jeudi 15 décembre 2011
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
dimanche 27 novembre 2011
mardi 18 octobre 2011
Atomic combustion is not available.
Everytime I m starting to feel distress, so fragile that nothing matters anymore, funny images always comes, keep me occupy the time to find my chocolate appetite back and leave me amused.
I keep thinking of falls, grandiose falls from ultra technical bridges, and then my mind focus on this few little seconds which certainly seems so long, what can you do in this few little seconds? If you really can stretch time, would you try to get some acrobatic figures done? Would you have a 360 degrees look all around taking the fall as an occasion to watch your city as you never had before? Would it be like a suicide tourist outlook? Could you actually sell it on touristic flyers? “Die while experiencing the ultimate London/New York/Paris Viewpoint” At least no unsatisfied customers.
And then the big splash, the body breaking the violent surface,the bone breaking point but is the heart stops suddenly while taking its last breath a bit like when you reach the extreme point of an orgasm? Do you die cuming? Do you ultimately fuck with yourself?
And then under the surface bit. I can feel the water‘s hands dragging me in the deep dark velvet pit,dark seaweed and draining current,gravity and terror, silence...But no! The heritage of years of bad movies and fantastic novels starting to colonize what was supposed to be a nice resting idea, a calm dream of death, a comfortable self pityness... But here they are, an army of sea monsters with a working brain, a green fishy humans creatures Lovecraft-ing through rusty Rover carcasses on the River Thames’ intestines starting to tracking me down... Then it s tinme to realize that I don t want to fall and be a dinner, I don t want to be part of the London‘s smell, I want to be a waste to nature and humanity, I want to disintegrate with no traces left.
The only option is then suicide by atomic combustion.
I keep thinking of falls, grandiose falls from ultra technical bridges, and then my mind focus on this few little seconds which certainly seems so long, what can you do in this few little seconds? If you really can stretch time, would you try to get some acrobatic figures done? Would you have a 360 degrees look all around taking the fall as an occasion to watch your city as you never had before? Would it be like a suicide tourist outlook? Could you actually sell it on touristic flyers? “Die while experiencing the ultimate London/New York/Paris Viewpoint” At least no unsatisfied customers.
And then the big splash, the body breaking the violent surface,the bone breaking point but is the heart stops suddenly while taking its last breath a bit like when you reach the extreme point of an orgasm? Do you die cuming? Do you ultimately fuck with yourself?
And then under the surface bit. I can feel the water‘s hands dragging me in the deep dark velvet pit,dark seaweed and draining current,gravity and terror, silence...But no! The heritage of years of bad movies and fantastic novels starting to colonize what was supposed to be a nice resting idea, a calm dream of death, a comfortable self pityness... But here they are, an army of sea monsters with a working brain, a green fishy humans creatures Lovecraft-ing through rusty Rover carcasses on the River Thames’ intestines starting to tracking me down... Then it s tinme to realize that I don t want to fall and be a dinner, I don t want to be part of the London‘s smell, I want to be a waste to nature and humanity, I want to disintegrate with no traces left.
The only option is then suicide by atomic combustion.
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