APRICOTS IN THE WINTER

It is past midnight now
and my shudders are still open to the misty night,
a blinking plastic tube
goes off on a balcony in the distance.
Gray is the sky,
gray is my window frame in cold metal,
the skeleton of trees dancing in the wind,
gray the drops of rain pearling down
like the tears that were in my mother's eyes
coming in the way of sight
between what's in and what's out,
out in the fish tank outside.

Earlier,
I walked up the streets that had been barricaded
and were guarded by men in bright yellow vests
who shone in the night like the hundreds of bulbs
that suck up the energy
to spit the light down or blink,
to burn but not like roman candles.
They are embedded in flimsy plastic shapes
of snow flakes, stars
or raindeers.

A child dashed by and hit my leg,
i looked down,
_________somebody screamed, lights flashed,
a group of women, a flock of pigeons.
People were everywhere,
they walked down, i walked up,
some of them the arms full of goods,
kids pointed, adults held them back,
teenagers ran like juggernauts of impatience,
some guy got off his bicycle,
the ball of wool of his snowhat wobbled
as he stepped down
and he politely elbowed his way in,
a tough guy almost hit my shoulder,
i swear i would've hit him hard in the face...

It was 5 pm and the penultimate thursday
of the last month of the last year
of the first decade
of the second millenium
and the nearby church was opening for a ceremony.
I guess Jesus didn't spend his night alone
even if the shops were still full
by the time i left.

Fallen leaves cracked under my feet
like brand new euro bills.
Snow has melted and only left rust on my pedals.
When it subsists in chunks on the sidewalk
it's black with the shit we breathe.

'tis the season's plague when madmen lead the blind
Merry Christmas consumer.

poème de Noël avec quelque jours de retard

late night update

En train d'écrire un truc mais voici une mise à jour de I'll go with you:
lien I'LL GO WITH YOU upd.

dédicace à Simon

RAT RACE?

Sometimes i walk the streets and look up
to a window and see someone using a computer.
The screen is always perpendicular to the wall
in the boxes they live in,
personal, private cubicles.

They have blue faces and hunchbacks.

Devolution made them monsters,
monsters that exist only on a web,
a web that doesn't really exist.
Virtual silk
they spin endlessly.

Every morning when i have breakfast
my sister's rabbit gets exited
and chews at the bars of its cage
because i'm the first person
of the always and not forever renewed day it sees.
I told her a hundred times i would set it free
but she says she'd kill me.

These people don't chew at the bars.
I did.

INSOMNIA CHRONICLES

I.
I pushed the door of the kitchen
at 3 in the morning,
opened the fridge and thought,
America might not be the world
but it's everywhere.

On a yogurt cup,
in my fridge,
in my kitchen in France,
in the shape of Mickey Mouse
spreading his arms wide
over the yogurt cup and grinning.
Spreading his arm wide around the world.
The asshole.

Then i thought
What if Mickey Maus
told them to wear a burqa?

Yes, it's everywhere,
even on my lips
as i whisper words to my hand,
in the ink,
on this page,
under my skin.

II.
My mom cut my hair earlier tonight.
DIY.
They grow out too fast
or maybe it's time that flies too fast
and i don't see it go,
anyways my hair's looking good now.
Like Morrissey's or Toby Morse's.

I look back at the last time
my mom cut my hair,
things have changed a little bit,
they tend to do that,
things.
New tattoos added, no more girlfriend,
other pieces to the puzzle.

This box doesn't say how many pieces
and time doesn't say how many bitches.

It's looking good anyways (my hair)
in the mirror in front of the bed.
I have time to look at it because i can't sleep.
I've opened the shudders to the night,
fallen leaves are looking bright
under the street lamp
and my bike's still there.
That's a good thing.

I already know i'll be tired tomorrow
but gotta back to bed.
Fuck Tuesdays.



Ecrit d'une traite la semaine dernière
Dédicacé à Claire Palmer.

Comment j'ai dit au revoir à mon téléphone portable et la faible valeur sentimentale que je lui associais et lettre ouverte à un yuppie.

Aujourd'hui le destin
ou les lois de la physique s'appliquant à ma poche arrière de jean
ont pris une décision que j'hésitais, lâche que je suis ("Seigneur prend pitié")
à prendre depuis quelque temps :
me débarrasser de mon portable.
J'ai vécu plus de 2 ans sans portable et la liberté que ça procure,
ne plus ressentir le fameux "quand est-ce qu'elle va répondre?",
donner un rendez-vous sans avoir à le reconfirmer 37 fois avant l'heure,
tout cela me manquait.

Alors que je pédalais, mon portable a donc glissé de ma poche arrière,
je ne l'ai pas senti, c'est en entendant le plastique, matière pitoyable,
se disloquer sur le goudron,
sous les yeux de la Renommée de la place de la République (vous aussi vous croyiez que c'était un ange,) que j'ai tourné la tête.

Le caoutchouc de mon pneu glissant, gracieux, en quart d'arc de cercle sur le goudron, je me suis arrêté
et j'ai regardé les trois morceaux de plastique et de composants électronique se faire rouler dessus par une,
_______________________deux,
_______________________trois,
_______________________quatre voitures,
je sourais,
jusqu'à ce qu'un 4x4, véhicule pitoyable, vienne gâcher mon plaisir.
Son conducteur, stéréotype en chemise rose saumon,
la montre aussi brillante que les gentes, a fait un petit écart afin de rouler pile sur ce qui restait de mon téléphone.

Sur le moment mes sentiments étaient très mitigés,
entre énervement et ce qui restait de mes quelque secondes de joies et d'amusement.

Avec le recul et la possibilité de mettre en mots l'exprimable je me rends compte de ce qui a causé cette confusion.

Cet homme, ce qu'il en restait,
ce qui n'a pas été disloqué par la perversion (le péché dirait certains,)
il ne savait pas que je m'en foutais de ce portable,
cet homme,
ce yuppie de merde il pensait me briser le coeur en brisant mon téléphone.
Si seulement il avait su.

Et si je pouvais lui parler, je lui dirai des mots que je n'ai pas écrit :
You are on this unhappy planet,
a carnivor,
a destructor of it*




*Morrissey - Ouija Board, Ouija Board

Poeme!

THE POEM YOU GOTTA WRITE

I look up at the sky,
a blue sea within a sea
and see the white belly of a helicopter
that scatters a shoal of birds
and the clouds inside my head,
like a kiss on the cheek.

There is a dead pigeon on the pavement
with crimson brains besides it.
I'm sure the slick red ooze contains images
of concrete and millions of shoes.
Mine is hermetic,
hermetic to shower water
(the boiler works again.)
I realized that when i rode in the truck
with other harvesters glued to the side,
blank staring around,
in a late summer afternoon,
i thought
"There are fields inside their heads,
fields i'll never tread."

I don't really go out on vacation
but i am always on the road,
Sal Paradise in a cage of bone.

I look up at a green light.
Trafic is dense,
_______I zig zag.
Pedestrians and cars are bathed in golden light.
_______Slither and skid.
Concrete gray,
red plastic in a hole and blue,
gold in a globe and heaven hue.

_______Zig zag some more,
see heaven through dirty sunglasses
i'm running the nicest of races
and my heart is the only muscle that isn't sore.

_______Red light.
I remember when we sat in the park before the sun,
it drowned in azure, spit light
and tangled in hair.
Mind spat words.
In front of us a sample of humanity was walking
in the cold.
The blue sky betrayed them
like it betrayed me earlier when it forgot to say
The sun is bright but not warm today.
A sample of childhood ran around the cages
in parentless bliss
throwing stones at animals.
Donkeys like goldfish.

I used to do the same
and on compassion :
God never forgot us,
He was never there.


Un long poème pour me faire pardonner mon oisiveté.
Une chanson qui apparait discrètement au début de ce poème (une merveille soit dit en passant, Léon ne me contredira pas) :
The Horrors - Sea Within a Sea

ex nihilo nihil fit

(il y avait un poème avant ici mais je l'ai enlevé)

Schweppes, vélo et disque volant

Je vous promet que j'aimerai écrire plus que des bribes de fin de soirée mais je ne trouve pas le temps, à part en fin de soirée si mais bon.

"Faut respecter toutes les marques"

Un poème en préparation, bientôt sur cette même page. En fait des fois il y a une phrase que je trouve cool et je me dis que je vais la noter et partir de là, mais cette phrase que je trouvais trop cool, qui m'etais venu lors d'un tour de vélo a la Toison d'Or (comme souvent,) avais disparu dans les tréfonds de mon esprit un peu comme un cosmonaute en détresse dans le noir galactique,

mais en triant mes SMS hier soir (de temps en temps, il faut,) j'ai retrouvé cette phrase, oui je l'avais enregistrée dans un message.
Cette magnifique transition pour attirer votre attention sur le blog de Valérian, le collage au top du top, pas les collages de grains de riz sur rouleaux de pq pour la fête des mères ou autres gommettes, non du grand collage, du collage d'homme, en somme, bref:

Firstmanintospace

Bonne journée, n'oubliez pas de faire du vélo et vive la musique des années 80...et Morsay aussi

poème (updated)

I'LL GO WITH YOU

One cloud is enough to cover the sun
and in the garden
my cousin swings life away,
as a kid would.

She reminds me of the time when
i swung life away too,
close to the cherry tree and
only bothered by the asparagus plant
that stroke my leg and that i found ugly.
It was forbidden to touch it.
I'm not even sure that plant ever gave asparaguses,
what i'm sure of is that i grew older.

Today, i left the city for the wild country
to find sunflowers all lined up and sad.

The wind makes ripples
in the rye like waves.
I finish a can of tonic
and stare from the plastic chair
reclining back on fragile legs
and sink in an abyss.

When i once left
on a dock called August,
i didn't think twice.
What would i do now?
What should i do now?

Every night i walk the streets
of dogs and newspaper headlines,
of scattered sounds and pouring rain
of pearls and pills
and on a different continent
i see the same faces.

Last night, i was thinking of a big clipper ship
and a beer can showed me one
as it rolled on the sidewalk
from a bum's corner.
AMSTERDAM MAXIMATOR 11.6%
Brewed in the Finest Tradition
SUPER STRONG.

While locking my bike i heard him play
some notes i could not recall immediatly
but that i was sure i knew.
On a not so beat-up guitar
with a sticker i could not figure out,
he played I wish you were here by Pink Floyd
as Gab did,
maybe a little less well.

I wish Gab could have been there to tell him
"you should play it like this,"
but nobody says should to a bum
and nobody says I'll go with you
either.

Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep

En ces périodes de calme où mon navire est en vitesse de croisière il y a une citation de Adam Sol (tirée de Jeremiah, Ohio) qui m'est revenue l'autre jour et que j'avais envie de vous faire partager,

"We travelers have tattooed hearts into our arms and ankles"

Sous peu un poème qui me donne du fil à retordre depuis un petit moment.

Poème

HOLIDAY INN

Hold on to the memory it's all you've got.

Things have changed.
In good and in bad,
and i hadn't.
Tears, laughs,
boxes, questions about life,
phone calls and bills,
no impact,
until tonight.

I don't want to know what time it is
or what time it is not.
The streets to the hill
still wind around
in the night and good times go.
One a.m., two or three
it makes no difference to me
because i am where i want to be
by myself,
for tonight no better company.

Tomorrow is a different story.
Yesterday was i know now,
at the time i didn't,
when it spoke no words i could hear
and showed nothing i could see
is that what they call destiny?

A light for the blind
and to yesterday's poison an antidote.

A few words on a note
might not change the world
but it can save a man,
a man who doesn't want to change.

Un lien vers la chanson d'où est tirée la citation au debut du poème:
The Distillers - The Hunger

Thursday morning brings the dawn in

Je ne suis pas allé au feu d'artifice hier soir.

Deux poèmes presque finis
et une bonne surprise musicale trouvée l'autre soir:
Duane Peters Gunfight

enjoy

Sous les tilleuls

Fernsehturm
(click for better qual!)

Unter den Linden

Holidays in the sun

Back from Berlin, loved the place, loved the people, loved the graffiti and the tattoos.

I didn't write a word there but i took cool pics, i'll probably write about it later though.

I just received the Wake Forest University poets Anthology for 2009 and look (click for better quality) :

I'm first! with To have or not to have,
I'll upload some Berlin pics but i'm out for the night!

On the road again

A litlle one before heading off to Berlin,
i take my notebook with me, see you in a week.

ELYSIA

The road dulls the spirits
slowly
like meat
on a knife.
It takes us far away from frathouses
and decent neighborhoods
on a long strip
boarded by country towns
where people tell me i am blessed
and billboard that say just enough
when clouds are shapeless.

The sun slowly sets
and hits the water tower
pink and orange replace blue,
nothing new.

Welcome to Wallace.

The road is so long it never seems to end
and we open the box of big questions
and change CDs
to the hissing sound of the AC.

Existence.
Relationships
Time and sinking ships
crashing planes,
and dead stars

but God is just a bumper sticker.
A metal fish.
A late night conversation
that divides and irritates,
anecdotes and the truths we put aside.

Taco Bells and gas stations
provide.

I read the signs but don't know the direction
i'm a passenger as always
on the passenger seat.
The road is clean and the sides are lush,
a drive through Elysia while dusk
calmly descends upon us.

Davidson, NC

Long time

Bonsoir,

So i finally made it home and after a computer fixing and an internet connexion not working for a month TruthOfMyYouth blog will be active again! I don't know how active but it will be,

Here's one:

DERIVE II

My thoughts became asphalt.

At the end of the line,
the one i drew with my bicycle,
________i found a table.

Under the big yellow M
that flared in the night
and lit solitude only
________i sat there.

Outside, aligned,
the tables were all deserted,
the city too,
below
________between the lamps,
hundreds of shimmering lamps.

I wrote a few lines
under the eyes of the cameras,
that kept watching just in case.
At a Mc Donald's, i wrote
on the cold metal
of the silent mall
________i wrote.

Some tourists were smoking cigarettes
outside the adjacent hotel
danes, czechs, germans, poles?
They threw the red butts on the floor.
One last puff and i was alone
and finally,
________i was home.

Coup de coeur muscial: myspace.com/decemberagain (normal)

Snowflakes froze my mistakes
a new season, another chance
to make it up to win the race
cause when i left without a trace
it was because i was afraid
to freeze to death
to kiss your face.

Poeme

LOBBY

I wait in the lobby,
wishing this girl was coming for me.
The clock struck three thirty,
the car will take me out of the city,
the country's something i rarely see,
cows are quiet, i'm full of animosity.

Somebody said big hearts break easily
i wish you could only
lay your head where mine used to be.

Poeme et anecdote

Ce poeme a ete ecrit apres que Caroline m'ait appris le mot "prong" traduit par fourchon ou dent (de fourchette,)
D'ailleurs si vous avez des suggestions je serai heureux d'ecrire un poeme sur un theme precis,

PRONGS

I brought back nineteen hours
on the front steps of the house.
I tripped
and the trees, with their prongs to the sky,
were looking down at me

in the breeze of the already aging spring.
Its end will come, with it my birthday.
Twenty three.
I need to find a place
to let this day forget me

Kids are playing on the neighbor's lawn
reminding of the time when,
in my father's words
i was afraid of the ball.
I didn't like the ball.
Like didn't like meat.

The center of a slice soggy with blood,
flooding the white surface of a plate
soaking the stamped flowers in red.
The blood of an animal,
red as a cardinal.

The one in the branches
every morning.
In a few weeks i'll be gone
and he won't have anything to look at
but the dust and the stones
dry as hay
covering the driveway.

Not many hours left to call the night,
five
and i'm still waiting for a good day,
still like the bird-dotted trees
with their prongs in the sky.


Ah oui sinon petite anecdote:
Il y a dix jours, mon colloc Mike a recu des repliques de fusil a pompe et de fusil automatique (aussi appele mitraillette par les moins de 10 ans,) les deux a billes.
Apres avoir peint le bout, qui etait orange, en noir nous avons decide de tirer sur des cannettes, toujours mieux que sur des ecureuils. Me lassant de cette exercice et trop hateux de retourner sur youtube.com, je rejoins dans ma chambre.

Mike, lui, decide de tirer sur des verres dans le jardin de devant depuis la chambre qui donne sur l'entree (jardin adjacent a un chemin qui mene a notre maison, chemin lui borde d'arbres, detail important pour la suite.)
Apres quelques minutes j'entend crier, laissant American Hardcore, the history of american punk 1980-1986 tourner dans ma precipitation je vais voir ce qui se passe.
J'apercoie alors un policier de film, le vrai, avec le badge et le gilet pare balle pointer son arme a feu (ou pistolet) sur Mike par la fenetre entrouverte.
Je retourne dans ma chambre,
les policiers entre dans la maison, puis un dans ma chambre, me pointe l'arme sur le torse et me demande de me lever afin de pouvoir me mettre les menotes, avec un magnifique "Slooooowly" de film que je n'oublierai jamais.
Pendant ce temps Mike et Brian sont dans le salon, Mike a les menotes aussi, Brian qui n'avait pas utilise les fusils et qui etait dans son lit en calecon lors de l'intervention, lui, non et le documentaire parlait du groupe Million of Dead Cops, si elle est pas bien faite la vie...

Apres notre identification, quelques questions et la tension redescendue, les membres des forces de l'ordre americaines se fascine pour l'exactitude des repliques et entame une discussion nous disant que notre ami Mike etait a quelque seconde de se faire abattre si il n'avait pas pose tout de suite le fusil, en effet, ils etaient poste derriere les arbres et le rideau cachait la voiture de police (le vehicule en d'autres termes.)

Les forces de l'ordre nous retirent les menotes, laissant des traces assez "badass" sur nos poignets et quittent la maison, sans oublier de nous dire que le panneau de signalisation offert par un ami lors d'une soiree et tronant dans le salon doit retourner a sa place.

Moralite, un jouet est un jouet quand il a un bout orange et nos voisins sont des gros cons.

Homeward bound (updated)

Un poeme qui m'a donne du fil a retordre,
J'ai retordu au moins trois bobines, tout a la main...

AN EXPRESSION OF THE FUTILITY OF HOPE

Eating Taco Bell
at the end of my American dream,
last night,
on the small table of the living room the wraps met
the Nintendo controllers of another time.

I tried and tried only to return.

There was silence, yet so much violence,
the hot sauce screamed
"Help! I can't tell where i am,
it's dark and i can hear laughing."
And the clocked marked the hours
like a pair of handcuffs.

On the blue couch,
the refuge for picks and coins
i raised my plastic cup and gave a toast
to the past nine months
wondering
what birthed out of it?
What grew out of it?

Nine months ago on a couch too,
i let the night go by
until the clock struck six am
and i had to take a train
a lazy train
that would sway and rattle like the rain,
While clouds conspired to cover Paris
and my soon to be boarded sleepy plane.

I wished for sun,
there beyond the Atlantic.

Before hope decided to depart
leaving silence only
on its deceitful trail in the night,
it agreed to sing me a song.
Simply called Departure.

It didn't last very long,
It said a ship was ready to go
anytime i would need its keel.
I answered they could leave the bollard roped
it was not yet my time to leave.


Sinon un petit coup de coeur musical: The Courteeners - That Kiss

et si vous etes sage j'ai une anecdote

People try to put us d-d-d-down

MY GENERATION

Like a little girl's dress
hiding secret cigarette holes
in between the pleats and lace,
this youth
is already used.
Arrogant and scared,
dressing like their parents
and talking like their little brothers,
taking pictures and making art,
going to bed very late at night.

"You'll see how it is,"
We barely had the time.

New responsibilities,
cars, rent, bills,
showing confidence and skills,
or lost on our mother's couch.
Girls grew to an age old enough to see the world
only through ex-tainted glasses.
Guys don't want to commit
and only want to get pussy or drinks.
Some of them are beautiful,
they create and hope
some follow the system and are on dope,

but i have faith.

As for me,
I didn't want to leave Teenage Wasteland.


Cacedédi au EFC Crew.

It's hard to keep the PMA.

Poeme mis a jour

UN JOUR DANS UNE VIE

Qu'est-ce que je fais ici
au milieu de l'apres-midi
assis dans le salon?
La tele brille sur le mur
et je ne la regarde meme pas,
dans cette maison, qui une fois de plus,
n'est pas la mienne.
Ca serait triste d'etre la a attendre demain.
Se demander si, comme un representant ponctuel, il viendra
sonner a la porte,
pour ramener ce qu'hier avait pris
Ou viendra-t-il faire de la publicite
et des compromis
pour vendre des emotions au rabais
et les forcer dans mon coeur et ma tete,
sans que je puisse refuser?

Un jour ma mere m'as demande si j'etais heureux.
Je lui ai dit
que je ne voulais plus etre heureux ou triste.
Qu'il y avait tellement entre les deux.
Elle m'a repondu que c'etait bien de laisser faire les choses
et faire ce qu'on doit.
Faire ce qu'on doit.

J'ai pris un morceaux de gateau
sur le comptoir, dans la cuisine,
dans la boite avec des taches de gras
et dans la menace constante de la souris.
Je n'arrivais pas a dire si il etait bon ou pas.
L'indecision constante du palais.
La cuisine potentielle d'un Ian Curtis
ou d'une Sylvia Plath,
elle me hante au petit dejeuner
et j'y reste le soir pour le confort
d'un verre.

Je me suis leve trop tot.
J'ai le temps maintenant,
il y a toujours le temps,
le temps de rester sur ce canape,
le temps de trouver une copine,
le temps avant d'aller au boulot,
Le temps que je laisse passer le matin
comme un vol de gerfauts.

Quand ce mercredi s'etait devide comme un dimanche,
j'ai decide d'aller faire un tour de velo.
Les roues tournaient aussi vite que les pensees dans ma tete
et j'ai remarque que les batiments du centre ville
apparaissent depuis la rue si on regarde assez tot.
Ils surgirent comme un phare entoure d'une lumiere d'or
au dessus d'une mer d'obscurite.
J'avais le choix, pourtant il fallait que j'y aille,
malgre l'air gele dans mes bronches.
J'ai denoue le bandana autour de ma gorge
et j'ai descendu la pente.

Il y a de la beaute dans ce monde
et c'est le seul or que je cherche.

Petite traduc pour une publication de Wake Forest, le dernier vers n'a rien a voir en francais mais je ne suis plus fache avec la langue francaise depuis un moment,
Dites moi ce que vous pensez et on pourra lacher des comm avec un verre de pinard et des wayfarers de vue en faisant des blagues de gallerie d'art :)

Straight Edge poem

POISON

These poisons that grab me by the ankle
like a hand out of its grave,
to hold me under the earth
in the world of the living dead,
i want to get rid of them.

The smoke in my lungs
and the liquor in my veins
no longer calm my nerves or numb my brains.

I have retrieved my heart
from the hands of a girl,
trapped it in my chest again
but it still wants out
and the chains of my ribs
can't suppress its shouts.

The instruments of convenience we created
made us the slaves of impatience
and the useless things we accumulated
don't offer nothing we can keep.

Although i have still not found
what is devouring my mind,
today was spent out of the grave
and the worms can still feast from my skin,
i have more life that i can use.

Desole pour la qualite mediocre du scannage

Baudelaire fun

A translation of Une Charogne by Charles Baudelaire,

CARRION

Do you remember that thing we saw, my love,
on this sweet summer morning?
On the edge of the path, a nasty carrion,
on a bed of stone was lying.

Legs up like a lustful woman,
burning and sweating its poisons
Casually and cynically had opened
its belly full of exhalations.

The sun, on the decay was casting its rays
as if to cook it nicely,
to give back to Nature by hundreds
what she had put back together formerly

And the sky was looking down on the carcass
that was blooming like a flower.
The smell was so strong that on the grass
you almost fainted, my dear.

The flies were humming on the putrid belly,
out of which came black swarms of worms
oozing out in a thick liquid
along the living rags.

All of this was going up and down like a wave
or ascending and crackling,
it looked like the corpse, swollen by a breath
was still living and multiplicating.

This world was playing a strange music
like the running water or the wind
or the grain that the winnower tosses
in rhythm, in his sieve.

The shapes were vanishing just like a dream,
a sketch slow to appear
on the forgotten canvas that the artist seems
to finish only in wonder.

Behind the rocks a worried dog
with an angry eye was looking at us
waiting to retrieve from the skeleton
the piece it had let go of.

And yet, you will be similar to this filth,
to this hideous infection,
you the sun of my world, the stars of my eyes,
my angel, my passion!

Yes, you will be such, you the queen of graces,
after the last sacraments
when you will go down under the earth
molding among the remains.

So, my beauty, tell the worms
that will eat you with kisses
that of my decayed love
i kept the shape and essence.

the Messiah hath returned

and he looks like that:


i have discovered today that i'm not a funny person and actually feel fine about it (no connexion with the image above)

When reality meets fiction

I have written a poem about a war veteran living in the street who meets a teenage skateboarder one night (i'll upload it later, it's in the collection)
well, during my last trip to the City of Angeles i saw this homeless guy, with a sign saying he was a veteran, he didn't fight in the same war my veteran did (he fought in Vietnam,) but he was on the same street! so i had to take a picture with him and spare a couple bucks...
Andy took the pic, i printed it and scanned it and now it looks like this, i think it looks cool... coz im a hipster, wait...

i'll upload some very recent poems soon,
thats me, nothing for weeks and then an outburst of creativity, but i see a shrink for that and "he told me thats the lack of sex thats bringing me down, "

Poem...

PARKWAY

The sloping side of the sidewalk is lined
with empty bottles, still wrapped in the brown paper
that does not conceal them,
disposed of in a drunken nihilist toss.
Thousands of nihilist tosses.

A kid is playing on an oil-stained parking lot
where broken glass glitters on the gray concrete,
amongst the crates and car parts.
When he goes home, the burned-heads go out,
they sit there, on the curb,
looking at the parking lot where they used to play.

Brian Harper Strikes Again

A quote to live by:

"Don't let the light go out or you'll become like one of those crotchety old men who make the rules for everybody else."
-Brian Harper

...

est-ce que quelqu'un lit encore ce blog?
does anybody still read this blog?

Bonsoir

Ca fait un petit moment que j'ai pas poste,
J'accumule, je reviendrai avec du nouveau bientot,
en attendant une petite photo d'une lecture de poesie il y a deux semaines./
I am "piling up" i'll be back with new works soon,
a little picture of a poetry reading a couple weeks ago.

Fine Art Gallery, Scales Center

The book is on display at the Fine Art Gallery in Scales Center at Wake Forest University,
Go have a look and let me hear what you think.

Poeme XV

TO HAVE OR NOT TO HAVE

Superbowl.
Disneyworld.
Wii.
Sunday worship at 5.
Mac Donald's.
KFC.
Buy
buy
buy.
Batman
on DVD.
Britney's new CD.
Head and Shoulders.
Fortifying.
Hydrating.
Normalizing.
Need.
Daily use.
Target.
Organic.
New season.
New season.
New season.

No reason.

Poeme XIV

A NORMAL DAY IN THE LIFE

What am i doing in the afternoon,
sitting in the living room,
with the TV strobing on the walls
when everybody is sleeping,
in another house that is not mine?
It would be sad to be just waiting for tomorrow.

"Are you happy?" my mother once asked,
i said i didn't want to be happy or sad.
She said it's good to just let the days go by
and do what should be done.
What should be done.
I took a piece of cake
from the box on the kitchen counter.
I couldn't say if i liked it or not,
most of the time i can't decide.

I woke up way too early.
There is time now,
there's always time,
time to stay on this couch,
time to find a girl,
time before i go to work,
the time that i let go in the morning.

I decided to grab my bicycle.
The wheels were spinning
and i noticed for the first time
that the downtown buildings appear
early if you look up.
They rose like a beacon in golden light
above a sea of dark forest.
I had the choice but I had to go,
despite the cold air filling my lungs.
I untied the bandana around my throat
and went downhill.

There is beauty in this world
and it's the only gold I'm chasing.

Tadaaaaa!

Le premier poeme de ce recueil a ete ecrit il y a tout juste un an, pendant une journee pluvieuse et solitaire a San Francisco, d'autres voyages, d'autres evenements et de nombreuses revelations plus tard voici Truth Of My Youth. Entierement publie DIY* il contient 30 poemes inspires par le voyage, le reve, le punk rock, la musique en general, mes amis, bref une lutte post-adolescente. 5$ et l'equivalent en euros, je m'occupe de l'envoyer (j'ai pas teste encore...)

The first poem of this collection was written exactly one year ago, during a lonely rainy day in San Francisco, other travels, others events and many realizations later here is Truth Of My Youth. Entirely DIY published it contains 30 poems inspired by travels, dreams, punk rock, music in general, my closest friends, the post-teenage struggle. 5$, I will take care of the shipping.

Stay Gold.



*DIY=do it yourself, fait soi-meme

Poeme XIII

LAND OF PIRATES I

This feeling hits me once again
and my road eyes wonder where i am.
A hotel room,
the garden of the hotel lit by bug dotted lamps
lighting the well-trimmed grass and the plastic chairs
and my sister tells a story
about a toothless guy
who wanted cigarettes.
Where am i again?
That was a bad nap.

Vacations.
Carribbeans.
I'm hungry.

Later, i am sitting on the same spot in front of the sea
with the only company of the stars and the moon.
The pages of the book have become thicker in my left hand.
I look up to see the horizon.
A cruise boat is gliding far away
in the inky night,
its side glimmering with rows of lights
and two big garlands hanging from the top to the deck.
A party night,
a jazz band playing, probably
and drinks and dresses.
I refuse to look at the stars
although i know they are beautiful.
A storied mind wandering in oblivion.

Where is the girl i love?

Un poeme ecrit en Decembre.

Bonsoir

Je vous promets que je mets un nouveau poeme demain matin et si vous etes sages une surprise apres...

bis

Tout ca c'est pour vous les jeunes

Bonsoir

Aujourd'hui j'ai commence l'impression et la copie du recueil de poesie et surement trouve un moyen de les relier, donc gardez un oeil ouvert pour savoir quand ils sont prets!

Today i started the printing and the copying of the poetry collection book so keep checking back to know when they're ready!

peace
stay gold

Poeme XII

UNTITLED

The sheets are warm,
the sun, not yet
as it penetrates through
the bare branches.
Birds were up early,
the greenest of all is the ivy.
The benches wait for somebody to come sit
like the rocking chair on the porch,
sorry but not until the spring.

I discover this place every new dawn,
time as stopped, it is the cold season,
the basketball hoop has been broken
long ago, the wind'll make it fall,
the garden shack needs some fixing,
but not until the sunny days.

At the end of the day,
when everything is said and done
the doors closed and the wars ended,
as the moon penetrates
through the bare branches,
i pull up my blanket,
in an empty bed,
enough said.

J'ai pas trouve de titre donc si quelqu'un veut proposer...
I didn't find a title for this one so if anybody has one to offer...

and this one goes out to Andy

Poeme XI

BELLE EPOQUE

What?
I can't believe you dumped it
It could have been fixed.

Belle Epoque was the name of this bicycle,
a green Dutch bicycle
purchased ten years ago.
At first my mother's then mine,
the reason i didn't need a driving licence.
I went down so many roads,
every morning to school
and every night downtown.
The handle bars too wide to pass the door to the yard,
the used tires,
the rubber handles marked by my fingers
and the rusted chain,
I hope nobody finds them.

Now the end of a Belle Epoque.


Un poeme tres récent, un histoire déchirante...nan sans rire j'adorais ce vélo
Sinon j'ai du effacer trois poemes et j'ai remis a jour le premier