| 'Et si nous ne nous rencontrons plus jamais ...' |
[Dec. 31st, 2008|11:50 pm] |
Et si nous ne nous rencontrons plus jamais ...
Et si nous ne nous rencontrons plus jamais de nouveau
Sur les ramures du cerf
Qui se reflete sur la mer qui recule dans la traction magnétique de sanglots
Qui avalent les bateaux échoués comme nappe ailée sur verre floral et pierre
Alors je n'aurai aucun regret
J'ai livré ma vie à tes huées
Et fui dans le désespoir du balcon vers le dernier rayon de la lune opale
J'ai griffonné votre nom sur une carte plié comme un fermoir
Dans les os de la petite fille qui sait la voie au les orages sous terre
L'homme qui ne l'a suivie n'est jamais revenu ce sont autant de caresses chaudes
Son cadavre a été identifié par les boucles de cheveux blonds dans sa main
Les témoins épouvantés disent qu'il était en route au les bras su hasard
Après avoir quitté l'Église de la sainte trinité
Votre yeux votre jambes votre gémissements
Dont les vitraux réalisés par le lion de feu
Évoquent avec de échos replendissants les arêtes du soleil
Blotti dans l'agonie de mon amour
( English version ) |
|
|
| A child again |
[Nov. 19th, 2008|03:28 pm] |
A child again sitting at the door of death. Heather! Heather! what grace hath life to give? Heather! Heather! we want to heal your pain. The nitrous metal fragrance leaking from her breath. I held her in my arms but she didn't want to live.
She had it all. You'd even say her life was set: high grades, good friends, her clarinet. She could have been a lawyer, she should have been a vet ... But when she fell the old scabs never peeled - They pushed her down she never healed. They pushed her bloody face down on the street and tore that poor girl open till she broke into a thousand pieces.
Everything happens as if one were the victim, and you can stay a baby forever sucking on aerosols for endless streams of toxic milk, giggling drooling crying like a five year old. Sometimes I envy you for that. I want to kiss those deathly dry lips and perpetuate the suffering of your chemical romance. |
|
|
| Starlet |
[Jun. 30th, 2008|12:05 am] |
On the sinewy steed of Death you dash across the frosty fields in haste, swifter than the transience of youth. I embrace your motherly waist.
You laugh. And I tremble. I'm afraid we'll fall off into the unknown. Too frightened to look down, I gaze askew: - upon a hill I glimpse a love that I outgrew ...
I long to be like you, my Cavalier: to own the world! to know no fear! to shine as brightly into Tomorrow as the bluest star! How is it you can be so many winters older, yet it is I, the little boy, who's so much colder?
Lay me down upon the snow-clad ground. Your eyes sap all my strength as by a spell - Now I am yours, your virgin damoiselle. But do you love me? Me, just as I am? - A kiss, and I no longer give a damn. |
|
|
| Visionary |
[Jun. 14th, 2008|12:25 pm] |
It has been my ambition to become a healer of souls, a paladin of promises. Manic zeal, proficient talents, collapse into silence. As with any true visionary, even the beggars most in need kick dust in my eyes; but when I lift my sword I convene neither fishermen nor the lambs of the fields to my madman's cause. Unnoticed and unrecognised, I cower in humiliation.
What is left? A selfish need to capture Beauty's essence, in a form as undiluted as possible, taken from the laughter and tears of children, lovers, gods. Balancing like a trapeze clown between insensitive reality and sensuous dream, it seems I am reduced to a lonesome life of antique hobbies and the stilted bliss of being misunderstood. |
|
|
| St. Gauthier |
[Aug. 9th, 2007|04:40 pm] |
St. Gauthier of the infantile brain! Great paragon of naivety! Benevolent patron of the insane! Remember us in your little prayers, will you?
For we are sinners all, not like you. We're envious and greedy, wroth and proud; we fuck and swill and curse and spew, while you whisper sweet-nothings in Jesus' ear.
While you were fasting, we were here, starving and stealing for our bread, and while you were chanting your credo clear, one thousand trembling soldiers bled ... one thousand women were beaten and raped ... one thousand innocents thrown in a cell ... one thousand children never escaped ... one thousand souls sent straight to hell!
Remember us in your prayers kind Saint! Remember us to your God of Love! He does not listen to our complaints when we cry up to him above. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Jul. 5th, 2007|06:10 am] |
Yesterday, at dusk, a giant moth plummeted wildly through my window and set himself besides the piano. - I shrieked at the enormous, dreadful black lampprowler, and ran swiftly up the stairs crying, "mamma! mamma! There's a moth in the house!"
"But John", said she peacefully, "Why do you run? It's a faerie. He's come to visit you."
I looked down from the second floor at the motionless black fly. "It's a faerie", I repeat to myself, "and now I must greet him, and follow him into the labyrinth". - But instead I stood there motionless as he was. I knew he was a faerie, testing to see if I was the brave Prince who would let him rest on my finger, or if I had become a cowardly mortal who would run away. Yet at the same time I could not bring myself to believe that he was not just a big disgusting fly.
Eventually we managed to remove him from the house with a broom . . . When ten minutes later - he returned! . . . And again I ran away and failed the test.
That was yesterday. This evening, while mother was preparing supper, the faerie appeared once again. He was wounded and pale, he could not lift himself from the floor. He was dying because I'd failed the tests and would not consent to rule his Kingdom. Again he positioned himself by the piano, and I sat down and played a soft lullaby for his parting soul.
I then realised just how hard it really is to be a prince. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Jun. 27th, 2006|11:41 pm] |
CARNATION, LILY, LILY, ROSE
to Emily
Down in the gleaming garden went
Twin girls, garb’d in their bed-time clothes,
As morning spent.
Carnation, lily, lily, rose.
The scent & brush of uncut grass
Crunching beneath their little toes
As through the gate they pass.
Carnation, lily, lily, rose.
To give them guidance in the night
Back hidden pathways no one knows,
They cradle circle lanterns bright.
Carnation, lily, lily, rose.
At last they've reach'd their secret haunt:
An old oak tree, beneath which grows
Flowers sown by their aunt—
Carnation, lily, lily, rose.
With ceremonial gravity
They snuff their globes, and shut them close,
Then hang on branches high.
Carnation, lily, lily, rose.
And, sitting underneath the wide
Black trunk, they lean their heads & doze;
Sweet be the sleep beside
Carnation, lily, lily, rose.
 |
|
|
| Words |
[Jul. 18th, 2005|11:37 am] |
A word miscalculated, hastened by will or delayed by thought, is as ill-fated as a blotched ambuscade. Take everything into account or listen to your growling gut — to what awkwardness all words amount! It’s best to keep one’s muzzle shut.
I sowed my words as they were flowers; then watched them grow . . . and waited. Relentless came the savage showers & left the soil inundated. |
|
|
| My Bedroom |
[Jun. 20th, 2005|04:34 pm] |
I cannot stand my bedroom. I was never encouraged to put personality into my room; but I’ve come to believe that a person’s bed should be nestled in the most personal & lavish place of all the house. Mine’s more like a tomb. It’s so small that I have to squeeze past the tiny brown drawer to get to the miniature closet, which is so overstuffed with books & CDs that the bifold doors don’t shut. The twin sized bed lies dead centre, hemmed claustrophobically in by four wearisome, white walls. There’s no space for a study table, or even so much as a chair. The door doesn’t lock, so mom can burst in at any moment.
There’s a blind-date show on TV, where people search the rooms of the contestants & then pick who they want to meet from what they’ve gathered of their personalities. In my room they would find exactly two stacks: one of mostly classical CDs, and another of books, mostly young-adult fiction. There are no heroes posted on the walls, no awesome stereo system. Jeez. It’s no wonder I’ve got nobody.
One day I’ll have the bedroom I’ve always wanted. It will be a special place, a portal to my dreams: a spacious dormitory, with royal blue beech-wood walls bedecked with glow-in-the-dark stars scattered across the ceiling, so that when I go to bed I can daze into the galaxy;— A lofty lilac wardrobe whose doors open to distant snowy lands; — And a vanity trimmed with tulle and jammed with slouching stuffed animals. I don’t want just a few stuffed animals I want a thousand to make up for the many I never had: lined up across the walls like a magical fence;— though maybe just one very meaningful teddy or pink elephant would hold greater value. Yet I’ll surely need a few just for decoration. I must own at least one pink Firey creature from the movie Labyrinth .
|
|
|
| Samaritan Girl |
[Jun. 12th, 2005|10:33 am] |
The beautiful Samaritan girl believes a single deed of kindness will reflect on everyone and by law of quantum mechanics leaves a beneficial domino effect across the planet.
To help the helpless blind man cross the street — to prove the widow of her husband’s love — to give the beggar change that he may eat — to be our guardian angel from above —
O good Samaritan girl, can you not see the grief & misery your actions bring? The overwhelming magnetism of your loving heart sucks in the sun’s intensity and leaves a shadow cast on everything. |
|
|
| navigation |
| [ |
viewing |
| |
most recent entries |
] |
| [ |
go |
| |
earlier |
] |
| |
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
common_nocturne's journal