A keresés eredménye

Monsieur Monod Doesn't Know How To Sing

My dear
I remember you as the best song
That roosters and stars's apotheosis that you are not longer,
that I'm not longer, that we won't longer be
And nevertheless, we both know well
that I'm talking in the name of the mouth painted of silence,
with a fly's agony
at the end of the summer,
and in the name of all the poorly closed doors
Conjuring or calling that treacherous wind of the memory,
that scratched record even before being used,
dyed depending on the Time's humour,
and its old diseases,
either red
or black,
like a misfortunated king in the front of the mirror
the eve's day
and tomorrow and the day after tomorrow and always
 
Night, you that rushes
(That's how the song must go)
full with signs
insatiable whore (un peu fort)*
splendid mother (plus doux)**
always fertile and barefooted
in order to don't be listened by the fool that believes in you
in order to better crush the heart
of the sleepless one
that dares listening the dragged step
from life
to death
a mosquito's pit a feathers's torrent
a storm in a glass of wine
a Tango
 
The order does change the product***
An engineer's mistake
What a rotten tecnique this one of keep living your story
the other way around, like in the movies
A thick
and mysterious dream that gets thinner
The end is the beggining
A doubtful little light, just like the hope,
egg white coloured
with a fish and spoiled milk smell
A dark wolf's mouth that carries you
from Cluny to the Parque Salazar
A rolling tapestry, as quick and as black
that you don't longer know
if you are or you're playing to be alive
or dead
and if an iron's flower,
like a last crooked and dirty and slow bit,
to better devore you
 
My dear
I adore everything that's not mine
you, for example
with your donkeyskin over your soul
and that wax wings that I gave you
and that you never dared using
You can't know the much I regret of my virtues
I don't longer know what to do with my picklocks
and lies's collection
with my indecency of child that must finish this story
now that's already late
because the memory, as the songs
the worst one the one you want the only one
can't resist another blank page
and it has not sense that I'm here
destroying
what it doesn't exist
 
My dear
in dispite of this
everything's the same here
the philosphical tickling after the shower
the cold coffee the bitter cigarette the green mud
in Montecarlo
The lasting life is still capable for we all
Intact the cloud's foolishness still is
Intact the geranium's obscenity still is
Intact the garlic's embarrassment still is
The little sparrows crapping divinely in the whole
april's sky
Mandrake breeding rabbits in some hell's
circle
and the little crab's leg caught
in the tramp of the Being
or the Not being
or the I don't want this but that
You know,
those things that never happen
and that must be forgotten so they can exist,
for example, the hand with wing
and without hand,
the kangaroo's story —that one of the pouch or the life—
or the one of the captain that was enclosed in the bottle
that was forever empty
and the empty womb but with wings
and without womb
You know
the passion the obsession
the poetry the prose
the sex the success
or viceversa
the congenital emptiness
the spotted little egg
among millions and millions of spotted little eggs
Tú y yo****
You and me
Toi et moi
Tea for two in the silence's vastness
in the temporal sea
in the horizon of the history
because we are ribonucleic acid
but a always-in-love ribonucleic acid