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

Il y a trois ans,

je peignais les murs, tu servais du whisky

C’était un soir de février,

la lune avait l’âge d’une grosse semaine

soit 8,04 jours

La honte a placé des coquelicots sur mes joues

et des épines de rose dans mon coeur

Tu m’as dit que tu m’aimais

Une exagération

tout comme on dit qu’on aime la


Ils vont et viennent ces mots

ils ne sont pas


Tu m’as dit que tu m’aimais mais ça ne compte pas

car j’ai fermé les yeux pour ne pas te croire

Sweet twat

Driving me insane until I don’t remember even my own name,

Until the gods cry a river on our heads

Until I’m drowning in your filthy flower pattern bed

While there is no sad chicken on the wooden table,

only the pickles on the pizza

and the hand in the pocket

and the odd man playing golf in the snow with an orange ball

that you can’t see

as you can’t see the way I’m looking at you

It’s easier to believe that nothing matters

because everything does

from licking the salt lamp to riding on your back

it’s not trust it’s foolishness

You would turn a fruit absolutely nut

despite the shape of your smile

and the sharpness of your eyes

despite the goosebumps on my forearms

and the kiss on my nose

despite the poems you recite

the spoonbait, the gangbang and the catkin

And the dogs, they make you happy the dogs

Until they bite my ankle like you did

not with your teeth but,

with your tongue

with the words coming off your mouth

Misleading me as you would do with a child

like the five one you killed for me to be trapped

Until I break the spell you’ve cast on me

Lettre à x (en anglais)

He was looking around, puzzled, as if asking to himself why on Earth he was in her bedroom. I mean, fair enough, that was a good question, she wasn’t sure neither. None of them had the answer so they pretended it was absolutely normal and she opened the curtains to show him the bomb shelter at the back end of the garden. The snow was covering it, like a dusty white powder, like cocaine. Slightly less exhilarating though. Later on, he told her that he was feeling empty, that nothing would fill the space inside him, not even listening to Molchat Doma, not even eating a garlicky urad dhal or the anchovies from a pizza, not even sitting on a bench in the sunny park, not even her. Firstly she was offended, because of course she was already planning to fly to Moscow and Sligo, to read the books at his mums, to teach him some verlan over a croissant filled with cheddar and raspberry jam and to hear again his voice through her phone when he was drunk in the bathroom. But suddenly he was another stranger in the world, someone she would probably struggle to recognise in a crowded pub, or like a ghost we prefer to avoid.

L’arbre qui faisait de l’ombre

Tu as peur de l’ombre que projette l’arbre dans ton coeur. Celui qui cache la lumière du soleil quand tu es assise sur le perron. Pourtant c’est toi qui l’a planté, cet arbre, qui a creusé la terre meuble en retournant l’herbe à coups de bêche. À l’époque c’était un tout petit arbuste, avec lequel tu jouais, en tordant ses branches. Tu le regardais de haut, penchée sur son corps frêle, jusqu’à ce qu’il pousse, jusqu’à ce qu’il grandisse, plus grand que toi, plus haut que ton crâne. Cet arbre dans lequel tu menaces de disparaître quand tu es fatiguée, que tu as peur ou que tu pleures. Cet arbre que tu emportes dans ton sac à dos à Bristol ou sur les côtes méditerranéennes. Cet arbre qui semble mort l’hiver, sec et rêche mais qui ressuscite à chaque printemps, comme si son âme le quittait mais revenait toujours. Tu as peur de te perdre, de perdre la face ou qu’il n’y ait pas de pile de l’autre côté de la pièce, que l’ombre de l’arbre t’engloutisse dans un calin d’obscurité, pourtant tu t’assieds toujours sur le perron, près de ton arbre, car un jour tu sais que vous deviendrez amis, et tu n’auras plus peur de son ombre.

Tu te souviens quand on avait encore des magnétoscopes et qu’on pouvait enregistrer des films sur des cassettes VHS réutilisables? Et que parfois ça foirait, souvent d’ailleurs. L’enregistrement ne se lançait pas et le lendemain il n’y avait rien que du noir, du bruit, pas d’image ni de son, pas de souvenirs en fait. Le film s’était bien déroulé mais il n’était gravé nulle part. Impossible de le rejouer, de revenir en arrière, de l’analyser ou de vérifier ce qu’on avait vu ou entendu. Ben tu sais, ta mémoire c’est pareil, parfois l’enregistrement foire. Surtout après un gamay, un pinot noir, un chardonnay et une pale ale. Ça fait comme un trou noir qui avale toutes les images, toutes les sensations. Ça n’efface en rien l’événement, il est imprimé dans la chair et pas dans la tête, mais ca le rend moins réel tout de même, comme s’il n’avait pas de substance. Tu deviens un somnambule qui part en virée nocturne, tu peux marcher, parler, rire, faire l’amour, danser mais tu ne te souviens pas. Un trou de mémoire ils appellent ça. Un trou dans la mémoire, comme une cassette VHS vide d’images, ou un gruyère. Oui voilà, ta mémoire devient un gruyère, le reste est là, le reste est bon, mais il manque des bouts, comme s’ils n’avaient jamais existé, tu as oublié d’enregistrer le film de ta vie, tu as oublié de te souvenir. Mais après tout ce n’est pas bien important, ou si peu. Tu te souviens quand, ils disaient. Moi non plus.