Blinds and deafs
On the grave of our spells moans the pain of our dead bodies. Dark and firm as the liana which embraces. In the multiple and long-lived arms. Tearing away in our flesh scraps putrefied by this fate. She was killed. She embodies this liabilities. More dead than alive. Flirting with the banks of the infinity. With for epitaph of the words fat. In charge of the rancid smell of our sins. Engraved in the stone of the two-edged sword of our infirmities. Aligning itself one by one to remind. That there is more to forget that to forgive. I lock of hair. You grope. In the hot black of our evenings. Where walk two by two our regrets. Without mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to resuscitate them. Our skeletons intertwined to protect itself. Of the cold which we do not feel any more. Of these suns which we do not see any more. We blind and deaf for ever.
Lire la suiteBoredom
Infinite as gouts on a leaf which bends. I want to speak to you here about a place where my steps drove me. The reflections of a lake under the lapping. The shady and made tasteless image. Of this present in wood upon the arrival of the night. The flowers which grow tired, water down in the rain. The wind become quiet and quietened down. I walk between trees to the darkened trunks. Stiff shadows in the mausoleum of reverdi spring. Drag lazy persons the shadows of an anxiety bruised. In the heavy silence of a sky which darkens. The decay of my boredom splits then. I could find one ounce of poetry there. Soft borrow of melancholy. Looking for the torpor and for the innocence of a sleepy soul. Evaporating in the fog which thickens. I shall call for help you so that you bring me in back to life. Offering you in exchange the taste of forbidden fruits. Before you will have read the text where it is written. That our steps walk on the tracks of our nostalgia. The time when we lived between the walls of a paradise. Vague memory of which it stays today. That an infinite boredom erasing the sheet leaf which bends. The heavyweight of the tears of our rains. One by one the made limp gouts. Pass in the hourglass of made tasteless time. You and I, metronomes of our inaboutis moments. There, goes my idea of us, a fancy of the mind. This evening through the fog night and. Between the trees where is languishing. This desire, this desire, this infinity. To kill my boredom in the brightness of your face which laughs.
Lire la suiteOur requiem
Our requiem has white and grey colors. As tints of one blade in the morning. Crossing the stained-glass windows of a church. Our requiem has pleasant and sad notes. As the speech of a sophist. Scattering in the wind. He tells the slow movement. Of our painless movements. A summer in Vienna. To offer the hand to a Bohemian. Looking for our fate. In the crossroads of mixed lines. Taking our lives in the train. Of our already consumed present. Our requiem has blindly. A tolerance on our past. Our requiem puts to sleep our nightmares. The evening beyond so late. In the slowness of a violin. On the paper of our deep dreams. I begin to hope. To meet you soon. To renew and repeat to the infinity our life. Between sweetnesses and bewilderments making of the misfortune an error. Of route for ever. A summer in Vienna. To offer the hand to a Bohemian. In front of the statue of Mozart. By thinking of our requiem which sealed this fate. To beat in accord. Without other reason. That to like this shiver.
Lire la suiteOn your face
On your face, there are the curvatures of your will. On your face, there are the looks of your hopes. Hidden in the velvet of your fogs. This way sad to dress you in shadows. Carrying the poison of your cockroaches. Running in number. Behind the veil of your eyes. Lover or unfortunate? An ambiguity that your break is only instigating. Fragile, a sensation almost a declaration. To want to ask you this question. What hides your face? Understand it without being mistaken. Avoiding committing the insult. To rape your secrets. On your skin in the marked white ink. Run these shadows which reveal them. With this violence to be essential. On your face, there is this strength to believe. On your face, there is a weakness not to be able to. Fill this space which invades you. You have in mind these words who describes it. The precious property. Happy or unfortunate? Looking for its reason in your intimacy. Being allowed approach to help you, protect you. Is it your will? A flat refusal? On your face, there is a modesty not to disappoint. On your face, it has a fight which we can perceive. Giving the false truth. That to like the solitude. Its silences, its abandonment, its dullnesses. Your body which pouts, your sheep’s eyes. Their hidden tears which can not pour. The shadows which are only calling them. Playing with your sad face of a Pierrot. Who lost the moon in the gutter. There is this sad music which returns. Keeping up appearances. Of what you think? An endless question. A singer, the damaged voice. Tell your out-of-date story. On your face, there are the nightmares of your evenings. On your face, there is your soul, the mirror. A reflection against the light in your eyes. Desperate, languishing. Blush for all eternity.
Lire la suiteEnter
I would want to speak to you about a wonderful castle. That I draw of my wishes. For you, for me, for us two. Together enjoying a peaceful existence. At the end of a path, of big trees to look at us. Enter. The hesitating steps, on no feet. As a fruit forbids that we could steal. Too beautiful, too flavourful. For us two. We could affect it, touch it. Enter. It would be white, luminescent. Would have nothing arrogant. In its corridors losing us. In its boudoirs finding us. On sofas basking us. In front of the fire. Watching at night falling. Of the end of the path, I saw it. Enter. You shivered. I kept silent. With the impression not to be in our place. A sensation which has nothing fleeting. She reminds me that the wonderful castles. Live behind bars. Untouchable, proud, shining brilliantly. We to admire them, the look which fidgets. A spark in your eyes. I see that you dreamed. Enter
Lire la suiteMy sleeping beauty
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
