Outer Space

In space we fall asleep in space we are dead, yet you still live and the space is numerous … And in the immense space, intense is the silence. You dance your still dance and your space is hollow …

Outer Space

I am going along the paths that run alongside the other world with a compass in hand, a useless instrument when the horizon deceives us and the future lies to us – I will come back tomorrow because you have people.

I go to the peaks that climbers ignore. I rub shoulders with the albatross and the gray goose, I go over mountains and seas at the mercy of the bad winds attracted by the aura of Eden at dawn.

Tomorrow I will come back to peck on your mouth the thousand and one secrets of your childhood happiness and for you I will read in your big eyes the future of Peru, the Mayas, the Manouches.

I will read the future of Europe and the end of the dark age and when the show ends we will go naked in the day that dawns with the memory of flowers and perfumes.

We will have songs of memories of festivals, collections of witnesses, milestones, swarming borders, portraits of fabulous deceased who made the beautiful days of perfect encounters.

In space we don’t get old

To those who have seen death up close, to those who have lived their last moments on earth above their bodies of flesh, who have seen their lives unfold in the smallest detail for a stretching moment. like an eternity, these valiant blessed who have known the stopped time, I dedicate this poem.

May it stop as time stretches on the verge of death. Let him take us from behind like Grouchy – it’s Blücher! May he suddenly deplete our credit of years, may the Nocher arise and hand us a ticket, may our name be read on the list of the dead and we have our prayers dedicated to the dead, I am writing these treacherous words to put them in the scent – wherever they are, whatever one says, I know very well that they read me and as they hypnotize themselves at the hardware store of my rimaillerie, at the sign of the English Key , at the shield of the Marteau, at the Hôtel de l’Enclume, for the good we had and the fire that kindles, for the fools that we were and for the weed that we smoke, I write these posthumous verse.

Posted after my death writings during my lifetime: I was born I lived I died. Who is doing better than me leaves the row immediately to throw the glove at me. I will examine it closely I promise. From every angle, point by point, end to end, is it good vellum, chamois, goat, pig, bovine? Size and support? Let’s see how it fits? Does it fit in my hand? Please you can throw me his brother.

Human comedy is by far the best: I’ll show it later. What futile brimborion do you have in your head? How many times do I have to tell you this? I don’t like cabbage. You have a slow mind. When I eat it I fart and it’s not gallant.

We don’t hear you scream

A lamp goes out under the sky, which has turned pink in the east. A new day is here, let’s try to make it laugh under the shining sun. It depends on whoever passes that I follow him or pass him that I survive or pass away that I get out of it or that I claim that I collapse or that I trace that I take a fart in the face that I do. add and so on.

Silence. Six spears. Eyelash handle. So slow it is.

Glad to be here? Me neither.

We are silent in the thick wadding that lines the body under the cover which squeals on the foam which slides we are silent silence we calm down intensely … yes but what if we dance?

Silence and especially the silence collected is a framework conducive to spontaneous laughter. I remember some giggles at eleven o’clock mass during the Elevation. Among the best religious memories I must say. Laughter is my religion, a lot of followers, a crowd of practitioners. Laughter is a demanding master. A sad laugh is distressing. When a laugh is false what an offense! Worse than laughing is his absence

Laughter is the politeness of silence. Silence is the offense of infinity. Life always makes a lot of noise. Death is silent. The silence of sleep is however peopled with noisy dreams.

Load your mule

Either saturate the mind or make it vacant, two very nice ways to break its teeth. Charge your mule with a whole bunch of details, complicated gestures, fan-shaped toes, nails beaks, victorious fingers, cocked palm, rituals learned by heart and knowingly distorted. Keep track of all your steps. Try to tune into the heart drum. Take care of everything. Too much info breaks and you know awakening.

All it takes is one flaw, crack, crack or gap. A lightning will appear to light the fuse. A single opening in the continuous fire of the almighty brain which leads us as it pleases.

The mule of the mind struggles to pull a heavy load, it slips and the void catches it. The dragon of the mind becomes a mule when you stick a pack on its back. “Mind! Make yourself useful! Carry that over there!”
– It’s not my job.
– I do not care. Shut up. Keep your fire to yourself.

And you load the mule. The dragon will neigh at first, just to show off. And then without kicking, he lets himself be beaten, exploited, pushed aside, you put him aside. He is not the king. Nay. No more than you.

The king of heaven will come when you do not expect him. Beg him, he is leaving. Pray to him, he is not coming. Curse him, he doesn’t care. Kill him, he thinks you are crazy. Without him you die. Its glow drives you crazy.

Inner space

Why does the brain mule? It’s a strategy. When the mind is fed up, it gives up sticking its big nose in your business, a chance for you to glimpse the light.

There is another: the reverse strategy. Empty it completely. Let yourself slip into the hollow of a repetitive task, automatic, mechanical, robotic gestures, the zombie combo, the sucker polka. Wear a moron on your face, mattress. Con like an umbrella. Empty head, you live.

Shell the coconuts. Sweep the floor. Polish the tiles. No more need for the head. It is bored. Feels alone. Goes for a walk alone in the night. Luck smiles at you. You are free. You live.

From now on the Three Sisters will go to your side. Their name is Liberty, Beauty, Otherness. Motto of promised Europe. Of compromised Europe …

The only thing worse than being blind is having sight but no vision.
Helen Keller