Your light hand nibbles the strings raised hat dressed in black clothes my marine excess my long fingers on the terminal spear without instinct .
Water sports on a slight slope papillotes and caramels of their crystal stripped for front teeth hug the slack vintage nights .
Decoction of your smile under the warm duvet can spin the galaxies musical staves in breath of feigned flight mountebank that a cloud erases so early so late the lock of hair over the eye trouble the infinite .
Live voice and heart enamored with a burning ember, untie the fibers of boredom dived in their native waters the essential chord of low and painful notes my flower my life ma vibration my panting adoration mouth in breath of breath my grace on tender grass torn to the four limbs of your body so soft . "I love you, you have to learn to say I." (Christian Bobin)
Caress of the note bodice cut-out the sea on the horizon a trailing sky.
Loose hair striking night flickering presence the bird passes.
The bare shoulder the shadow of the pines face turned to the sky a necklace of fine pearls. sadness in the eye swollen lips the moon commas my soul of a shell guitar.
The city in the distance quivering saraband take in your cats it's already too late.
So slow so perfect only at dawn everything is in order memory ecru.
An island of high wings excluding travel of sky and water like a sleeping child . Remembrance in Place de Grève the cut neck to the vociferations of the poor wretches seeking bloody remonstrance . erased insult in the square of oblivion cutlery set in the rising mist . Emerge lightly wandering birds than the deep sky scattered .
Locate on the map this immense memory of laughter and tears decked out, the romance of happy days .
Futile passerby returned part destination unknown arm in arm .
In aromatic herbs near the source an enigmatic piece of wall gaze from beyond the black cat sees shadow of souls nullity of distinctions the inconsistency of the world stopping the poetic flow a semblance of welcome in the silence of contemplation where the tallest branch of the great tree crackle in the wind .
And if he pulls out his claws in these root places where mental strength transforms into pure energy the gaze of the Spirit, it is to discern breaches, cracks in these illusions what are advertising, propaganda, ideology, even science and technology, elements that leave without nerve the modern slave we have become .
The function of poetry is to go where our way is, with perseverance, depth and faith .
Between practitioners of a good-natured art and the quest for " ever further beyond the known " wouldn't there be the grain of mad wisdom that makes us dig deep into ourselves the reflection of the great absolute, we invisible eagles circling around invisible peaks ?
