A photo of mine, 2019
In that chatroom, her nickname was Desert Rose.
A stone rose
As crust plasters
With bronze thoughts
burnt dead seas
And of thoughts
throughout the time
And of colours
in chalk frozen
A stone rose
A mIRC chatroom, 2005
Judy is entering a sphere
My friend Terry built a new art expo based on ten spheres in which several artists made their works. Each sphere is as little world and it is possible enter them. The opening of this expo will be on next September, 14th 2018.
In my worse silly mode I wrote this stuff about it.
What’s a sphere? an austere
cry to show we are alive,
a small box, often block
trapping smiles in this rock
What’s your sphere? A mystère
you don’t know, when sincere
look at your bloody heart
waiting for a restart
In my sphere I’m asleep
sad and bad and I creep
toward black hole that eats
what I want in my deep
Into a sphere we all live
without sky, love and light
as poor things that deprive
themselves of any fire
SL, Casvian Caye, September, 8th 2018
Photo by JB, 2018
Yellow straw tells me old story
about seasons and work, about fruits
Now it dries at the sun, useless, dead
tired gold poured down on the fields
You cut straws for me once, in my prime,
inside mature wheat stem, in the summer,
you told me about butterflies, bees
leading so my young life to its bloom
Now I am in the evening of days,
as sail broken by slaps of bad wind.
I know that you are alive and you are better
yet I wish here your strength, your strong hand
July, 4th 2018
I need silence
I need time
to sink watches
I need time
to stop time
I seek thoughts
to kill thoughts.
only empty bad thoughts
I find evil
the evil I am.
I was selfish and cruel
I need silence and cold
to freeze fantasies
So the emotions
can turn themselves to ice.
I need glasses
to see better me
I need ice glasses to
freeze my heart
Bye for now
bye dear friend
January, 30th 2018
as a life without sense
way not useful to go further, there,
ghost of roads on which nobody walks
it’s a badly made building,
yet a symbol of selfish to be
so each the other cannot ever meet.
Modern torture is cutting connections
We are alone in this poor darkness’ life
October, 29th 2017
The wrong way, by Kristine Blackadder
When last week Kristine showed me her last machinima, with herself as protagonist, the first impact was a strong emotion, anyway, and saw in it powerfully expressed the wish to be, the desire to be free.
She had and showed both an almost dreamlike version and an ordinary (“real”) one; in the last she wears her usual black dresses; the two Kristine mix each the other and perhaps the dreamlike and totally free one at a certain point seems to get the upper hand over the reality, but anyone, if alone, is able to jump with a force enough to reach a really high altitude and so we fall down again into our sad and usual custom.
Above all, no dream, no matter if it’s a magnificent one, helps us to walk the road toward our happiness.
Kristine, that’s what I understand seeing your movie… please! Forgive me if I am wrong and see only my own reflections.
From those papers your face
and no lost souvenirs of a time
when a sense held up everything
and you were both a shelter and aid
Where are you looking at?
Is your day near or far?
Your eyes are focusing beyond us
staring at the last threshold of your
world that you, that’s for sure, there you saw
Years have passed but the absence does not.
You come back in the nights, in my dreams
and we talk and it’s usual.
Then I wake up, I see me, I miss you
March, 21st 2017