jeudi 22 mars 2012
No beating, no hitting
thinking to keep my way to the noise of sleep and pink
power of rain is the breath of a cloudy elephant as you sinneth
and the spot of red sand in south moon is nevermore the way you think
to make short, there were two and a half, tomatoes and garlic,
poison in the clean saintity of this milk of first madness to keep in.
letters to let on boxes of plastic and glory of the toilets
killed by this lady set on a plant of green blood of sea and electricity
killed by mute screen glasses and by your animal innocence
she used to patience on long trips as you were apparently happy
to be the garantee she filled the underground with your name and not hers
and is no substance in music, nor blood on your feathers, pure angel
you have been cruel and maybe soft to be killed by love.
As if they were my daughters, I give my counsel
to the roses flushing late at my door, silencious
and sometimes with tears of a strange joy, produced
by books, boy-friends, heart-breack and alcohol,
strange flowers on the tides of darkness of deep green and freeze,
this winter has come smart and gentle may be to kill forever the beat of my late rose.
One day I will meet the lady on the photo
the one that made me shiver in the repeated maniac night
we will be in the open, dancing on fresh grass and breathing the clouds of the end of time
Si tu joues une chanson dans chaque phrase
laisse moi tomber sur la moquette et respirer en pleurs
je suis peut-être heureux que tu soies venue
cette fois qui me revient en mémoire
les miasmes et l'ombre profonde où je dois rester calme
et ne pas renverser ce qui dort dans la noirceur innocente
et respecter la beauté de l'esclavage, l'injustice de l'équilibre
la liberté me semble une obsession, une fièvre que je mâche
pour pas la cracher sur ton corps, inconnue qui me sourit sur le strapontin
Let the year begin, the end of time is going to speak
you and me will hear the night owl's cry and the rain
neither i will repeat my castles in Spain, nor the high peack
as your kiss is the absence of a pearl in my chains
Scientology cops gazing the masses
messes of orgy stoning the tops of rat
and the kingdom of the rat is next to a dreaming cat.
Wich is Paris coaching ?
And this is tender
as the firsts yawls of thy son´s Fender.
I gave you a bit of sperm
nobody knows this inside you
abortion is just a pleasure of your thought
you ask me so much blood
because it's sweeter than a poor drop of male misery
I could agree it's better and starve meanwhile as I drink
hard coffee of disappearing downstairs
now I know the colour your master had set
on the dusty velvet of the steps to fever
good friends seem to me tormented
good friends sink and disolve on your black magic
and it is the command of my instinct
Queen Nature, naked truth, taking through your throat
and your fingertips' betrayal the whole mass of life on my bones
Mary went down.
To the strawberry place.
To hide her love of men.
A single titted girl, for a lover without head.
Didn't I tell you on your lips ?
Let me today say for instance
the tips of your broiding gesture on the glass
the red glass of dark hair covered by pink purple
unnamed cotton getting form and decay.
The castle of coffee cups and books,
and the joy of no matter in breasts
I shouldn't give wine to a child
as the cup and the glass and the swalow
follow the glance of evil in the bottle
but you, my daughter, are so needed
as music is needed of love
As the shape of a shade of grace
is the grey and the deep in charismatic smile of hers
she's a poet, girls are poets, serious girls are either,
and women like hers can have one toothe or one living love
No beating, no hitting
for you. Even kissing
would have been
an error, as milk from a child
bee, or honey given by a virgin
cow, or taken from a dream.