Photo by JB, 2018
Grass and shrubs here devour all the light
and become lust for life and for colours
while distil fragrance into the air:
helichrysum and dreamy remembers
Buds swell fast among the sharp thorns
ripping each winter’s hard and brown scales
yellow colours spread right all around
and the heather’s flesh is purple blood
Oak trees show hard and prickly, strange leaves
dark and small; they are head bent so close
to the ground. Valerian lights up as it’s a red
flame and rough bindweed is slithering down
In the clear afternoon a strange calm
envelops me; I look at myself
into limestones corroded by years.
We were sounds and too colors. Thus once
St.Guilhem le Desert, April, 4th 2018
Pic by JB 2018
It no longer exists, nor its rooms
nor its battlement towers. The castle
is reduced to a tourist fun chance,
its shaped stones were removed, dispersed
Still alive is the village; the white
rocks are cut and experienced again
while pine and holm trees are now the bush
calm and warm and dark green spread so much
The so powerful strength of a time,
the splendour of tapis and silk velvets,
the luxury and the glory are all faded.
They are only pale spectrum and far
As Baux does, I am often a ghost
made by hopes and illusions: past days.
I recycle my stones; they are old
as lost dreams, as a presence not true
I would like to be more, really alive
I should be what I am, what You want.
There’s a me in my shaped white heart
please discover it, please come to me
Baux, April, 3rd 2018
I found this photo here
Ok: that so dear friend told me something about another meaning of the word “dew” in Japanese language.
I wrote this stuff for that friend …
You were smile of the dew
upon green winter grass
You were light happy rain
in my spring among nights
You were dream in my life
that runs fast toward death.
That’s my sin: to be there
empty mask withouth flesh
February, 1st 2018
On the radio, work by Karma Weymann
She is lost in a sad radio sound
lovely girl, young pale skin without shame
maybe thinking at something as blame
maybe waiting for someone as bound
She is lost in a past radio sound
looking at somewhere, when she had claim
to be happy, alive, when her aim
was to be owned, taken, so wound
She is lost in a love as a bound
stockings are as red passion, as flame
her chest needs to be handled: the frame
of a lost true big love never found
I am lost in a sweet dream, a song
from the past, lovely friend with no shame,
I am thinking to you as a flame.
We could think to be love, to be bound
We were lost in a sad radio sound.
I could not more be lie in a frame
where now each thing is changing to pain.
I want that you be happy and not wrong
SL, Blacklabel Exhibition, January, 27-28th 2018
Photo by J.B., 2018
This stuff can be considered my own version of some verses
red in a beautiful poem by Marina Raccanelli, where she writes in Italian
ora che il vento ci spinge
verso incroci sbagliati
sentieri senza biforcazioni
now when the wind drives us
toward wrong crossroads
paths without junctions
Marina shares her poem just when I am in a wrong crossroad, so her words move me so much …
Thank you Marina and forgive me that stole your words!
Silly wind of emotion led us
to the peace of impossible land
whilst we lost reason and real things
The same wind now drives us toward there,
to wrong crossroads, mad paths, where we don’t
see nor junctions nor truth nor ourselves
There, where our emotion is dead
as a bird hurled against the glass,
where the window is closing our dream
Here now only there’s silence and fog.
January, 29th 2018
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.
Pic found here
This my present is maybe described
using runes, so I can’t find its key
hidden into such alien strange seasons
full of mystery, dryness and shadows
Algorithms made by an abstract coldness,
betray each our human awareness,
liquefy any real essentials
and give up themselves to bestial instincts
Deviant morals gain day by day death
while our reason is pray of deep sleep
and so wavers and more monsters come.
Everything is due, claimed possession
The reality lies low as dream,
a delirium of insipid wishes.
Violence is so a normal thing
everywhere: echo and terrible scream
we shuffle around as in slippers:
only pale and blind shades
of those who lost their role in the world.
My Church seems also a joke
I’m a jump of acrobatic cripple
and pretend and hold me toward nothing
while each thing falls down all around here.
Make us real, me too. Give me sense
June, 27th 2017