The gallimaufry approach to life

dodo, matin, café,  Il chante, il court, il ne veut pas Son fruit, des calins, il grandit La journée à peine commencée et déjà une chape de beton t emmène vers le fond  Tu constates que tu trembles Tu crois bien faire Tu te noies dans tes livres Tu t'agrippes aux mots comme un alcoolo au cou de la dernière bouteille A l affut de la cuite  des connaissances, du secret de comment De comment, on élève ce foutu d enfant. Tu happes l air la bouche mi fermée  malgré ta tete au dessus de l eau  Un film etirable se colle à ta vie Traits tirés, le déni Tu eccopes, mais tu chavires les claques, les coups, les ecchymoses  de ta jeunesse ne s estomperont jamais cette sensation que le sort   s'acharne sur toi tu te sens noyée dans une timbale d eau Tu donnes des putain de coups de pieds, mais les parois ne cèdent pas Ce monde avance, tu dois suivre,  Être à la page, être une bonne mère Malgré...

A mere glance at the slippery snake, Stone, she shouted. You are stone. And here I stand, a mere memory of all the memories, Foregone hopes, spliced lives left unfinished. Your ashes like a thousand fireflies catching starlight upon the wings of the dragon you simply could not slay. Dust to dust, you are. Ashes to ashes, you soar. Stone upon stone, is the weight I bear. Un coup d'œil furtif au serpent insaisissable, Pierre, cria-t-elle. Tu seras pierre. Et me voilà, un simple souvenir de tous les souvenirs, Des espoirs perdus, des vies épissées laissées en suspens. Tes cendres comme mille lucioles qui attrapent la lumière des étoiles sur les ailes du dragon que tu n as pas pu tuer. La poussière à la poussière, te voici. Les cendres aux cendres, tu voles. Pierre sur pierre, c'est le poids que je porte, le fardeau de ma vie.

des entailles dans cette peau sans consequence abordage des plaies poids de la plume enclume ecorchage à vif de cette fragilité frilleuse à la dérive, le decrochage des émotions je m assois et prends le temps de me rendre compte que finalement je ne suis plus l ennemi de moi meme

On ne parle pas assez aux inconnus.  L apprehension, le m en foutissme generale L antipathie c est le pathos de notre societe Tetes baissées, on fonce  dans une course planetaire faite d astres consumeristes. Mais, réellement, de quoi a t on peur ? De se faire prendre d assaut par ses propres sentiments ? De se sentir etrangler par le chordes de l humanité ? De se faire renvoyer a l expediteur sans adresse indiqué ? De se rendre compte qu on est tous humain,  tous de chair et os ? moi, je brave les normes  J m engage armé de syllabes et de sourires Maladroitement, ouvertement, manifesstement destabilissante. Et toi, inconnu, tu me vois, m entends, me connais, te reconnais dans ma recherche tatonnante d une once d humanite. Il aurait suffit d une echange, un regard Le bout de nos doigts s effleurent a peine Des picotements traversent nos bras jusqu à dans nos coeurs  Et nous poursuivrons ce chemin ensemble à parcourir...

Tell me, who can see, in the longest of nights, when the winds of yesterday have unearthed our amassed souls amongst the dreams and the dead, a suffering sun smothered by the silence of our bodies.  Tell me, who can dance in the debris of the living, reduced to mere bones and flesh, regurgitating the failures and the lines of the last poem in decomposition.  Tell me, who can take these hands, full, lacerated by the claws of time, curved by the invisible intertwining of two worlds.  Tell me, who can believe in the stars and the compasses used by man, drifting endlessly across the continents, facing mirages of truth. Tell me, who can be without words, who can talk without betrayal. Translated and rearranged by me Qui peut dans la plus longue des nuits, là où les vents des veilles déterrent nos amas d'âmes, parmi les songes et les morts, un soleil en peine qui s'éteint dans le silence du  corps, qui peut danser sur les débris des vivants, syncopes des os et...

Patience  Les genoux écorchés,  Douleur redoublant la frénésie Grimper, glisser, le paroi suintant  Je m'agrippe à la surface,  À me plier les ongles à l envers. Gouttelettes de sang nourrissent la terre de mon ame. J ai cherché en vain des signes, des mots.  Le néant. Tout m'echappe, vol en eclats,  me transperce, laissant trace sur trace. Traquer l absolu, à l infini et finir par quoi ? Pour quoi ? Pour qui? Peux tu sentir le sel de mes larmes ? Patience, j'apprends encore à apprehender mes peurs et mes infaillibles failles  Mes faiblesses et fortitudes. Encore un peu De patience.

Dear soulmate, I know you go through darkness, crippled, crumpled, crucified by the past; what could have been, what is not, what one expected you to be; by a future full of the unknown, eschatological fragments which tear you up, rip you apart, yet you cannot bear that burden alone. I'm afraid of the dark, but i promise to kiss the wounds in your heart, the infinite scars in your soul. I've told you before, I have strength inside me which enables me to go beyond the boundaries. If you take my hand, wholly trust me, I can confront that cliff with you, arms around your waist, head against your trembling back. Face the openness, my arms wrapped around you, while you absorb the beauty of feeling moved by something which is beyond your control. The spray from the waves crashing below send droplets of sea salt upon your skin, a reminder that you feel, that you are. Salt of the earth, salt of the soul. When we are both surrounded by that darkness, we will grip each other, cla...

A house, in the Cantal, there we stood, my brother and I, the two of us, inseparable. Upon visiting our uncle, a man of science and words, ophthalmologist by design, poet by desire, we would make our way to his study, a room where every surface, floors, walls, books, was permeated by the shadows of time. The latter had drawn us here to begin with. Their spines facing outwards, revealing the bare minimum, heightening our curiosity. What would lie within? What stories would unfold, be embedded in the depths of our minds?  Who would we be after we had encountered the words?  We take our seats, as always next to each other, our feet skimming the floor. We wait with bated breath, blinking in the shadows of knowledge. Unhurried, my uncle lays down his fountain pen, the one with which he pens his lines, then, focusing his gaze first upon my brother, then upon me, he bores through irises into my mind and soul. He knows. He rises. He runs his fingers down each spine one after the o...

Far from me to want to deceive anyone into thinking this is based on my life. This is fiction. This little girl exists in my head but represents all those children abused and hurt by adults. I wanted to speak out about it from the child's perspective. Twisting a tuft of hair around my finger, I notice the harsh neon lights are making the burns on my forearm shine. 'Can you tell me more about Jimmy?' Another question. I don't want to answer, but have to, I know. I look down at my feet dangling, shifting my weight. The plastic chair is hard and uncomfortable. 'I remember the day he came to live with us. The doorbell rang. I thought it was the postman. I was wearing my sparkly hairband, the one Jimmy broke into a thousand pieces when I wouldn't put my shoes on. I opened the door. Mummy came running up behind me smiling. He looked friendly. He was holding a bunch of flowers for Mummy and Mr. Nibbles for me.' I pause, tightening my grip on the cuddly toy ...

My mother was a burlesque dancer. I say this with pride. After all, she brought me up in a swirl of sparkly nipple tassels, fringes, music, dancing, instilling in me a sense of whorled wonderment. 'Play Dream a Little Dream' she would say, and my father would literally sweep her off her sequined-slipper clad feet, spinning her round and round. Only my father could make her this dizzy. She would throw her head back, the sequins a blur of starry colour. Sometimes she would fall on the floor melodramatically. 'Again' she would insist. She would stand in front of me, looking down, batting those dark fake eyelashes. 'Dance with me.' she would say. Grabbing my wrists, she would pulled me towards her, my book clasped in my fingertips at arms length. There was never any point resisting her magnetic pull. I would be allowed to place my book open at the page I had reached on the seat of the pink velvet armchair. I would turn towards her and offer a gentlemanly bow. In my...

Tristen pulled out his hip flask and took a swig. Shaking the almost empty canteen, he downed the rest, his Adam's apple rising. The audible gulp rang out in the silence as the liquid gave rise to the familiar warmth. He checked the time yet again on his smart phone, the glow lighting his face. From a carefully chosen position at the end of the darkest part of the alley, a black clad figure stood waiting, watching the spectral head. She was dying for a fag, but that would have to wait. It is time, the walrus said. Pulling her hood lower over her face, determined soundless steps drew her nearer to the meeting point. 'Have you got it?' A whisper so mere that the disembodied voice floated in from the depths of darkness. 'Jeez, you scared the shit out of me.' His voice rang out in the obscurity, filling the air. 'Shh. Here's how we'll proceed...' A buzzing sound and the Star Wars imperial death march drowned out the voice. Tristen fumbled i...

'What do you mean they've cancelled Christmas? They can't do that. What about all the preparations I've made?' 'My mother says it's not her fault if you plan 6 months ahead for something they don't even celebrate.' 'But they said they were coming and then tell you to tell me they're not. On the 24th. That's not fair.' 'It's just that in the Netherlands we don't really celbrate Christmas if there aren't any kids.' I could tell he was running out of patience by the way his nostrils started to flare. 'Well that's sad.' 'It's not sad! It's just that my mother doesn't feel like celebrating twice that's all. After the 5th there's not much point really.' 'Ok I get it. Your mother doesn't like me.' 'I can't believe we're having this conversation again.' Then he stormed off, slamming the door behind him. I took another sip of sherry and got back to forcing...

I wrote this as part of a Futurelearn course to improve my skill. We had to imagine we were starting with, I remember. His brush strokes were powerful, his scrutiny intense. My naked body writhing twisted there on that dais. My nose was itching, the smell of oil paint tickling my nostrils, my nipples erect and puckering in the cold. He had forbidden me from moving. He had assured me that the ordeal would be over quickly. He had lied. He was engrossed in his own pleasure and I found myself at the mercy of his engorged ego.

'I love you.' he said looking at her hands folded over the crumpled white sheet, stars of light dancing off the red varnish on her perfectly manicured nails. She didn't take her eyes off the ceiling. 'OK' she said. OK? OK? Is that how she responds to the opening his heart to her, leaving him raw, exposed. It was her fault, she made him love her and he was sure she loved him too. She had to. There had been the gentle caresses, the way she way she ran her fingers over his balding head, the things she had told him that she'd never told anyone like her dream of becoming a nurse, and the love making, she couldn't have been faking it, could she? Could she? He stared at her tousled mane all aflame and pronounced the words once more. 'I. love. you.' he uttered each word one after the other because that was it, she hadn't understood what he'd said before. 'OK' same tone, eyes still on the ceiling. Then, she pulled her legs to her chest...

Cologne, Germany. Modern day reflecting on past events  Hans gripped his 27 year old granddaughter's  arm, her warmth and youth comforting him. She was so lucky she had not had to endure war, that she could enjoy being young. How it should be, he thought. They had reached their destination and stood at the foot of the steps leading up to an imposing building darkened by pollution and age. Most of Cologne had been destroyed during the war but not this monstrosity.  'Are you sure you want to go in, Opa? We could just go and eat cake.' He grunted and leaning on her arm, climbed up the steps.  As they passed the threshold, Lina watched her grandfather's expression. He was scowling his mouth set in a resolute grimace. She bought the tickets and was informed of the different exhibitions. 'I don't want to see the exhibitions. Just room 202 and the cells.'  The young man behind the desk explained 'The rooms were transformed in the 1980s when the old Gesta...

Steven was running late. He hadn't expected the traffic to be this bad at this time of day. Why was he even doing this? He didn't even like Xavier. Oh yeah, it was to advance his career. Anything to please the head instructor. 'My girlfriend, Lola, is arriving from London at 8pm but I'm training that pilot from Basel from 6 onwards. Do you think you could pick her up for me?' The life of a pilot was unpredictable. There he was, stuck in tail to tail traffic, on the Periph as the Parisians called it.  He ran into arrivals, skidding to a halt at the correct gate. And there she was with her bags. The neon light bouncing off her peroxide hair forming a halo, as her red talons tapped agressively on her smartphone screen.  'Hi. Sorry I'm late. I'm Steven' 'Yeah. About time. I almost thought you wasn't coming.' He detected East London. Nostalgia rose in his throat. 'You're not French.' 'Nope. Kent, born and bred....

Margaret shuffled towards the heavy black doors. Squeak of hinges. Bang shut. 'Madam?' Said a thin raspy voice from behind the counter. 'I've lost this.' She tapped a gnarled finger on the black and white photo of a young woman carrying an umbrella. He pulled out an engraved pocket watch and watched her response. She shook her head. He turned back to the shelves and produced a red silk scarf. She rubbed the material gently between thumb and index, the roughness of her skin catching on the delicate threads. Shaking her head, mumbling to herself, she stuffed photo into her bag. Squeak of hinges. Bang shut. 'This is the lost property bureau, not some bloody psycho ward.' came a voice from the corner 'Every week, she shows you those old photos. You show her rubbish, she shakes her head, then leaves. Weird.' 'You have no idea who she is, do you?' The old man folded the scarf obsessively 'or was?' He turned to look at the ...

Tom stood at the top of the steps covered by centuries of moss, staring out across his newly acquired lands. 'Look at that. Mole hills everywhere. It's your job to get rid of them.' He said accusingly to the old man next to him. 'Take me forever to get rid of 'em all. That's a specialist's job, tha' is. Ask Bob and Bill down the Old Clocks 'n Apples.' Half an hour later, Tom had walked up to the bar of the local pub, asked the surly publican where he could find the mole catching duo and was looking into the corner at a grimy potato sack, a muddy bucket and a long plastic pipe propped up beside two men in flat caps. Clink clink went the draughts on the board. Without looking up from the game, one of them said 'how may we be of 'sistance, Sor?' Tom raised his eyebrows for the merest second at the sales patter. 'I heard you can get rid of moles.' 'Tha's right. We catch 'em, then let 'em go.' 'You do...

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK "Housekeeping" The hinges squeaked as I opened the door to find a chubby, dark haired woman in her thirties wearing a don't-mess-with-me black skirt and white shirt. "Hello. I am Milana Alexandrov-Thomson. I am Head of Housekeeping. Welcome." "Thanks." I extended a hand which she duly took and shook in a manner matching the outfit and tone of voice. "I just vant to say, I saw light bulbs in common kitchen are changed. You cannot do this." "Oh, I had some spare and thought it was better. You know, so the Girls don't fall over or burn themselves when they're cooking." "No, you need to open ticket with Maintenance. You need to send email to maintenance@thistleschool.co.uk" "Oh, OK." I must have looked puzzled. She added, as if to explain "You do not have Hardware Clearance."  "No, you're right, I don't. Can I get Hardware Clearance?" "No! Why you...

At first light, darkness fell. As usual. Today would be no different and the feeling it would instill in Sophie would also be no different. Sophie was ready, sitting at the window of her pod on the 45th floor, her eyes fixed on the horizon, waiting. And there it was, a slight hint of paleness from afar. A glowing haze was beginning to take form on the surface of the water and then the menisc of the huge disc appeared, spreading a delicious light which tickled the waves. Sophie tried not to blink, staring intensely at the scene unfolding before her. 'Blink and you'll miss it!" her mother had said to her growing up. That was before the Complexes. 'For safety' the government had said. Sophie was drinking in the light. The windows of the Complex were automatically timed to display an alternative scene whereby the sunrise would continue like a film. Sophie had learnt robotics from her father, enabling her to short circuit her one window without setting off the alarm....