Inside your house
To wander in a house which is not unknown. Under the glances of the dog and cat supervising all in reserve. My impromptu arrival. To touch the pieces of furniture by listening to them to shiver to be there by chance. Placed in the middle of an immense bazaar. Who strikes your memory. Decoration where you nailed the mirror. Of these things which can move you. To trail the feet on the parquet floor. Without making of noise, just carried by silence to slip without leaving traces. Fugacious passage. Going on the steps of thousands of joys and tragedies. By knowing that as a forgiveness they will have had the lapse of memory. Not to feel more suffers it from so many bodies which suffer. Sleep the absence bringing calms it one morning. On the reflection of a pane misted by the breaths of the cat and the dog. Careful guards. Of a deadened house. Where I would have seen you made sleepy. Higher on the floor ignorant of my passage. Made feeble in peeling. Thousands of animals taking care on your mirages. Bit shade of a sun on the one night old cemetery without the moon. Drowning your nightmares in clear water of a lagoon. The waves of a rising tide shine painting its scum. On the slats of a ground from where the shades escape. From your night driven out by the dark blows. Desynchronized clocks throwing time. In stolen pieces with the carnivorous eyes. Cat and dog. Invading statues. Having forgotten my impromptu arrival.
Lire la suiteFly away
At the bottom of wood, or perhaps elsewhere, it was once. An open door on the unknown of your dreams. Enter, to listen to beat the wind on the strike. Trees balancing itself under the breath of your dreams. The alleviated waves of your lies sleep. Be occupied on wet sand, the barefeet. The hair gotten mixed up until the nodes of your moult. Eyes misted to be itself found. With nothing to wait. If it is not the wind gently alleviating. Of a resting dream. Give up your devils of the morning. Badgering your daily newspaper. The face deformed by the smile of too much knowing to lie. Skilfully masking your desire for fleeing, for betraying. The image smoothes your made up life of trouble. Further that the sleep of your dreams sleeps. Passions awake which your life drains like a sponge. To have been too much used to erase the tears of your dramas. Find in the unknown of your dreams the source to surprise you. There is only the attention to tend. To go, until the end of silence, to take. The movement developing chime of your rebirth. Dancing on the agreements of the blacks and white of a partition. Run up against the sky, knocks the ground, repeats your passion on the web. Borrows your words. In the slow movement of your revival. Go the barefeet at the edge of water. Drawing the transitory print. Of your steps erased by the sea. At the bottom of wood, or perhaps elsewhere, it was once. An open door on the unknown of your dreams. That it will be enough for you to push when you sign the truce. With these bonds which you manufactured for better blocking yourself. Finding in artificial the poison of your sky. Where any more stars do not shine. Except the night when the dreams weave the veil. Recovering the walls of your prison. Illuminant lights of this open door on the unknown of your dreams. Enter, to listen to beat the wind on the strike. For once. Fly away.
Lire la suiteAt the end of the night
The heavy tears of the trouble run on the monotony of our lives ridge of slow and learned gestures. Along years and days without nights. Just lit by throbbing the anguish of our open eyes to wait. End of the cursed opera which did not have to be heard. That of our love born not to live. Just given birth to few hours with tending towards excellence. That one tasted like a summer without winter and white frost. So for a long time I will make you offense of it. There to return, twist the past to rebound. Towards our cruel future. Shelled by a singer alone vis-a-vis us in the abandoned opera. Where we had taken refuge one day of rain. There believing to find the shelter. Meeting there only the hell of the thunder and the flashes. Carried by an invisible orchestra with the drums hammering. An end of the world which one has a presentiment of. Above flies, carried by the wind, a voice. Soft, that of an angel, fragile like you. Who was the wrong to stick to me. That I could not detach from me. Sat one beside the other, we listen to the cursed opera of our lives. To ravel emulously. In the throbbing repetition of this evil that I force to you to try to flee. Without reaching that point. Unrelentingly something retains me with you. Don’t I know what? Quite simply that, I cannot live without you. I cannot acknowledge it. You know it. You wait until time passes. We have all the time. Very stopped in the air weighing of our slow gestures. When we were dying. The breath being reduced court of our lives. We agreed to remain there while listening. The cursed opera which joined together us. Who never will not stop. I do not want it. You do not want it. Our lives go thus. With which remains time. Waver under the wind the flame of our candles. The notes of the cursed opera haunt. We are the only ones to listen to it. Fall the tears heavy from the trouble running on the monotony of our lives ridge of slow and learned gestures. Along years and days without nights. Just lit by throbbing the anguish of our open eyes to wait. That the wind carrying us falls down. On the wings of a singing angel. Over the thunder and the flashes of the cursed opera. Making colors of my hell. There, where since years I am in hiding.
Lire la suiteCursed lovers
On the wall of our redemption the roses of the lapse of memory fade. Just dormant. Of a dull torpor which did not deaden. The terror of our errors. Phantoms closer to the evil than of the good. Wandering on the moor equipped with the tinsels of our uglinesses. Circling in the dance sinks of the malignant one. With which us so often held the hand. By force, bravado, hatred, without possibility of backings. Leaving behind us, fire and blood like single will. We are these cursed lovers. Playing of the fear. On the piano of our furies. According to the partition of the life and death. With the rod of the Master throwing a fate. With those which think of lying us before dying. Divine power. Who led us towards this remote world. Where we lost ourselves. Some. To be higher than all forms of truth. Naked. Making confusion of our directions wood our rough-hew. We buried ourselves. In intoxication to flee. Since it is necessary to perishing. We knew it. Avoiding looking at us retaining our feelings.By preciously preserving this last drop of passion. To pour it at the ultimate time. Where caught up with by time. Nailed by the judgment sanctioning our mistakes. Manufacturing the torment equipping our last artifice. Amalgamating our glances before starting. We sheltered behind the stones of our memories. Refusing to die. Leaving with our bodies the right to release a last sigh. For once again lying. With those which enjoyed to fade us. Free now we can run. On the moor and the peat. Our cheating laughter. Wandering between the day and the night. Cursed lovers. Who will have neither fall, nor shelter. Whose memory lives the nightmares preventing from sleeping. Dancing under the storm and the rain. With an animal rage. Our infernal saraband. In the middle of the flashes. With this mystery. Of our tender passion. One for the other on the wall of our redemption fade the roses of the lapse of memory. Just dormant. Of a dull torpor which did not deaden. The terror of our errors.
Lire la suiteHow to tell you ?
How to tell you ? To retain you ? Without you to make vomit, nor to fade. I am not that which you believed. Draftsman of the day, of the night, of bad times. Thus you saw me. I all had not said you. By whim, desire to look elegant ? Don’t I know i t? I have a secret garden. Where I paint the good and the evil. In a fatal disorder. Who attacks me. I cannot demolish myself some. Where that I go. It is thus. In front of the fabric of a field of fog. I sat down. To draw brush of misfortune. A city, its alleys, its walks, its ballot boxes. Where the oaths of the lovers burn. Under the roofs, I slipped while crawling. Carpet in the black. Killing the hope. Whitewashing the walls of the stench of my offenses. Born from the deliquescence of my silences. To speak to you about it would have to lead you to leave me. You preferred my inhabited smiles. Of this extreme glance which heated you. I lied you. By play, lassitude, me the bad one. I always was it. Blowing the storm on the city which I had just created. I did not want any more to play. Nothing any more amused me. In me, you had entered. I had not seen it arriving. Drawing on the roofs of the city of the broken hearts. Venom of my sharp-edged arrows. Soaked in the blood of my ridiculed body. To have abused you. By lying you on the single truth to acknowledge you. That I loved you. But, it would have very been necessary to deliver to you. My being, my reasons, my insanity, the nature of my wandering. It would have been necessary to add the repentance to it. To be to me a long time hidden. Behind this made up smile. Too many efforts required. Starting with more lying you.How to tell you? To retain you? Without you to make vomit, nor to fade. I am not that which you believed. To imagine you to weaken or even die, I could not it. On the table where I had walked you, I erased you. Small abandoned silhouette. I covered you with white. Of a thick layer so that you cannot release yourself. Slowly. I imprisoned you. Without hesitating, crying, shouting. Only means of not making you suffer. I believed to be able to forget you of a sigh. Now, I suffocate, I do not manage to leave. Bewitched by the white fabric. In front of which I pour out. I dug in the colors in search of you. Breaking my single law. Never not to look behind me. I could not find you. Now, I have badly, of an infernal pain. Who emphasizes in me the animal. Whose bite will be fatal for me. It advances devouring by rancour the tears of my happiness. Those which it me remained of you. But, I am not afraid any more. How to tell you? To retain You? Without you to make vomit, nor to fade. I became that which you believed.
Lire la suiteThe memory of a statue.
Pour the drops of rain on the rigid face of the trouble. Run the destiny of a time which does not have any more end. Forget blood bubbling in cooled veins. Cry the fire of an extinct passion at the end of your misfortune. Remain the empty mask of a morbid glance. Made up dust recovering your cemetery. Pour the drops of rain on your stiff body. Of a memory which flees to the martyr. With the absence of a name for consequence. To build silence. Where offense sinks. To be only one statue with the naked heart. Given up at the end of an alley. Visited by the drift of worn steps to trail. Without goal, nor projects. For finally meeting you. Pour the drops of rain on the wall of tone sarcophagus. Well too wise to be only one image. From a completed time. Where became animated in you so much solved passions. Too much quickly concluded. In the sad and cold memory of a statue.
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
