notes 2

Winter evening between dog and wolf. Open window, freezing breeze. Torso breathes. Fumes from a transparent mustard glass. Eyes paralyzed on distant electric concrete. Hands tenderly roving around the black coffee glass while the horizon is going to sleep, tender coffee spilling on the neat wood, forking off between a cup and a virgin ashtray, brown amazon river running after gravity along the white plastic of a washing machine and dropping slowly now forming a dark ochre puddle. Coffee lac reflecting the giant legs running for a blue sponge. Sucked into the absorbent blue, the once magnificent arabica drew a flat face sticking tongue at the running cleaning hands. Magic lost for two drops on a naked foot.

notes

"one day as I was in a tender roving, my dad told me "listen son, today if you want the moon, you should not be a poet but a cosmonaut"" Loic lantoine