mustard water

it will swim in puddles

and change socks

Feeding baby mustard cookie

and it will climb into the sky,

becomes a pro xylophone player

or an olympic runner

–

Don’t let it burn your nose

from the power of its limbs

Collection : Argument with myself

What I did and didn’t (or you can’t forget)

I quit my job

I left my discount on hold

I left my account unattended

I didn’t call back

I went through the mountain on my own

I torn the curtains

I destroyed the television

I killed the mouse

I bumped into my past

I bumped into my last

in the street in the tube in the pub

I drank all the Ayran

I vomited the sour beers

I vomited the apple tart

from McDonalds

I broke up

I demolished my ambitions

I only do private tuition

I wore my Crocs

I worn out my Crocs

I cut my lips in two

This is what I’m capable of

I blew up my own parliament 

I didn’t get caught

No one set me on fire

I said I wouldn’t see him again

until one of us die

You’ll miss my funerals

I’ll miss your first baby

and the second

Perhaps a glimpse of the third

under the red lights

one night of April

I fissured the mirror

I printed an issue of myself

Several issues

The first one is called The Crisis –

An Hymn to the Autistic Child

I walked under the bridge

on top of the rats and the rusty metal

I nearly slashed my feet

this is what you do when you’re sixteen

I slammed the doors very –

not that very 

hard

I choked on the mackerel’s bone

I’m doing a side job

I’m doing an easy job

I’m not doing a real job

I’m doing a leftover job

I’m doing a scrap job

I’m doing a crap job

I’m doing a crumbly job

I’m doing a job you don’t tell anyone

I received a text from my therapist saying 

I’m magic

I’m not forgiving 

especially myself

I am a failure

I don’t count

I am on silence

I ran out of battery

I’m unreachable

I’m taking the bus

I’m forgetting who 

I’m forgetting what 

I’m forgetting how

You might as well be in Australia

From what I know you’re not here

with me 

You might as well be fighting a spider

or a kangaroo

You might as well write me a letter

You might as well cry me a river

You might as well come back

and it’s too late

I grew out of my misery

You might as well be a cop on duty

You might as well be in Kosovo

You might as well send me floppy disks

You might as well come back

and I’m a damaged little soul

You might as well left me unanswered

You might as well called me a maniac 

You might as well called me a nymph

You might as well think I’m unworthy

You might as well come back

and this is the least I care about

Oï oï said –

never mind

The beer make your mind sharper

The cold make you body shiver

I’ve been sneezed on

I’ve been cried to

I’ve been cuddled by

I’ve been looked down

I’ve been talked through

I’ve been everywhere

and everything

I can’t be angry

I’m infuriated instead

I hear the bells

saying

You can’t bang your head

You can’t punch the pillow

You can’t scream 

You can’t say you hate yourself

You can’t throw the scissors on the floor

You can’t be mad

You can’t be sad

otherwise you gonna end up in the

so-called

so close 

mental hospital

If you try to forget

forget your thoughts no –

that’s the only thing you can do

You can’t forget

The cheapest kettle on Argos

A terrific piece of pitch black plastic

adjusting to its new life

in an unfurnished flat

The limescale will be running

Like a disease

there is no vaccine for that

You’ve turned 30 a year ago

It’s tragic

The magic is dead

That’s the less expensive item

on the website and so

Black plastic 

Tickle me 

You twat

You what?

You clicked too many times

on the requested treasure

Just to make tea

oh you fool

You were simply thinking of 

an un discriminative pleasure

Black plastic

You spaz

Spam 

Like the meat in tin

Volage

Actually, the cheapest was out of stock

A Murder

They call it a murder

But no crow will harm me as much as an omitted breakfast of a snowy morning

When the warm oat milk is leaking from the cup along my frozen thumb, too numb

to press the doorbell.

But oh ah, imagine your face – and mine – if ever I had intruded your house

The stairs, the carpet soon covered by the white pain

To scrub at midnight when the foxes are foraging the garbage and drinking from the teacup

Look – there is a penny in the cup,

The fairies must have brought it from the land of apples

The same apples that fall from their trees, rotten

Consumed by the frenetic ants and the wasps

Filled with the venom that –

I got distracted

I was saying, the house, imagine

The roller-skates to climb over and the multiple doors to push until

Until I see the white body, meaty, of a lady

Is it a lady or should we serve her with the roast on next Thanksgiving?

You tell me, I’m not hungry anymore

I don’t have any merci left

The pastries are stale and the milk turned sour

My stomach is rising in my throat, asking for a place to rest

Outside my body outside the house

Would fly to another star with Elon Musk if he wasn’t that grim

Instead I keep it tight, need each of my organs together before I explode

All over the place

Will save the time by filling the holes the insects left in the walls

My legs are spinning like a mad carousel, are the kids on my back gonna drop like dead flies?

At least they would certainly stop waving at the wind

The bonfire

The bonfire is burning since 7pm. The faces of the men singing Sniper, are hiding in the shadow, left to find by anyone joining the night. You’re here, but no one notices you, you’re underneath the bright sun of the fire, you’re the embers. Grey and white, refined as a pile of burnt bones, a powder that the women would apply to their foreheads in the bathroom of a dodgy club in Essex. The bonfire is big, big enough for the whole village to dance around, the underage drinking from the bottleneck as if they were sipping breast milk for the first time. As lonely as a newborn you feel but oh, even a newborn is taking are of. Do you want to be a newborn? Opening your mouth to the smile and the milk. You never had the pure beverage, your mum was too tired, she said – I cannot. The embers cannot say I cannot. Their purpose as ashes is to celebrate the Leo getting up above Earth. Oh look at this majestic figure rising upon you, the face of the joy, that you can’t provide. I always thought that the great ashes would spoil the mood – am I wrong? You’re here, all grey and depressing, looking around, asking for anyone to save you. Do you think a sailor will come to pick you up? No sailor would be in any need of some dirty dust. He’s already trying to get rid of it on his dinghy. I was saying, the bonfire is shining and you can’t suffer it, you’re choking from the heat it creates. Think about it though, without you the fire would be a spark in the dark, a flame in the night and would be gone forever at dawn. But oh you, you want to last forever eh. You want people to rest their heads near you, when they had enough dancing and drinking. You want them to rely on you when they’re feeling the most vulnerable, when they’re asleep and can’t move their pinky toes. The bonfire is burning since 7pm. But you want to be significant enough to last until 7am. Fair enough, who doesn’t want that? The embers will never repose.

5 gr

_

Beside you I would hatch from my egg

A dinosaur egg,

adorned with an orange and white snake pattern

_

Beside you I would scrutinize the world like a meerkat

Do you know they have clear eyelids to protect them from the dust

while they’re digging?

_

Beside you I would swim into the silky canal at dusk

to catch the wee Spanish ball

_

Beside you I would lie down on the grass and

watch the royal poodle

or should I say the beauty dog

becoming a foetus

becoming a man on his back

_

Beside you I would be warm

under the curves of your eyelashes

long, so long, they cover me like a blanket

_

Beside you I would eat a chicken every day

and all the slushies of Clapton

_

Beside you I would turn into a giant

wearing 1 2 3 pairs of Crocs

_

Beside you I would be pregnant of my own life

and I would blossom

every morning

beside you