après-midi à saint-malo

dusty memories,

newspaper clippings,

old photographs,

blurred figures in grey -

crooked smiles,

torn pages like uprooted trees,

stories from somebody’s life (whose?) -

bare threads of meaning;

dreams are spiderwebs

for catching juicy regrets…

i remember 

the soft cheek of a sadness

yet untouched by the frost:

tender, fragrant rose petals

poems not yet written

innocence not yet lost…

the second coming

everything changes

and nothing changes

winds shake the pillars of ages

seas disappear in the belly of time

receding into the dim light of forever

or waiting for another cycle

I’ve gone through life



to the cheering crowds

hungry for my stories;

I wasn’t even aware that

I was the chosen one

or that my choices were,

in reality, someone else’s;

I often thought it was just a dream

or that I was a jester, a liar,

a shameless entertainer

posing as a philosopher

It takes someone coming back

from the dead to show you

that you’ve never figured out

how to live

nocturne in c sharp minor

breathing blackness

lungs full of nightmares

scorpions of fear in my throat

violins weeping their

bittersweet enchantment -

in the dusk’s smouldering fire

the paper moon

is going up in smoke;

dark leeches feed

on our wanton waiting

we reek of fresh blood

and indifference

we taste like blindness -

air, water, tears -

only loneliness is solid:

a black glass pyramid

filled with white lilies

and fragrant lies.

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