The blue house
There is a blue house. Protecting itself from the wind, the heavens. There lives a couple of loving ghosts. Impertinent and roguish. Being lazy both. Modifying the present of a simple wish. Aspiring to a wonderful world. Sneaking between walls sensitive to cold. Years, of ungraceful centuries. Without aging, nor being old. Their blue blood. Bubbling in veins stormy. The lively and languishing look. Rocking their illusions by listening to. The melody of their melancholy. Slide slowly fashionable. They do not sleep. Do not eat. Need nothing. Haunt at nights. Sneak between rainy drops. Flooding the shadows of their regrets there. In the wild ball to get drunk, to swirl. To forget. That they are children of the space, everything, for nothing. The present, the future sliding between their hands. For years, centuries, it is so. Getting lost in the infinity of their life. Every day is similar. Without sleep, nor awakening. Furniture does not change place. The moment fades. Identical in yesterday, formerly. Without border, nor other law. That to begin again everything by repeating without growing tired. The moment, the inflection of the time. Capricious person. Modifying the present of a simple wish. Leaving them the unique right to be in love. They make an excessive use of it. Use him. Behind the walls of the blue house. With the sensual pleasure. To being able to close eyes. And to believe that they are happy.
Lire la suiteThe sign of the time
The sign of the time carries the echo of dumb words. Has no name, person to wait for him, for nobody to try to understand him. Orphan, abandoned. The sign of the time strikes the evening slowness. Possess a body of steel made to endure. In its feet sleeps a procession of black cats. Hopeless, nor despair. Repeat, make dizzy to forget him never. Without rebites, deceiving the life, the death. Flogging the body. By punishment, accepting the judgment. Stronger than the flashes of lightning which illuminate the sea. Interfering in the curvatures of the wind. Of a languishing, affectionate wave. At the top of a bell tower. In a honeycomb to protect itself. Of fates thrown as strong which inhales his heart of steel. Putting to sleep, waking. Playing the same partition. Never in court of ammunitions. The sign of the time has no sex. Feminine, male. Without complex. Dominate the world. United with him by making the round. Forced and forced. To find a way. Do not get lost. Meet at the right time. The sign of the time possesses an exaggerated power. Nothing can compromise him. Made to be. Without need for conquest. Every day is feast day. Erasing, splitting the moments. Impossible to escape him. Between his claws imprisoned. There will never be a liberation. He will stay there. Without concession. Knowing that we shall listen to him. Slaves condemned for all eternity. Muzzled in a heart of steel.
Lire la suiteOnly a mirage
The deaf person melancholy of your eternity. The trances of the surges of your sobs. The rough pain of your furies. Rock the weaknesses of my infirmities. Composing the word for word sentences. Of a fragile and split monotonous world. Where glitter at night our cemeteries. The nervures of a temporary obsession. Waving in the labyrinth of a dead castle. In the grip of ravens and of ghosts. As the balance sheet and the sum. Of an infinity. Between the truth and the forgery. Bringing down the curtain. On the grimaces of sad and grey marionettes. Among which threads hanging at the end of your fingers. According to your faith and your laws. In the deaf person melancholy of your eternity. I approach, I shout you to wake up. Between passion and reason. You are only a mirage, an obsession.
Lire la suiteThe lost chapel
In the lost chapel. The fairies and the witches dance naked. Spit in the air, defy hell. Pull the evil to cards. Make some fate their charter. Where it is written. That so will be their madness. Playing with future. Of the hooked fingers. At nights, the time which lasts. Blow the wind in tops. Scattering over abysses. Recovering the potbellied plains. Protect the souls which suffer. Calm their sournesses, heady smell. Of sulfur. Which gets drunk. Always and for ever. A night in the lost chapel complains an opera singer. In front of a stony orchestra. The spiders which soar along ivies. A cloud, a mirage, a subtlety. The heart which bangs. The wolves which growl out. The crowd which rocks, plays up, stumbles. A party where nothing is forbidden. The dogs which hunt their fleas, peel. The same hour so in the infinity. The sleepy rats. In the cake of the witches and the fairies. A little of tenderness. At the heart of our clumsiness. You and I deformed. In a world without border. Sad and sad. Our dreams which fall asleep. The waves of our delights go and come. Slowly, irresistibly. In our lost chapel. The fairies and the witches dance naked. Spit in the air, defy hell. There is our den. Invisible, irreversible.
Lire la suiteVunerable
Turn and returns, moves forward and moves back. The perfumed tiny law of the animal smell. Making drunk our senses, confusing our dreams which fall over. The head back to front on the banks of hell. The unfortunate eyes, our rainy days. The sweetness of your hand. Cold and sensitive to cold that I retain. A habit, the routine, a fact which makes that it is so. Without waiting for anything, just considering far towards the infinity. A habit, unpredictable characters of a blackboard. Dull in dark tints hidden in the grey of clouds. Deriving pushed by the wind towards other banks. Aimlessly, tired, used, exhausted, arms, legs ruled out. Floating between heaven and earth, a bitter honey flowing slowly. Nights nowadays fall asleep, wake up. The hope to be with you for ever. Tramps of the nothingness. Children of the providence, our infinity which turns all around. Without other project than to be pulled. By the weightlessness, its torpor. We wait for nothing. We hope for nothing. This is the way écartent our days of our nights. Split by the lines of the dial of the clock. Its knocks which hammer the body of our laziness. By liking basking in the labyrinth where we accommodate. I admit, I confess. That hell is our earth. The paradise our life. The pulsations of the requiem of our confusions. Electrify the jolts of our passion. Your hand in mine. Mine in yours. Romantic, fervent lovers, your devilish body. Made by me an alcoholic of your senses. Turn and returns infernal dance. Divine and fleeting. Mischievous and firm. Of the animal and rough slow dance of your fatal essence. Around me in liana the cordon umbilical. Of your guilty attraction. Me, the improbable seedy person. The pathetic beggar. Our dream wonderful to be both. I am crazy. Certainly jealous person. Happy. I admit it. This is the way it is written. That hell is our earth. The paradise our life. In the somber of the black navigate our shadows. Irradiated by the atom of our particles. Turn and returns, moves forward and moves back. The perfumed tiny law of the animal smell. Of you, me. Inseparable, similar, vulnerable.
Lire la suiteTree without root
The rain, the snow, all the time. The rain, the snow, indefatigably. Windscreen wipers to sweep them. The sleepy eyes. The road there to take place. The rain, the snow, the cold. A yawn, shudders. You and I shaky. The bulk ideas. The head in the bag. The desire to run away forward, behind. By breaking our barriers. Invisible. Impossibles. Twilight of our calculations. Symbiosis of an ultimate thing. At night, in the black, without knowing. Where we go. Any law. Applying there. The only law. To roll the half-opened eyes, the agglomerated thoughts. In the cement of our agonies. Tree without root. In the leaves of sad appearances. The rain, the snow, all the time. The whistling of the wind. The scream reminding to us. These stabbing complaints which haunt us. The spectres of our regrets which tempt us. Without succeeding in releasing them, in crushing them, in poisoning them. Of a wild flight in the rain, the snow, indefatigably. At the heart of the storm of our time. Infinitely. Up to the firmament. Of a moonless night. Go up the fury to control nothing more. The weakness appears to let go. One by one. Everything escapes, shies away. I touch your dress. The last talisman. The rain, the snow, indefatigably. Endlessly, so fast, so slowly. You who sleeps. I who play dead. The bends which are linked. The trees which prostrate themselves. The ghosts who wake up. The rain, the snow, all the time. I stay up your sleep. At the end of the road. We shall abandon our doubts. On the ground our weapons of mercenaries. Abandoning our hell. I make you the promise. More real than our caresses. We have the magic. To invent a new life.
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
