On The Nape Of The Neck

Something

Both delicate and strong

Just there
On the nape of the neck

In the unique

Powerful silence

Of contemplation

Eyes and arms

Around
Meaningful shoulders

Full of sense

And sensual callings

Vanishing
In despair

Anticipating

The salty

Stolen kiss

A land where to travel

A land where to free you

Or enslave you

In a wish

Teasing

The Beauty

Of the moment

Tasting

Infinity
Upon some lips

Of Desire

Reflected in

Never satisfied
Eyes

Love

Licked and lacked

Momentarily postponed

Suspended on a breath

Indefinite duration

Sealed with the blue ink

Of Passion

Curves
Offered

To receive

The painful kiss

The perfect holy sanction

Delivered 

Out of the light

And into

Darkness

A land to explore

Beyond the borders

Of ourselves

Bodies and souls

Transported

Beyond

Good and Evil

A timeless Bliss

Suspended

In its cold and warm

Transcendant 

Waves

Timelessness

The timelessness of things which sometimes reduces the facts to a tiny fraction of a second.Like a flash or a furtive grain of sand gobbled up in the immense ocean of an hourglass in the infinity.
Or sometimes, on the contrary, time diluted, stretched, extended, immortalized, turned toward infinity. Until it becomes in our memory, similar to a long and meaningful river.
The meaning that we give to it, or the words that we've been given. 
So, I do not really know any more if the sun shone this day and if the heaviness of the silence was gobbled up forever or if it still remains..
I do not really know which words actually went out of my mouth and who stopped them. I do not really know what my eyes really saw.
There is no other time than the one that we name with our own empirical instruments. The one that the man himself starts up and the one that his hand stops.
My story is not 'one', it is multiple. It is anchored in Time as it is simultaneously detached from it. One single moment can seem to extend over an eternity or to almost vanish in our memory, as furtively as a wink.
There are no stories. No History either. There are punctual, juxtaposed facts. Lived and felt. Mixed some with the others. Leaving a print. Rather belonging to our memory and what it makes of them.
What remains is certainly related to the certainty or the confusion of the feelings.
Our memory, our history. This fuzzy mirror of our soul.
Our story, a myth 'reconstructed' in the light of our more or less abashed memories, that we consider sometimes as real. Firmly, like a stubborn religion sacrificing our reconstructed and re-appropriated self.
We stand outside any chronological logic. Becoming a logic in itself of ourselves.

Travelling

Whispered words

And a thousand thoughts

Are my travelling

Companions

I hear them

Singing in my ears

A song

Of sweet freedom

Stretching over

A newly born

Horizon

I see

Through your eyes

And mine

Again and again

The fathomless

Meaning

Of the sea

I see

The questions

That have
No answers

Like waves
Stretching
Rolling

endlessly brought back

To the shore

I see

The untold stories

The unheard songs

The reflections upon

The red walls

I see

In black and white

And in color

The incomparable

Beauty
The inconsolable
Pains

Through walking

And walking

And walking

I understand

How much

I can embrace

I know

The measure

of a treasure

Diving into

Pleasure

In so far as

I can't reach

Those mysteriously

Dark clear eyes

An enigma

Fixed in a present

And in a past

that escape me

Belonging to

Parallel

Foreign worlds

Two oceans swimming

Into each other's movement

Joining

In a bliss

Juggling

Within

The magnificent

Almighty

Ambiguïty

A silent conversation

Pure

Entireness

Of silence

Silence

Containing all

The silences

Of our souls

The storms

The whispers

And the cries

The dream

Unfolding

And melting

In an harmonious

Recognition

Everything

But nothingness

A full box

Of silent

Conversations

A weaving of

Colourful words

Melting

In transgression

Tireless

Words

Perfectly tuned

And balanced

Making love

To one another

In a symphony

Of wonder

Words

Never in solitude

In loneliness

Maybe

Like the sweet touch

Of velvet on the skin

Language

Reunified

Into the abysses

Of an absence

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