waters

"I am a woman, I die at every breath." And every song enlarges my madness.
I find no happiness in land or in waters. I do understand not the bare voices of my masts... always in quest for bodies... ever-away ever-living... there wings wounds... like scattered birds in my veins... upstream, downstream... full of fruits and crescent moons striking the fearless harps... Neither you nor me can leap and touch the words that take madness captive. Birds should talk of love, of those dreamy bodies I am weeping for. Yet they only break songs by songs into circles of ever-living ever-away bodies that sink smoothly as the sun rises... promising to conquer every winged desire... kiss for kiss...
"All that ever loved
Have loved that way - there is no other way"
All the lips must obey the same thirst wholly
or be not in the world.

tendresse

un accès de tendresse m'égare sur le vide extérieur. c'est ainsi que les jeunes aprennent à battre les villes d'un bout à l'autre, et à incendier les fleuves à l'envers comme si leur peau étaient une atmosphère qui tombe et coule et flambe vers le centre de tous les ponts vifs

an aching gap in words

There are many gaps between words. some very intense and burning and aching gaps between words and words and bodies and bodies...
I recall a silence of mine, a silence-Me, blowing, detonating, in harmony with those gaps. There were nameless times, really nameless and eventful. The hour was ripe for in-depth studies on winds and waves and thunders. The surprisingly strong thing happened when the feeling of silence and the feeling of thunder reached the high point of total fusion.
My dwelling evidence of craving for X exploded on time and before its time. All at once. Time was disrupted like a torn muscle, for ever uncapable of telling the story of its long dynamics - as well as its most cherished substantive resting gestures. Maybe because of the primal aching gap. However sweet an explosion may be, I still do not venture my unbroken bones through that forest of nascent symbols. still

fons et origo

I believe the feeling of muscles and joints explicates the distance and the texture of space by virtue of a fine sensitivity to surfaces, a bodily-drawing-of-surfaces: upon, from, over, against, through, into, apart, behind, under, between...
If two cutaneous surfaces are wholly sensitive to each other and able to trace their mutual innervation, then they generate an extended space and a map of differentials and a system of motions to come.
Were I skin-blind, I could nothing but doubt my journeys

Da mi basia mille

Da mi basia mille, deinde mille, deinde altera...
Je ne sais pas si je nage ou si je vole ou si je m'enfonce en pleines brumes... vers midi ou minuit, sans comprendre si l'heure est de soleil ou de lune - ou même si soleil et lune il y a. Radicalement égarée, l'heure croît comme des roses - tant d'épines que de rouge - sur la peau, à moi, si à moi il y a. Me manquent... mains, bouche, ton inspire-expire, ton cycle de saisons, tellement vraies... J'ai besoin, à mourir. Rien ne peut l'ignorer. Toi - moi à toi, à mourir, si mort il y a, jamais, ainsi. Rien ne porte à croire au rouge serré, jour et nuit, contre, sur. un futur proche qui monte et descend, ici, ailleurs, peu importe.
Da mi basia mille, deinde mile, deinde altera... usque...
Il me survient à moi ne pas pouvoir ne pas pouvoir. Plus radicalement que tous les arbres possibles. Tu - à moi - me hantes, jour et nuit. Tout cela est trop absurde... trop océanique, trop éolien, trop puissant pour ne pas y plonger, sans savoir si c'est de nage ou de vol ou d'enfoncement que mon corps se refait face à toi, horizon agité d'infinis passages possibles entre les textes et les veines où l'on neige et brûle abondamment comme des forces sans foyer

instant durant

Je me relis maintenant.
Un coup de foudre porte en lui une longue histoire: il faudra développer des études météorologigues sur la possibilité de l'instant absolument dense du "Printemps".
Hypothèse: L'instant comme injection intensive, compacte, de durée.

textures for blind hours

on reperousing the most powerful strings of symbols at your chest, I have understood nothing at all.
so far. as a patient of severe deprivation within your boundless camp of conflicting temperatures and philosophies.
perhaps later my understanding be otherwise. though my vessel is notoriously weak, it cannot compromise my flights over the fire. my dreams are also the most skillful collectors of fire. sure, I speak of fires out in the open. yes, in the Open, because Fires know nothing of closures at all. I love very much when ignorance is total.
on reperousing your codes, one by one, silently, in the mist of several senses melting together a sensation of desirable encounter and metaphysical impossibility... the sweetest pages of skin burn smoothly at all libraries now, perfectly unanimous and intimate.
this Hour is not my possession. its internal springs tend increasingly to overcharge the motion that has started before dawn, unnoticed.
on reperousing such bodily central textures of yours... the total number of compossibilities rise to my highest layers of imaginings...
shall I daresay nothing but a secret? For a secret must be invented so that all geography be regenerated.
I imagine I recall the very first drums of the very first bodies

ressenti dépourvu

s'évade et s'échappe ici
ce qui autrement réalise l'absurde fleur
de personne

cycle de base

La vérité est que la soif coule plus forte et plus puissante que les eaux.

Je prierai aux femmes liquides: à la dame du fleuve, à la dame du lac et à bien d'autres qui savent pourquoi un peu de neige ou de pluie ou de vapeur peut sauver ce qui autrement... absurde. Une soif à contre-courant de toutes les oscillations corporelles qui finissent par reposer un instant en automne.

Surface

la surface de mon corps progresse vers l'idée de l'infini

Amar é quando.

Amar é quando.
Diria que os pronomes são falsos, criam locais desertos no início das horas.
Depois, os pronomes descem para as linhas de água e correm em busca de remotas bocas sedentas. Aí, acontece: nascer-se, morrer-se.
Nós, Tempo. Nós, Ser.
Uma vírgula entre tu e eu, como entre a vida e a morte, deve suspender um ligeiro vento apenas. Vida, morte.
Um vento sem estórias nocturnas por onde se perder os sentidos. De onde a onde. por onde. a luz regressando às mãos. ultimamente. depois. ao amanhecer. no coração da noite. sobre a última ferida do tempo-antes-de-quando. Pois, amar é quando.
Exactamente