No Breath

The past always plays on the loop on my large TV screen day and night

I could close my eyes and the voices and the faces are still there

“Take your pills, son”

“Don’t let demons in, son”

“Fight the good fight, son”

But Father, why has thou forsaken me?

I’m being shred to pieces on this battlefield

making weapons out of cloth and sticks

birthing and dying every day

but you are a No Breath resting with other No Breath

But you are a No Breath that I carry inside

like every seed carries its history

I bend over for the past that is inside me

and yet every character has a limited time to perform

before it turns

like others before him

into another particle of dust in the sands of Time


When words fail

In the static of this urban life,

I switch between lanes of aural reception

to capture the unaltered sound

the patterns of my voice

before it got lost in the bustle and shuffle of crowd noises

but I was left with gibberish and baby sounds

whenever I wanted to say

Je t’aime

Je suis fatigue

J’ais faim

J’ais soif

Embrasses moi

All I could do is point and shake my head

language had failed me

but I hoped you wouldn’t

Public Notice

Hang your head to the left

and tap your right ear

to empty it from these slithering voices

hang your head to the right

and repeat the gesture

Do this daily

in the middle of your day and before bed

No side effects has been noticed

other than clarity and peace of mind

This message has been approved by the Healthy Soul Association.


le brouillard du sommeil ne manquait pas d’épaisseur aujourd’hui
il me suffisait d’étendre la main pour palper ces hommes et femmes de mon passe
je demeurais conscient que je rêvais heureux de cheminer les tunnels du Temps
et effleurer en passant les moments doux et amers
que m’importe que je sois assis sur un nuage
et que l’on vit qu’une fois
mais que le passe est vécu sans arrêt
une réincarnation totale de tous les « je suis » qui ont vécu
mais l’alarme grogna
lorsque le « Je suis » de dix ans me chuchotait a l’oreille
toute prière a Morphée s’avéra vaine
Ma journée entière s’écoula doucement
Ses premiers mots rejouant sans cesse dans mes oreilles :
« Ne réveille pas l’eau qui dort… »


Boredom is a flat, endless road

with a flat sky

flat grass

and most annoying of all

a flat future

your eyes grope all over the flat land

to be reassured that this is a dream

that Time isn’t just standing still

that the planets are still twirling about

that love making and sheets crumpling are still happening

that bullets are still slowed down by anonymous bodies

that God’s cups of Anger are still filling up

that Angels are still flapping their wings above the forgotten

Boredom has a sleazy, lazy tone that grates and screetches

booooring, boooooring

every syllable stretched to ring endlessly in your ears

and yet you search the flat land, the flat road and the flat sky

hoping that this stillness isn’t you

that there’s still a trace of motion in your stillness

but every movement dips you even quicker to see

that what was is and will always be.