"the middle spot
between two parallel lines"
available @ metalabel
94 pages, 28 poems
written between october '24
and april '25
This is an issue about longing, solitude, sickness, patience.
Acceptance of being powerless sometimes,
stuck in an isolated place that is neither a home nor totally foreign,
between feeling both lucky and cursed at the same time :
the middle spot between two parallel lines
One minute she's naked
bathing in sun's caressing rays, sweating; the next,
she hurries.
The sky itself is dripping,
crying cold tears.
Now that her cheeks turned to mud,
she wonders :
« did I postponed any grief during summer? »
She wants to visit the sea
now that tourists are back to their usual places,
now that life has returned to its generic state.
Meanwhile - to make up for her lack of foresight
she claimed the wild rivers
but the stream can't be defeated.
Monumental tides, her meals are full of salt;
the air's filled with grapes and fast exploding clouds.
Here comes the first cold of the year, as expected.
How warmer she could have been
if she sewed a sweater
with the golden threads she collected during summer.
She has to ask the ocean how to build a nest,
how to prevent sand
from slipping out of her favorite low-rise jeans' pockets
I blame a familiar scent coming from the wildest nights,
performative seduction -
excessively teasing for the place i'm at.
I now happen to dedicate all hours seeking sheets of silk,
the gentle caress of jasmine,
some delicate pieces of lace taking their time
to go against the acre smell of burning streets outside.
This incense sticks between your teeth if you're not careful enough;
penetrates your room to tear one of your finger off if it's not a prodige's one
I don't wanna be called lazy -
i still love to get my hands dirty,
but what a presumptuous belief to think we do have a purpose;
some people were delivered
with nothing but tiredness in their veins.
From anguish that remains
naps after nights
comes the deprivation of a birthright lying in manufactured guilt.
I want to hear yawning bodies basking in meek leap of honor
whilst the echo chamber, idle, is counting
... eighteen sec... eighteen sec...
until it finally latches the disowning door
from the threshold of a bedroom filled with musks
Landlords$$$
I moved a lot when i was a child,
i know how ephemeral can be a home;
how a wicker chair can lose a leg
how a mirror can quickly end up
covering the new bedroom's floor.
Who really holds value and why ?
If one questions how this house is built
one's in for a painful ride -
for they give more space to breakable desks
than to their own kind
The walls you don't possess
are sweating memories that don't belong
in their cracks -
tears, every time it rains;
perpetual stains that never dry
A future i can't conceive yet, a past i can't totally forget. Between a refuge and jail, a blessing and a curse; a blurry veil of wheat preventing us from seeing stars. Yet we keep laying on the terrace, still... stargazing by the force of delusion, in the not-so-secret hope to find a forbidden map towards the south; directions we need instead of ones learnt by default. There's no slow down like when sitting in the middle spot between two parallel lines; where the borders that trapped us are nowhere to be seen, when the horizon glances at us without saying a thing. The streets sure are aligned here nevertheless, we could be standing here for years with tiny hourglasses in our hands to squish in anger. Now glass is all we can walk on - perilous, more than eggshells; we need a plan, something safe that will stick, a manor of wood, an alarm bell ringing before noon. We could stumble upon a house by the sea, a beach covered in seashells to make jewelry out of oysters' huts. This might flay our skin, we don't care; we're jealous of their homes being able to follow their lead. I have a fear of blades to confront, an hex to lift; by starting to walk in bloody shoes, extra conscious of being followed, closely, by time's footsteps. Sounds safer than getting wrinkles from waiting, idle; judgment card's appearance on a dusty desk
*poem published in the 3rd issue of Fishnet Magazine
« HONEY YOU'RE NOT A TREE,
THERE'S NO HURRICANE STRONG ENOUGH TO KILL ALL LIFE WITHIN;
NO LIFE SO SHORT YOU COULDN'T REACH SPAIN AT LEAST »
since birth, a piece of the moon lives on my tongue
You can notice how wild hyacinths stain the hand that tries to pick them,
proof of a certain chastity,
whilst the fields behind are misty still -
just like you are,
naughty
flower picker
Spring is known for the gift of defrosting bodies and holy liquids,
making desires translucent
to a spirit that forgot he has certain needs.
It's been a while since baptismal waters didn't turn to glass. Eventually,
the clouds allow the sun to reach the ground.
Through morning dry the leaves,
so please don't leave me hanging by a thread,
winter has been long and hard and pretty sad;
i yearn for the day of my new name
that could finally handle a pink pollen
tasteful, next to manmade fences.
Foes sometimes, flowers and Men synch before harvest;
no one fights to grow further than light under a ray of pride.
All is in agreement,
all deserving of simple beds in the soothing grass;
not yet roasted, but infatuated
by sap flowing faster in their veins -
if only for a month
UNTIL NEXT TIME………