> A city is desire for another city

A city is desire for another city

Par |2019-02-23T12:29:04+00:00 3 octobre 2012|Catégories : Blog|



in the oppo­site direc­tion and down

down through unclear tun­nels

down through vel­vet layers 
all the way to the clean crisp sheets in your mothers house
to the rat­tling of the cof­fee cups
that you hear in your shal­low sleep and
to the radio that announces the news
as if  the world exists.


this city
is your mother and her inter­est in a fara­way island ener­gy.
is my mother and
my inter­est in her old pho­tos.
is me  para­site.
this city is a per­sistent desire for ano­ther city.
this city is eve­ryw­here. Its bor­ders fading into
end­less stri­ving for now.


sal­ty mist from the sea fol­lo­wed the train all through the moun­tains and plains

coa­ting the pas­sing land­scapes in a rust­ling foil

and eve­ry lit­tle house on the other side of the win­dow

held pro­mise of a hap­py end.

women on the balus­trades, pro­ject into the street,
down to sai­lors, sti­cky sweets,

conned tou­rists red of face,

scent of spices, of the open sea,

the per­fect dream of an exo­tic har­bour.

fear shar­pens the beau­ty of the night : You look sharp baby tonight.

numb heart explo­ded in the noi­sy cloud of dust.

we are here to remain, in love with eve­ry­thing that is not here

in love with absence.

but the bor­der is open now

cross it.


one day we will talk about that sit­ting on

the jui­ciest grass

sur­roun­ded by pigeons and peli­cans

we will eat hot dogs in per­fect­ly round skirts

com­ple­ted and time­less.


she told a lie to a taxi dri­ver

that she was on a busi­ness trip

some­thing to do with old lan­guages

the same thing she told to a  home­less char­mer

that looks good in pho­tos

that looks good on big gar­de­ned widows’ sofas.

kids dyed hair in dir­ty gold, smo­king on the high­way

doing stunts for stiff, enga­ged


your tac­tic was simple : I want  to be a


In the yel­low glow that rises above the bridges

through the colon­nade of people fishing and bill­boards announ­cing

desi­gn week, you are run­ning to our hotel

its neat­ly  packed soaps and slip­pers

nice­ly fol­ded news­pa­pers you are able to read.
alone on the train again along the cur­ving walls

that took me by sur­prise,

led me

to the clear

to the sea and desire for God

for order

that I pre­tend to just part­ly unders­tand

I don’t

not real­ly

just this big water and oily bodies make me desire.


her ex-lover, behea­ded, came in with

the tide

over and over that body was coming

limbs soft and stret­ched

his pain of denial made

the long necked palms bend over

pushng  through the

sti­cky flo­wers

through too public plains of the sun­ny after­noon

arms  dis­car­ded like branches after a storm

hea­ding to the bar where sta­ring people

have real jobs and strong hands.

from for­got­ten city gar­dens

you could hear grow­ling of the big cats

licking soft thorn sleeves



shou­ting in the park :

you ugly bitch I wan­na stab you to death”

then we could hear a fami­liar name and loud sin­ging,

and cri­ckets, mil­lions of them, all through the pine woods,

voices coming from the city beach.

voices of beings and hap­pe­nings that are going on without us

and more and more without us

eve­ry moment some­bo­dy becomes too old for

cer­tain cities : the strange-loo­king hair on those kids…

eve­ry moment an undis­co­ve­red star wears out

but this swamp will love you

pre­serve your dreams like rasp­ber­ry jam

that swee­tens your ever redu­cing days

sun is unplea­sant­ly yel­low and the big flood wave is expec­ted any moment

sha­dows are long and slow

insects are fal­ling down from the trees, sand is on the bed

bet­ween toes and fin­ger­nails

we are clea­ning it constant­ly, the sand is eve­ryw­here

you are waking often ; we talk often in pauses in bet­ween

two dreams

I can hear the city behind the blinds

I can feel it pene­tra­ting

the walls

of desi­red cold.