From where?

Where does this catching voice come from? Where does this science come from? Where does the tender glow of my love come from? Where does the shade and the night come from? The ineffable presence of a shadow under my roof which is not you without doubt. Your double has this spirit that I miss and the simplest light flight that grab you. That’s all I own finally. Green tea, no jasmine. With no mint. With nothing that deceives or lies.

My heart is your country, your soul is my path. That of the deity who opens her hand. That of heaven. The wind. Sexy din of a known squeak. Suddenly you appear naked and the universe wobbles. In defiance of clusters, hammers, sickles. In great disgust of the laws, judges, bourgeois and masters assholes who made us believe that shit is an art.

Here you are. Period. Here is my bright light, my torch, my lantern, and my sister light. Oh daughter of the smuggler asleep near the ford, remember the rare mornings so precious where your body close to mine has the fairness of the skies under the summer sun, the spring greenery and the painful ardor on my thin back, too thin. Nothing prevents the hunger for love, the desire to unite what destiny has conceived of purest, why you were born, for whom I am mature.

It was necessary to strip me. To tear one by one from the shreds of my heart. To become smooth and soft. To polish up to my bones, my veins, my tendons that I pinch in measure and that play your piece. The one who charmed you, who left you dreamy, blossomed, disarmed, naked against my shoulder. Aphrodite in love over a strong destiny.

Tinkle the chimes, ring the bells, the tiny bells and their babble in all places surround me. Wherever I come from, wherever I go, their echoes of ancient feasting come and enchant me. Oh my life, my lover, what have you done with the child who slept in the straw? What have you done with the envy that always grips and holds me instead of oblivion?

At dawn we must leave where the evening already comes, go to the Americas. Stop the music! Stop hurting me, demons of the underworld! You did not win anything, I only lost you. I must wake up and fall asleep again. I have the life of a Martian and the clothes of a rascal. I am only the shadow where the sun is surprised. Without lying. I come again. In this concert which is given at the foot of the leprous walls. At the top of inventory. I have nothing left to do but keep quiet.

Silence. It came, no wolf, the soup concert. The con serves soup – you have to drink it by the glass. I have no more adventure, signpost that shows the sunset, which amazes me at any time and makes me unfine. It will be cut, shut down like a vicious dog or a wounded horse.

We are dogs.
And dogs, when they smell the company,

They move, they set them free
They lay their bones as you put your cigarette
when you have something urgent to do

Even and preferably if the emergency
contains the idea of breaking your face

I do not write like  de Gaulle or like Perse
I cause and I shout like a dog
I am a dog. (listen to Léo Ferré

Where does my arrogance come from? Where have the remorse gone? Should we think about it and should we cry again? Where does this grief come from, which undermines my bloody Sundays? Are you sad on my Mondays? Demolishes my holidays? Do you keep the bed? I ran so many chances So many vibrant nights So many beautiful tits And too many loves fled. Where do I get this challenge to write and drown? Where does the madness come from undressing me? To offer me naked, such as Mom made me? To display my love as so many misdeeds? Where does this pride come from wanting me to be useful? Where did the days come from, where did my love come from? Where are the stalks that made the fabric of my life?

What foolish program decided everything? What infernal decree nailed me on this plane? Why try to leave the circumstance? To run in English in the country of Cocagne? To try and get out of the collective game? What more do I have than another? Or less, let’s be clear. I do not have the profile of a lord of the earth. I was born from a star astray, remain humble. The only good that remains to me is this humility which shelters me from many dangers. Many shocks were avoided thanks to it.

Above all, it is important to take it for the one who has always guided me in this world and in others. Do not be wrong. I was not born with it. Always I fought to crack the ego that claims to manage everything, this ego who understands nothing. Pride does not suit us, children of almost nothing who hang around. Idle, half naked, sad lords, aware of being nothing and yet full of us, unable to crawl, unable to kneel in front of immensity, in front of blind destiny and yet overwhelmed by our kings, by our judges who are worth less than us, less than nothing, less than everything and yet who bind us.

These gods are the dregs of this humanity.

Where does all this come from? Luck? Love? Life ? Especially tell me where it’s going.

Don’t ever let yourself pervade by any psychical entity, ghost, spirit, wandering soul, ectoplasm, ally or else: he could never give you back your body’s control.
Carlos Castaneda