Flu

Like a wild beast
Inside
The ached body
Injecting
Feverish nightmares
Into the sweating night

Static hours
Stuck
To the bed
The mind
As heavy as
An anvil
The body like
A cotton flower

Thoughts
Floating in a room
Soaked  with warm sweet tea
And honey

Endless hours
Rocked by
Some fleeting naps
In the chore of a winter
drawn by the hypnotic music
Of stillness

An hibernation

Eyes closed
I think of what
You saw
Then
From your ostracized bed

Those wounds
You would never
Recover from

They just dragged you away
A little more
Everyday
Far from this merciless world
Of  deeply breathing life

My temporary pains
Are not your agony
Eyes half closed
I am
Just waiting for a dawn
Which has
Never been yours

Those who care

Among

The blurred hours

Where fever

Melts into

Some dark 

Nightmares

Inside the ached

Body and soul

I recognize

The soft breath

Of a caring face

Just being there

Without a word

The Hers of her

The Him of him

When he used to care 

Too

A long time ago

In a way

That made me feel

Strong 

Again

Wrapped into words 

And smiles

And sometimes sad 

Silences

Even these ones 

Were warm and soft

In their entire

Consoling 

Solemnity

A graciousness

Feeding my soul

Raising me

Leaving upon

Each surface 

Of the unutterable

Irremovable marks of

Infinite love

The Art Of Failure

I know again

The attempt

Will be vain

Throwing myself

Into the familiar

Failure

Until the slightest 

Pulsation 
In the veins

The unavoidable

Bleeding

At the tip of the pen

Compellingly

Attracted by

The dizziness

Of sliding into
The sinuous thoughts

Wrapped into ink

To see beyond

The ricocheting music

Of the words

I am

Their prisonner

Or maybe

They are mine

A both pleasurable
And painful
Union

 

To bring out the essence

Of the mysterious

Bliss

Diluting myself

Into

The perfect confusion

Involved again

Until

Silence

('Translation is the art of failure' - Umberto Ecco)

The Ballad Of Readin Gaol - Oscar Wilde

"Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard
Some do it with a bitter look
Some with a flattering word
The coward does it with a kiss

The brave man with a sword"
 

Oscar Wilde - The Ballad Of The Reading Gaol 

 

The Art Of Illusion

The power to dream

And the dream to power

Power

To hold

The illusion

The dream

Of the extraordinary

That leaves you
Breathless

Opening the path

To real fulfillment

You will you loose

your innocence there

But will gain
The priceless gift

Of Knowledge

Remains the

Stubborn trust

The precious truth

Like two warm bloods 

Melted

In an undestroyable faith

To be the one

Who pulls the strings

A gift

To the beloved one

Wrapped

with the magnificent lie

Of anonymous splendour

To perform

At your best

Scattering needles of pains

In a wasted heart

Masks

Riveted

On imperturbable faces

Imperceptibly
Hidden
Emotions

Precautious attentions

To prevent from

The venom

Sealed with a thousand cares 

And doubts

Mine

Yours

Despite

The exhaustion

The insolent blinding spatters

Of illusions

Spreading proudly

A wide impertinent
Impatience

A common
Agreement

Where Power lies

There

In the lies

Between the lines

Beneath the silences

Meeting

Magnificently

The purest truth

And devotion

Behind the opaque surface

of mirage images

For it may only be

The reflection

In the mirror

The 'us' transfixed

Both the creators

And the creatures

And 

Through the looking-glass

The mysterious

Attractive light

Here

To illuminate

You

And to fool

All the others

Or to illuminate

The others

And to fool

You

Khalil Gibran

"I shall listen to the language of your soul as the shore listens to the story of the waves...." - Khalil Gibran

The Catcher In The Rye - J.D Salinger

"Among other things, you’ll find that you’re not the first person who was ever confused and frightened and even sickened by human behavior. You’re by no means alone on that score, you’ll be excited and stimulated to know. Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You’ll learn from them—if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. It’s a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn’t education. It’s history. It’s poetry"

The Catcher in the Rye / J.D. Salinger

R. Burton: "The Leaden Echo and The Golden Echo" by Gerard Manley Hopkins

...Beautiful Music of the Words...

THE LEADEN ECHO HOW to kéep—is there ány any, is there none such, nowhere known some, bow or brooch or braid or brace, láce, latch or catch or key to keep
Back beauty, keep it, beauty, beauty, beauty, … from vanishing away?
Ó is there no frowning of these wrinkles, rankéd wrinkles deep,
Dówn? no waving off of these most mournful messengers, still messengers, sad and stealing messengers of grey?
No there ’s none, there ’s none, O no there ’s none,	5
Nor can you long be, what you now are, called fair,
Do what you may do, what, do what you may,
And wisdom is early to despair:
Be beginning; since, no, nothing can be done
To keep at bay	10
Age and age’s evils, hoar hair,
Ruck and wrinkle, drooping, dying, death’s worst, winding sheets, tombs and worms and tumbling to decay;
So be beginning, be beginning to despair.
O there ’s none; no no no there ’s none:
Be beginning to despair, to despair,	15
Despair, despair, despair, despair.
THE GOLDEN ECHO         Spare!
There ís one, yes I have one (Hush there!);
Only not within seeing of the sun,
Not within the singeing of the strong sun,	20
Tall sun’s tingeing, or treacherous the tainting of the earth’s air,
Somewhere elsewhere there is ah well where! one,
Oné. Yes I can tell such a key, I do know such a place,
Where whatever’s prized and passes of us, everything that ’s fresh and fast flying of us, seems to us sweet of us and swiftly away with, done away with, undone,
Undone, done with, soon done with, and yet dearly and dangerously sweet	25
Of us, the wimpled-water-dimpled, not-by-morning-matchèd face,
The flower of beauty, fleece of beauty, too too apt to, ah! to fleet,
Never fleets móre, fastened with the tenderest truth
To its own best being and its loveliness of youth: it is an everlastingness of, O it is an all youth!
Come then, your ways and airs and looks, locks, maiden gear, gallantry and gaiety and grace,	30
Winning ways, airs innocent, maiden manners, sweet looks, loose locks, long locks, lovelocks, gaygear, going gallant, girlgrace—
Resign them, sign them, seal them, send them, motion them with breath,
And with sighs soaring, soaring síghs deliver
Them; beauty-in-the-ghost, deliver it, early now, long before death
Give beauty back, beauty, beauty, beauty, back to God, beauty’s self and beauty’s giver.	35
See; not a hair is, not an eyelash, not the least lash lost; every hair
Is, hair of the head, numbered.
Nay, what we had lighthanded left in surly the mere mould
Will have waked and have waxed and have walked with the wind what while we slept,
This side, that side hurling a heavyheaded hundredfold	40
What while we, while we slumbered.
O then, weary then why
When the thing we freely fórfeit is kept with fonder a care,
Fonder a care kept than we could have kept it, kept
Far with fonder a care (and we, we should have lost it) finer, fonder	45
A care kept.—Where kept? Do but tell us where kept, where.—
Yonder.—What high as that! We follow, now we follow.—Yonder, yes yonder, yonder,
Yonder.

'Language is a skin...' - Roland Barthes

« Language is a skin : I rub my language against the other one. It is as if I had words instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip of my words. My language trembles with desire. The emotion comes from a double contact : on one hand a whole activity of speech comes to raise discreetly, indirectly , 'something meant' unique, which is 'I desire you', and frees it, feeds it, branches it out, blows it up (the language enjoys to contact itself) ; on the other hand, I roll up the other one in my words, I caress him, touch him, I maintain this touch, I exert to prolong the comment to which I subject the relation. » - Roland Barthes

  "Le langage est une peau : je frotte mon langage contre l’autre. C’est comme si j’avais des mots en guise de doigts, ou des doigts au bout de mes mots. Mon langage tremble de désir. L’émoi vient d’un double contact : d’une part toute une activité de discours vient relever discrètement, indirectement, un signifié unique, qui est « je te désire », et le libère, l’alimente, le ramifie, le fait exploser (le langage jouit de se toucher lui-même) ; d’autre part, j’enroule l’autre dans mes mots, je le caresse, je le frôle, j’entretiens ce frôlage, je me dépense à faire durer le commentaire auquel je soumets la relation."

Roland Barthes:  » Fragments d’un discours amoureux ». Seuil 1977.

Every part of you is like the beginning of a dream.