9:86 pm
In slow motion. On the thread. Of your life. Between the shadows and the lights. Of an inhospitable city. Pour the despair. Of sleepy fountains. The evening. The day, in the infinity. You to observe them. In a curled up break. While the clock has just sounded(rung). 9:82 pm. Making penetrate into your head into the singing. Supernatural. Of your childhood memories. Jumping. Cheerful. Over fields and hedges. You, arms outspread. To stop them. Before drowning itself. In the despair of sleepy fountains. Where floats the slumber. Of your disgust. The insomnias. Of your nightmares. This weakness. To postpone. The adaptation of your lownesses. On the time zone of your bad hours. It is now 9:86 pm. The clock has just impaled your heart. Bruised. Immodest. Made limp. While repeats. In your head its beatings in kill – head. Spreading a footbridge over the sidereal space. Extending in your feet. In the abyssal depth. Of a lake and its reflections. Your damaged face. Your hands to hide it. In the looks of sleepy fountains. While the clock has just repeated. The fracassement of 9:86 pm. As if nothing had so passed. The petrified water. The settled time. You to observe it. The misted eyes. Split tears. Crashing on pavements. Frozen in your feet. Agglomerated, statued. The evening. The day, in the infinity. Pour the despair. Of sleepy fountains. Spitting the ink of your melancholy. This torpor. Modifying colors. Their smells, their flavors. Between the sleep and the awakening. Playing with the laziness of your laziness. Offering only the sweetness of their caresses. To this parallel world. Where from flies away in car of wing. The ritornello. Of the carillon of 9:86 pm. Waking your ghosts of kid. The indecency of their shouts. These suffocated memories. That the clock has just resuscitated. In the mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Infernal. Of a poisoned kiss. Unilateral. Congealing your body for ever. Among the ghosts of sleepy fountains.
Lire la suiteCaptain of your heart
Lire la suite
Our wonderful world
In our wonderful world, there is not of nights, of suns which run away. There are enjoying a peaceful existence waters, sleepy fishes. The fishermen are empty-handed and kind to it. Dreamers, the walkers enjoy the present time its slowness. At any time, always in a good mood. It is not cold but warmly. Everybody is young and beautiful. The sun shines every day quite above. His brightness in your eyes makes me happy, loving. Us, both, in our wonderful world. In symbiosis in this bubble which articulates. In the joint of another universe, its fractures. Blind us not to see. As the small monkeys, the hand on the mouth, the eyes, the ears not to know. Deluding us with an illusion become our reason. Turning and turning around the lake our bottom of bag. In our wonderful world we look for nothing. We find only endless days being enough for our hunger. To love itself is our currency far from the stock market price, the fall of its currencies. Go up to the surface of the water bubbles brought out of some mud. Decorate with flowers all these flowers which we shall never put in muds. We fall asleep when the day is tinged with grey. We make small. To avoid being afraid, protecting itself from our torpor. Numb, make limp, made languid. We close eyes so that everything gets better. In our wonderful world, we enjoy a peaceful existence. People are not envious or whimsical. Walk as auks around the lake. Rhythm on the melody and its tick-tock walk there. Everything goes well. Without the slightest clinker. We are happy in our wonderful world. Hand in hand. Always by closing eyes.
Lire la suiteA thing of you
A thing of you. Trailing on grass. Floating in the air. Soft like our verbs. Cherishing the stone. Insane, stronger than the sea. Blue eyes. Our pious dreams. In hell or in the skies. An end of you. Trails in me. Here and there. The flames of candles Undulate. Two by two. Linked. Always joined together. Against the wind. Rain. All the time. It is thus. Our madness. Fleeing towards the infinite one. Carrying our petrol. At the end of incense sticks. A zest of smoke. An evaporated remainder. Filled with wonder eyes. To see them to fly away. Where one would wish to project oneself. I can only hope. Expecting you, me. Finding me, you. This spellbinding dream. Beats in me. Like a thing of you. Trailing on grass. Floating in the air. Like a proverb. Fact of the mysteries. Nobody listens to the air. Older than the ground. Our joined together hands. Whole nights. Under the light of candles. There remains to me a thing of you. The desire, faith. That these memories do not die. Giving us this power there. To re-examine us. Later, at the end one evening. Where the shades, their dark moods will die out. The cursed ball. A time which took too much time. To reanimate our years flee. On the slow rhythm of unmatched agreements. While having heard the echo of chaos. An aggression which misuses. Anesthetic what one refuses. The lapse of memory. And, that it is thus. There is in me. A thing of you. A dust to resist. Will that you would be proud. Fighting against this weakness which lowers. Facility to forget you. I do not want to betray you. I cannot hide. Our memories of this past which should not die. It remains me if little. An invaluable good. A thing of you. Indefinite. A wire of nostalgia. Falling from stars. On which my melancholy slips.
Lire la suiteBetween two banks of our delights.
You are frozen. On the one stiff winter old bridge. Between two banks of our delights. To look at passing. Deadened barges. On water which slips. Your glance which flees. In the distance. Where you cannot tighten the hand. In the night, its infinite wall. Music of silence. Your steps which dance. The image of our lovesong. Between two banks of our delights. The lights temptresses. Darkness to protect itself. To observe time from to go away. Gently at the end of these moments. Who mark your heart. Scoff at your heat. You are frozen. But, you want to remain. There. To force-feed you of all that. Better still of the city which sleeps. With this intense power. To believe. That all is for you. This other law. To beat in you. With its silences. This deep dependence. Of living in unison. Your intense shivers. Between two banks of our delights. Which to choose? To leave. To leave the wonders of the country of Alice. By manufacturing half of vacuum. An infinite and cursed space. Morbid. Sawn Timber of the regrets to have very left. You are frozen. You chose to remain. Until tomorrow. To tighten the hand. With the sun. With its first alarm clock. Its heat without similar. The white, fog which will rise in the distance. Carrying the night, the lights, your nostalgia without end. Me, loan of you holding you the hand. While having seen spending the time. Between two banks of our delights.
Lire la suiteThe infinite front of him
Under the slowness of the feather the languor of your melancholy is written. In the perjury of your evils which last. Tremble the sad truth. Of these exaggerated oppositions. You, the clumsy puppet. Hung at the end of its wire. Equilibrist of feelings. To cry to be made forgive. To lie to restore. Fruit of a futile destiny. Of a life of wandering, four ways. Without knowing which to take. There remaining to wait. That the sky of a sad morning rises. Moving away pallid mood its nights of nightmares. Playing hoop with the torments and the regrets. The feverish and mocking glance. Giving such an amount of place randomly. On the out of date air. Of a forgotten melody. The different ones which lasts. The piano which murmurs. Sickly sweet notes, dreadful vision. Of your grimaces. All these jokes which aggravate. Disguised repeated gestures of your animosity. Bleed on the stone the trace of a signature. This nostalgia of your slow anguish. A fault in your armor. The escape in front of a child. Closed eyes, stopped ears. Drinking the prohibited wine of its desires. Capricious. Proud. Passes on meadows and the forests. Shade of its shades. Complaints in the half-light. The rumor of wounded animals. To be offended. Believing in its piety. With its too beautiful words. Made up to make forget. Its ugliness, its blackness. Run the infamy in the torpor of its perjuries. Pains which one endures. Castrating the future. Misused, betrayed, confused by the insupportable truth. To be rooked. Humiliated. By, you it clumsy puppet. Hung at the end of its wire. Who dances, balances himself. Making fun of its melancholy. Because it has the infinite one in front of him.
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
