I am believer of you. Atheist of me.
I would have the force to assemble on the lathe all up there to see the world, to listen to the noises of silence. I would have the force to give up the ground of my impatiences. Covers Over with Soil of my sufferings, compost of my insufficiencies. There, where my heart balances carried per so many unconcern. I would have the force to call the revolt which sleeps in me. To awake this deadened body, limed per so many laws. I want to break this obstacle as long as it is still the hour. The calculation of time is on the way but I am not afraid of it. I would have the force to scoff at the right sun in the eyes. Since it is necessary to not plunging my glance in the skies more. I am believer of you. Atheist of me. I would have the force to betray me, for better giving up me. With your sighs, your desires. At the point to die about it. This price is worth all your kisses. I would have the force to succumb and like. Before me to consume under your set ablaze glances. I would have these forces. You are in me, you are my bark.
Lire la suiteOne evening melancholy
One evening melancholy. In the guise of one black night. Recovering this past with the door of despair. Between regret and culpability. With the weight of this sin. To have forgotten you. Such a long time ago. That I could evacuate now. By throwing it to the wind. By burning it. By lying me. For better breathing. Washing my spirit of this thought. Who returns unceasingly. With the force of this promise. That I have you ridge to expect. Going until violating your dreamed to take them to you. Te leaving only on the terrace of our castle. Expecting the arrival of the night to bury your evils. Sinking in this trouble. Recovering of a black veil your melancholy. To be betrayed. By my promises, my absence, your weakness. To have hoped to change me. I fled. Incompetent to assume. Finding in the lapse of memory a new fatherland. Te leaving one goodbye in the last of my writings. Where I betrayed you once again. This evening, with the door of this night of melancholy. I returned. Looking at this sad landscape towards which you often waited. My return, a sign. Who never came. Only, I am it as you were it.
Lire la suiteThe unfinished requiem
There is in you a prohibited door. Behind which the ogre of your thoughts lives carrying the roots of an evil. Who lives you. Spreading its body syphilitic in the labyrinth in which you were mislaid. I have badly. There is on you this waxy dye. Who makes that we will be never happy. I blame myself. I blame you. To have left you only exposed far from us two. There is on you this contracted stiffness which prevents you from moving. Our children in the same padlocked pause. Behind this silhouette sinks observing you. I do not see his eyes. I blame myself. I blame you. To have left you only exposed far from us two. There is in you this life in inside. That I hope, that I suspect. To feel me less guilty before the culpability holds to ransom me. For me. For you. For our children. To be left time. Existing of their milky face. I blame myself. I blame you. To have left you only exposed far from us two. Making us unhappy beings. On the chess-board of a devil devouring our last wishes. Eaters of our dreams flown away to the skies. I blame myself. I blame you. To have left you only exposed far from us two. The louse of our hearts desynchronized. Being erased in an unfinished requiem. That nobody will come to listen. Canticle dismembered with the prayer whispered by repudiated angels. Singing to bury our bodies of leprous. I blame myself. I blame you. To have left you only exposed far from us two. How to repair all this evil? There is in you a prohibited door. Behind which the ogre of your thoughts lives carrying the roots of an evil. Who lives you. Spreading its body syphilitic in the labyrinth in which you were mislaid. I have badly. The fever goes up in me. Cold in my bubbling arteries. With this astonishing feeling. To see my body not moving more become waxy. I blame myself. I blame you. To have left you only exposed far from us two. I pushed the prohibited door. Entering your world like a hypocrite. Breaking the ogre of your thoughts carrying the roots of this evil. Who lives you. Until death. That I will be able to never make leave your body. I believed in it. I dreamed some. I had made the wish of it. I blame myself. I blame you. To have left you only exposed far from us two. I will be able to never save you. Just fixed to look at you. Stiff, cold, alive in you your feelings in the greatest secrecy. Without anything to divide. With the time which brought us closer in a separate pause. I would have liked to be the ogre of your thoughts carrying the roots of an evil. Who lives you. Spreading its body syphilitic in the labyrinth in which you were mislaid. I would not have badly any more.
Lire la suiteThe slow repetition of your fingers on the piano
The slow repetition of your fingers on the piano. The plaintive sound which escapes from it. Enter to deepest of me. Shelling the partition of a phantom without interest. The cruelty of your notes plunged in my broken up body strike the mud of my nauseas. Splashing an image which I do not dare any more to face. That of the abandonment of all these things in which I believed. Standard of my thoughts, carried ahead like a crusader. Without cause. Just because. Of all my cowardices. The throbbing melody of our abandonment is repeated. Note after note. Until the end of the keys of this piano of time. On which we bickered so much. With blow of notes distorted by our cruelty. That you spell. Like the litany of our sins. I hear their voices. Who point us finger. Showing us. Stronger than you, stronger than us. When we were insane. Hacking us in fights flared up like wolves. Carnivores, grabbed by a life which we had forgotten to reward. Times spent loving us. For better controlling all these futilities among which we were mislaid. The slow repetition of your fingers on the piano. The plaintive sound which escapes from it. Is the statement of a repentance. Who comes tardily reviving this pain which launches me. Planted in my entrails in battle beyond the evil to the edge of the fault. Where the vacuum calls me. Each one in our box. With these truths which we do not want to share any more. Without us to separate in order to anything save to us. Drowned in a swirl of vase. Finding in hatred the reason to root our sorrows. The slow repetition of your fingers on the piano. The plaintive sound which escapes from it. Penetrate each day a little more at the bottom of invading me, me. Present, pressing, darkening my perception of time. In a slow and progressive wear which lasts. That that you wanted, I am sure. Puppet dancing dismembered on these notes which you shell. Since this time when we decided to drive out the love of our veins.
Lire la suiteA cry in the night
A cry in the night. Come from the bottom of darkness. Tearing off me from the bed. Violating my dormant dreams. In a funeral complaint. I thought of you. With your pains, with your sighs, these triviums which made your daily newspaper. With this life of which you wanted to pose the last point. I wandered. Parts in parts, the moon accompanying me. Clouds extinguishing it. With your research slowly. Without hope to find you. Without the need to deplore. Just to trail with this cry reasoning in my head. I wanted to believe that I had invented it. To give to me the impression of still living at your sides. I had learned how to hear your complaints, to understand them. Like codes established between us. To preserve this last space of intimacy that nobody could take. One tried to cheat with the others until the end. I managed from there to hope for your cries. To know that you breathed, that a breath traversed you. There remained to me only your hands to touch you, not to break you. There was no more that your eyes to point out the way to me in which you liked to look at me. A cry in the night. Come from the bottom of darkness. Tearing off me from the bed. Violating my dormant dreams. It is what it remains me to remember me. To cherish this melancholy of the days of rain. Where we linked ourselves. Through the fields and drills. Going, us mislaying behind the curtain of fog as shades. In search of our sun in these dark days. Only, abandoned with happiness to be itself found. I miss you. You know it. I say it enough to you. Your silences are the slap of your absence. It was imposed to us. By time, the erosion of our damaged carcasses. I do not have rancour. We knew that there would be a term with our happiness. I give up myself sometimes on your tomb. Of some tears, some flowers. With this insane idea that my sorrow will awake your heart.
Lire la suiteThe sleeping beauty
To run in wet grasses. Under the rain, under hail through wood and of the forests. Skinned legs. Burned hands. By the cold of the winter come from the mountains, plains of so far from where breath wind. To Run without breathing. Just to suffocate. At the top of tops, the beating heart. The face whipped by the frozen air. To plunge in the valleys. Under the rain, hail. Without anything to see with the only hope. To reach the grids of the castle of beautiful. With dormant wood. That. About which one speaks in the tales and the novels. That. Whose kiss will awake the deadened body. To run in wet grasses. For better feeling the slow rise of the desire. To damn itself with the lips. The beautiful dormant one. To tear off waiting at times. With having the fever of it. To bite itself to blood. To see it opening the eyes. Waxy dye. To fall in love. Of its brittleness. Of its strangeness. To have slept hundred years. Expecting me. To run in wet grasses. Under the rain, under hail through wood and of the forests. Skinned legs. Burned hands. By the cold of the winter come from the mountains, plains of so far from where breath wind. To be only without princess to save. To like. To steal a history to the tales, the novels. In endorsing. To run without breathing. Just to suffocate. At the top of tops, the beating heart. Knowing. That there is only one truth. That of frozen grids waiting to me in front of a sorry castle.
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
