The evening of infinite of your nights.
I am the phantom of your nights. The angel which accompanies your trouble. Wings spread on the wide one as of your naked dreams. Traversed crystals of freezing. Brilliances in the middle of a half-light which bewitches you. Behind the bars of your dungeon. Captive of your jumps behind. Mutilating the dash of your passions. If you wanted to intend me to whisper you. Words awaking your imagination. I will speak to you about the wind. Cherishing your body, dishevelling your hair flying away. All these feelings plowing you. Of a blade slicing the nerves of your bitter dreams. During in scraps at the end of your skin. I will bring back for you to the life. Concerning the derm of this infinite hope. To climb there high. To breathe the air beyond your barriers. Leaving far behind. Stench of these vapors which point out you. Peat where your steps were limed. Plugged with the idea to be locked up. In the meanders of your past to avoid fighting. If, you listened to me, you could hear. Your heart which wants to beat, your body to play about. But it would be necessary that you want. To return to the life. I am the phantom of your nights. The angel which accompanies your trouble. I weary myself. You weary me. Your sad mine, your gray dreams. Little by little is very erased. In the dust of a thinned down skeleton. I could perhaps make the miracle. To pulverize all your obstacles. To manufacture you a horizon which does not turn in round. Te drawing a sky, suns, a universe without similar. But you could not taste honey of it. I know it, I am the phantom of your nights. The angel which accompanies your trouble. I turn around you. I drown. In the black lake of your despair. Without managing to color the wild waves. Who come close to you to fail themselves. I cannot save you. Even less to help you. I am the phantom of your nights. The angel which accompanies your trouble. My powers are not infinite. I will have to give up you. With the regret to be able to help you. Only behind these barriers. That your body, your heart, manufactured. They protect you, maintain to you in life. Until the evening of infinite of your nights.
Lire la suiteA never ending story
A room of restaurant for us two. Looking itself in the eyes. The night, days following. A room of restaurant where time lasts. Without pressing itself nor to hustle itself. Just the moment of living the moment to skim itself. Gotten mixed up fingers. The misted glance.Face to face accoudés. To listen. To tell itself. What one was. Before meeting. The melody of an authorized piano. The voice engraves of a hidden singer. To only speak to us. Stories engraved on glazed paper. Where others met. With a room of restaurant for them. Looking itself in the eyes. I cannot want. To know the end of their stories. Spitting the black blood of a home. Not that this evening. Neither now, nor never. I promise it to you. You and me at the one morning old dawn. Colored next days of drawings plotted with the charcoal. Posing the draft of our destiny. Since it is necessary to slashing the marked out way of our following days. There will remain always the force of our love. A room of restaurant for us two. Looking Us in the eyes. Drunk of the fruity alcohol of a liqueur-like wine. I want it. For you. For me. And to consolidate our days of the stones of our galleys. Stronger than all our wars. There high in the citadel. Swept by a wind which bewitches us. I like this old story. The tears which run your eyes. Impertinent Sign of a weakness. I have laze. To see one there predicts happy. My glance on the petrol of your sufferings. In exchange I propose a dance to you. In a room of restaurant for us two. Looking itself in the eyes. The night, days following. A room of restaurant where time lasts. Without pressing itself nor to hustle itself. Just the moment of living the moment to skim itself. Gotten mixed up fingers. The misted glance. For one night until later. Stuck without mask, make-up. While letting make the chance. I like the idea to be able to imagine. This history without end which could never not have existed.
Lire la suiteBlacks
One starlight night, to trail, under a black sky. Stars with the manufactured colors, flights. Brilliances at the end of arm wrestling. Blacks. One starlight night, to sink, under a sky without hope. To manufacture images flights. Exits of the meanders of the memory. Impaled at the end of arm wrestling. One starlight night, to wander, under a bitter sky. With the first drops of rain. Wet skin, numb hands. Looking at passing the waves of the lapse of memory. On the large river with far which flees. One starlight night, to saunter, without goal, nor project. History to kill the trouble. Or to flee the hell which howls. In the head crushing the crumbs. Memories which crumble. One starlight night, to taste, fruits of the melancholy. Who in the heart extends, invades. Movements, slow breathing. Of a spellbinding environment. Fingers drawn aside to feel the wind. To cherish waiting of these long moments. One starlight night, to look at, stretch time. Without anything to understand. Without seeking to claim. To live the moment yesterday or now. Just a second to retain. The vibration of the air. Then to feel suffers it from the hell. Sweeping the vulgar dream. To accept the angels and to speak to them. One starlight night, to trail, under a black sky. Stars with the manufactured colors, flights. Brilliances at the end of arm wrestling. Blacks. Like our last evening
Lire la suiteAn exposure wihout life
There could be music techno, lasers, a hellish noise. The wind which rises, rain which falls on the ground. A large mess, strong shakings. A disorder in the balance of the movements. Sat on the throne, holding a raptor, a solidified dog, obeying. Gray sky darkening. Spots of light making up your manners. From another time. The glance posed with height of your feet. To observe them, embrace them? Is it necessary to be lowered so that you condescend to look at us? Music on your body running out in waves. Profaning your image at a stretch scraping-knife. Without broken heart. Nor torn off tears. Just eyes directed towards the distance. Where stretch themselves your hours without end. Can I touch you your hand? To know if you are cold. In do I have the right? A temptation, a heresy, a madness. In this night, where there could be music techno, lasers, a hellish noise. Dirty manners. Bodies dancing with your feet. Refusing you to look at them. One evening wild imagined to smash itself. One evening of festival in your castle on its paving stones. The dog which cannot bark. The raptor not managing to fly away. You, in a contracted installation. I want to tear off you with your past. Living only in the pages of history. That one reads only the evening. Let enter the day of the night. Look at this yesterday which flees. Catching the wire of a new life. Dressed in new clothes. I want to believe that if you could do it. You would forget your proud glance. Jumping on the paving stones, launching to the sky the raptor of a fugacious gesture. To find these dancers who aggravate you. Erasing the charm that you cursed. Of an exposure without life.
Lire la suiteApril
April, fragile. I like your long lashes, your slender body. Your name with the gleams of the next summer. Sun within reach. Your put back body, your measured steps coming to seek me. April. Free and wild, wise and ignited. Impassioned, saddened of a thrown or stolen glance. Close to me lengthened. I like to hear you breathe then to sigh. Made feeble, without concern until the end of the night. April. Who plays with sons. Falling from stars on the edge of the Nile. One nothing girl with the installations mutiny. Capricious or in love. Always happy. Small bee. Beautiful without similar. Feverish as one day which wakes up. You run in the fields. Among the flowers and their colors. Appointing time. Fussy Te. April, fragile. I like your long lashes, your slender body. Your eyes discover the world. The plays carry your seconds. Merry or marvellous. Inhabited of this happiness. To play of your fears. To run without reflecting. To snuggle without quivering. April.
Lire la suiteHung of gold
A face which suffers, which twists. Drops of rain which stream on a body in crumbs, in gold pieces. Fall the light making up the pain in a treasure. Closed eyes hiding hatred burning in inside. A contracted hand letting pass fleeing sand. Corroding the belly, putrefying the internal organs, leaving a ground of misery without conquistador. A desert where the oases dry at the bottom of a corridor. The scars extend on a face corroded by avarice. Feelings, an extinct joy falling asleep in an installation manufactured. Hardly laid out to charm. Just made up to embellish. A symbol carved in an insane position. Course the idea to imagine a body leaned before drowning. Or to fall into arms laid out to protect it. Upside down, with the back, seen of face or of through. There remains this world with the interfaces leaving this bitter taste. Not to see behind. The wire of time retaining in a riding way. Hung of gold to the face which suffers, which twists.
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
