Still

Something is riveted
over the bed.
More than a heaven,
less accessory.
A full bloomed yes
reducing the world
to a handful of dust.
A closer moon, lit
by our helpless addiction
to each other
and where curiously,
everything pauses,
as a proof of life.

Sealed from all events,
our love making
announced the coming
of a terrible stillness.
And it came.
Now the air is so still
that the clock halted.
Its ticking is wrapped
in clear cellophane.
That thin film has settled
over everything.
The light stopped trembling
and my pulse got darker
as ink.

Once that timeless zone,
that weightless form,
was nothing
but a flash of ecstasy.
We kept falling in and out of it,
as one.
But I can’t get back.
I lie half-way
in less predatory hands.

You ask about the music.
My body is a silent box.

That same body,
once a butterfly,
followed you
like the rhythm of an aria.

Nursing Stones

– to the memory of Camille Claudel

You can’t escape the ether you bathe in
It’s pure nebula, it freezes you to the bone
You believe in flame but they provide
only neon here,
they scrutinize your bed,
note you don’t masturbate, here.
Your only tragedy is the peach in the stone,
the unborn kiss, the child they can’t see
in the chalcedony.
Here, there’s no description for the fire
in your palms,
your chalky hands are annulled,
muzzled as rabid beasts
infected by beauty.

They think you’re dirty, laugh brusquely
at leaves and flowers you stick
in your hair.
Shrinks get hiccups, deny you are a lion
ignore the rare bird
in their madhouse of air.

The reason you’re here,
the Only,
send you candies, isn’t it funny?
Is there some old screenshot
he failed to see?
Or did they, outside, in the free-zone,
hang love sharp with a shoelace?

You can’t escape the filth you’re in,
it ‘s pure dementia, it freezes you to the bone.
But aren’t you the one who drinks from the clay
the one who milks the wound ?
Who made the headlines ?
Buried his face in every block hit,
plaster, marble, gem ?
He lies under your chisel now,
forever, to improvise a soul,
remake a solid life
from your waves of onyx.
Who knows what will grow
inside the rock soon?
While you bleed in this immensity
of solitude and soup spoons.
Love. Suns. Truth ?

Thirty years now deprived of stone.
Thirty years your eyes are pure stars
when the whole sky dissolve.
Silenced, the earth.
Silent, the dust
over pale corridors.
Thirty years of floor splitting
under your feet.
Thirty years of crevice
and no one to kiss
this unearthly stone
in your chest.
Camille.
As if nobody knew
it was not insanity,
as if nobody knew
your skull,
this miraculous fossil,
was a shelter
for a clay
no man could ever sign.

Listen here, Read by RM :