One night when time changes
One night when time changes. Shades, forms, reference marks. One night when very articulates itself. Differently, abruptly. Extinguishing the lights. Hugging our prayers. In vague murmurs. The head to be knocked against the walls. While resting not to fall. With triviums, details. Staggering before sinking. With deepest of a fault. Traced with blows of cutter. In the bitter skin. From this night when time changes. When the heart knocks in the vacuum. That the steps move back. In the opposite direction of a will. Skinned by damage itself. With the erosion of the years. In the slow repetition of the depression of a time. Where the trees and the monuments yield. That the dreams are curved. Under the yoke of the crushing of an oppression. Entering while penetrating. One night when time changes. Under the cane. Of a pause or a stop in the rustle of the wind. Flight of a bee. A softness without similar. Who takes care, who bewitches. Nothing moves. Not even the crack in the wall. Not even the red tear. With the colors of blood. Oozing of the suffering of the years. Run the one night old honey when any rocker. Writing the moment in capital letter. At the end of the tended finger. Tracing on the sky of the words to be read. Like peace or love for always.
Lire la suitePerhaps now or tomorrow?
There are not any more movements, but one pause solidified by the years. Who run out slowly, irremediably. The face of death carved violently with the rage which a dog which bites. To run away themselves, protect themselves, escape. The rain and the wind Strike. Since so a long time that unrelentingly. The features of faces are erased indefatigably. There are nothing any more but forms remembering. Of their ultimate movement of front. When the light died out in the eyes of dying. At the moment when time was blocked. In a last will. The rock twisting, becoming deformed while metamorphosing itself. Under the blows of corrosive scissors. Steal the blade at the sharp edges. Shear iron in the internal organs of the stone. It was formerly, it was yesterday, so far now. In front of a handful of people moving away while crying. Remain, the layout, the forms of a symbol, the draft of a parabola. Changeable, fragile, slender. There are not any more movements, but one pause solidified by the years. The complaint of all these torments. Standardized by seeing them. Weakened by fleeing them. It wants this there to run, to curse them. Carrying on them a certain idea of the end. Perhaps now or tomorrow?
Lire la suiteA piece of you and me
Sung in German or English perhaps in Italian, I do not know any more. The black opera is stretched listlessly on the keyboard of the organ, played by the phantoms of our memories, I do not remember more. Remain the unfinished text of skinned words of fear of being marked. Able to open doors which one will not be able to close again. Like the fear, the love, the friendship. I see you terrorized almost curled up. Paralysed with the idea of having to launch you. To imagine what will be the end of this wild text. That unrelentingly the melody brings closer towards this wall where we are prostrate. I do not know, I do not know any more. Reason the notes without life of a black opera exposing our sufferings. I do not know, I do not know any more. If the melody finds in its repetition the reasons of our castration. This sidereal vacuum wrapping us towards a fatal outcome. Vibrate in me an animal start. To escape to us. To Run, flee. To safeguard us. To Leap, not to die. To exist. In your eyes, I want it. Do you wish It? I do not know, I do not know any more. The black opera undulates, curves, on the white ones and the black ones of the keyboard. Cherished by the clone of a human being placed there to play the utilities. There were so many reasons of us to go from there. However, we remained. To listen to beat our hearts. Choked by this fear of leaving us. We are used finding in the routine the force to support us. Is this the beginning of the love for always? I do not know, I do not know any more. There is this unhappiness evaporating black opera. This form of despair which passes on us like a rolling mill. Leaving on the ground short periods of you. Short periods of me. Some were stuck, attracted each other. You said magnetized. As if that could satisfy you. I subscribe to this good idea. There will remain always fusional part of us. Almost eternal? I do not know, I do not know any more. The black opera stopped. There is this heavy silence like a call. This vacuum which aspires to us. I am not afraid, I am not afraid any more. Holding in hand a piece of you and me.
Lire la suiteA night in Budapest
There is suits it and comes it. From one evening which is shelled on the beam of a new following day. A tram in the night of Budapest. Some passengers, the walkers who remain. To look at passing a shade. To listen to the rattling noise which thunders. The time of a twilight which sinks. In the arms of the round moon. With the reflections bathing in the Danube. She only dances. She staggers. Equipped with its nasty face. Its memories locked up in the tram. Of a loose living. Drawn on the web long night. There is suits it and comes it. Of this past that nothing any more retains. Just the pain to be afraid. To forget the trace of it. This short period which is erased. Leaving the giant scar. Rails in the open skin. With the vacuum to project itself. Towards infinite to quiver about it. Nothing to hang up again itself. To Bleach to fade about it. Awaking the insane ones. Plunging in mud. The so wise image. Of the moon embarked in a bad tram. Carrying one night of moistness. On the paving stone of Budapest. To taste languor. From one evening celestial. Where a time is stretched. Without shiver, reason. If, slowly. What slips by between the fingers. Colors of silk. Woven with the tears of stars. Remain only you and me., a deserted coffee, silence, a fabric. Given Up. By one night without the moon gotten into the last tram.
Lire la suiteFor one day forever
There are no flowers, nor of pots to carry them. There are no more laces, nor of ribbons. Nobody on the going balcony. That the absence, a closed door. Broken panes. There is only rust, steamed wood. There are only the symbols of an unobtrusive past. Ends, remainders of life. Disappeared through being gray. There are no more projects, nor of words to affirm them. There is nothing any more but the vacuum which is bored. By turn in round. Between four walls where all is melted. Memories, colors, misfortunes. It is there only the black and its afraid. There is not that the shades of a light which dies. Not to be not looked at. Swept by the being engulfed wind. Without being invited. Carrying the cold of the winter or the heat of the summer. There is this idea that nothing any more will be like front. There is the lack of this laughter of children. Their cries, their plays, their combat. All carried by the joy of being there. Between the walls of the beautiful house. That which protected so much from confessions. It there to date where the door was closed. There is the silence which settled. For one day forever. Damaging itself while crying to be forsaken.
Lire la suiteThere is no more date to recall
So far a long time there is more date to recall. A long walk which did not finish any. Wind, rain in this evening of summer. A surprise, a time that one did not wait. Trailing tired in the streets exhausted. Not knowing more if it were necessary to rise or to lie down. One evening or can be one small hour. Without reference mark in one day without end. Clinging in long vaporous sons. With the light illuminant two in love. Intertwined, clinging not to fall. Devouring eyes. Wrapped only in the luminous halation. We passed looking at them liking. It was us formerly, so for a long time there is more date to recall. What can I reproach you? What can I assume? The routine, the monotony manufacturing of bad stinks. Damaged taste of these damaged memories. Sometimes means this song pointing out this nostalgia. Hours to be discovered, years to be quivered while projecting itself towards the infinite one. Softness, tenderness before rancour. The arrival of the autumn, first tears. There are the dead leaves falling from the tree which sheltered us. The first signs which we enter our past. That we manufactured. Nobody with whom to be caught some, just us to blame. Embarked in the galley of our errors. Leaving behind the luminous halation. Its in love, their happiness. Forgetting what we liked. So far a long time there is more date to recall.
Lire la suite
J'aime ce qui est gothique, ce qui est romantique, je vous présente mes textes et mes photos. I like what is gothic, what is romantic, I present my texts and photos Steffan Urell
