The softness of a melancholy
Drinks out of drinks to remake one night in the transitory one of a beer taste. At the edge of the tears and bitter stinks stronger than a promise the last. To let itself deaden by the softness of a melancholy. Travelling in intoxication and its tenderness. A temptation, a weakness. With a few centimetres of the desire. To kiss you without knowknowing if it is the truth or the simple idea. To be afraid to finish the night only in the arms of the phantoms of the trouble. Will it Be Necessary to lie you for hiding this true desire? Since it is necessary to quivering. Loan of you. Languorous eyes. At the bottom of you. Happy or unhappy. This idea tries me, haunts me. To skim your hand without seeing your glance contracting. Slowly, gently while hesitating to know. If it is the good idea to continue. Without you to see you going or refusing from there. Drinks out of drinks to remake one night in the transitory one of a beer taste. While having passed the stage of good and bad manner. In the empty pub. Us two at the edge of the vacuum. To like this idea of perdition without another counterfeit. To jump together without seeking the reason. Falling or flying away into intoxication of an end of tenderness. Without hour, nor reference mark before tomorrow. There remains to us an end of night without another destiny. Closed eyes. So that it is more beautiful. Without words. That there are no traces. Not the future one, that is very erased. While making last the moment indefinitely. Retaining end of the fingers imperceptibly. At the edge of the tears and bitter stinks stronger than a promise the last. To let itself deaden by the softness of a melancholy. Travelling in intoxication and its tenderness. A desire. A temptation, a weakness. That I confess and that I address to you.
Lire la suiteOn the colors of our twilight
The waves which shine in front of a disillusioned sky. The water which vibrates, shivers. Clouds twisting itself in jerked dance. The thunder which resounds. On the colors of our twilight. Black, blue, silver. Thus I had imagined it in capital colors. Front, after us to be separate. Imperceptibly, stretched by fate. Crumbled to forget itself. Scattered to fly away. Kidnapped by this bad wind. Fraying to the rhythm of time. Carrying the accents tearing of a musical box. Where turns constantly. Pathetic. The ballerina of a crippled routine. Throbbing, anesthetic. That we crossed too much. At the point to adopt it. Without realizing that it separated us. Bringing drowsiness. The poison comforting to make seeming. Still to impassion themselves or to be filled with wonder. For futilities. Who finished wearying us. Pushing us to make the rocker. On the colors of our twilight. Black, blue, silver . Dark like the eyes of this dog. The only one which retains us by licking us the hand. A hyphen for almost nothing. The exhausted image of a made fragrant dream. One evening, one night on a sea with the colors of our tomb. The curtain which falls. In Front Of the barrier of time breaking the border. Our wars. Old, scraggy which so much made us boil. To fight themselves. For finally failing then to curse itself. Tinting the colors of our twilight. Black, blue, silver. Where it is impossible to make gleam. These bright reds of time when one liked.
Lire la suiteA poisoned dream
Do you hear the music of the night? Falling on us without noise. The sea emerald. The fear which grinds. A giddiness without wing. Fragile and frail. Cherishing wind. Our cold bodies. Violently, penetrating. Ready of me stuck You. Trembling, disconcerting. Do you Feel the cold of the night? Falling on us stiff. Foaming sea. Spellbinding anguish. The take-off of a suspicion. A loss of reason. Being concealed ground. Me and you disconcerting. Throbbing, fighting. Do you Hear the complaint of the night? Falling on us without shelter. Rising sea. Suffocating concern. Salted air. Drops of tide. In the mouth penetrating. The streaming face. Dividing You and me. Slowly, irresistibly. Do you Feel the cold of the night? Falling on us by magic. Irradiant sea. The panic which invades us. An abandonment, a passion. Irremediable, unstoppable. Our brought closer bodies. Fusional. You and me a call. Do you Hear the music of the night? Falling on us deadened. The sea which thunders. The wind which probes. Our amazed dreams. For a long time fled. A feature of charcoal. Distance. On the scum of our pages. Given Up on a beach. Forgotten You and me. Forsaken, erased. Do you Feel the cold of the night? Falling on us scraggy. Tireless sea. Who projects sand. Recovering the tomb. Of a giddiness without wing. Frail dove. Our calcined bodies. Our desiccated hearts. Brought You and me closer. A poisoned dream. Drowned before being born.
Lire la suiteOn the walls the memories sleep
On the walls the memories sleep. Pinned, arranged well. Framed So well.For better falling asleep. Bordered of dust. Listening To their prayers. Under the factitious suns of a pretense of cemetery. Memory not to cry more. Hope not to forget. Who is erased slowly. So peacefully. When come the nights each day. Awake the increasingly remote following days. In turn. At the point. To see to disappear the memories. Hanging up again itself with executives, photographs by imagining an eternity. Completely manufactured. Ridges of dried tears, confusions. Truncated images of a shoddy past. Falling into the lapse of memory from a passion. Leaving only one scrap of shivers. Awaking sometimes in front of the cold glance of a yellowed photograph. Pointing Out the old horizons. Facts of joys, cries. Beats of the life. One day extinct in an ultimate pression.
Lire la suiteAt the border of a barrier
Horses at the border of a barrier. A step ahead, two behind. Wanting the touch. Going itself from there to frighten. Single meeting of a walk. Of wandering of nomad. Through the meadows, forests. In the one day silence which balances. Who rocks towards the twilight. Tinting of black. Horses with the guard with you. Their waiting, their goodwill. Soft eyes. A tepid wind. The sun which yields. Place at the moon. Behind the dunes. Salted air. Of an exceeded sea. Ghost in a hurry. From to go away. To meet. Only or accompanied. Horses having broken. The border of a barrier. With the wind floating their mane. In the lapping of water. Turning his back. With close where they were sequestered. Gallopping or strolling. On the edge of the shore. Where die of the waves become wise. Where the walls cannot extend. Releasing a virgin space. Where one can suspend. A candle. On the vault of the skies. By making the wish. That gallops of the horses. Will further carry than the borders from a barrier. And their bitter tears
Lire la suiteThe crosses have other laws
There are these drops of acid rain. Streaming on the one evening old stones avid. Corbels cawing the tended nozzle. Loans to tear the naked heart. Tears falling thick. There is the low sky. Gray, stretching itself tired. Until loss of sight. Also far falls asleep the night. This color sinks that you flee. Stronger than you believed it. Haunting the recesses of your nightmares. Wallowed in the wild sewers. Of a memory without hope. There are these tombs which equip the cemetery. Of a life reduced in dust. The green grass, dark walls. Surrounding the ball of the shades. Where ventures what remains of you. I want to believe it. There remains to me this faith. To find you in the mirror. To play to be filled with wonder. To think that it is the truth. Without gripping itself. Nor to be wounded with the barbed wires of the past. There is silence. Who weighs heavy oppressive. Putting rhythm into the slow steps of a dance. Macabre where the skeletons draw the star. In this noise which makes dizzy me. I cannot. I do not want. To imagine that the other side. Wall there are other sentences. This immense dream. That time does not have end. That the crosses have other laws. Pushing walls behind. By giving the pace. To be itself buried with the infirmity. To attract these drops of acid rain. Streaming on the one evening old stones avid. Corbels cawing the tended nozzle. Loans to tear the naked heart. Tears falling thick. I think of you. I say myself times. That music of time. Repeats itself indefinitely. Being completed by a cross. Indefatigably. Without name. Erased by erosion. Just end of the fingers. Is read on the stone a trace of formerly. There is the low sky. Gray, stretching itself tired. Until loss of sight. Also far falls asleep the night. This color sinks which colours insomnia. Until the moment when the eyes are closed. That all returns. Putting an end to You. With this eternal absence. Holds. Like a suffering.
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
