Deeper than the pond
I will never loose sight of your declarations.
Once, I thought, would be heaven.
Twice, I thought, we died.
Additions could only make them fade.
What is it about the strenght in words, that never quite make it in reality?
“Quite frankly, I’m a little lost right now”
Monologues, masquerading as conversations.
Each on their own island of contempt for life and what it hasn’t brought us.
Half assed attempts at building rafts made of cum.
There is no salvation in your skin, nor in mine.
I will drink from your body, the last drop of hope I drew from your smile.
You will eat from my heart, the last crumb of will you drew from my soul.
We will fade. But remember.
A Crunchy story
From a comment came the idea… Why not? Why not offer you a little bit of my translated self? Here goes, for the first time.
From my previous post, Conte.
Here is the result from my translation tool:
—oOo—
Story
He was once an a bit lost girl
Which brushed the wrong way way in every junction
Which searched dead end streets
Where it was more facile to stop
He was once an adventuresome girl
Which had basted between trees
Which had blown all candles
Which searched the black at all costs
He was once a girl who meant goodbye
Which had realized that between trees there are dead end streets also
Which had roused himself eyes to be moved forward in his forest
It sits down the girl
It stops
It sniffs little
And ask to be never found
Here is my own:
—oOo—
Tale
Once upon a time there was a girl who was a bit lost
Who backtracked at every crossroads
Who was looking for dead end strees
Where it was easier to stop
Once upon a time there was girl who was adventurous
Who slid between the trees
Who blew all the candles
Who was searching for darkness at all costs
Once upon a time there was a girl who wanted to say goodbye
Who realized that between the trees there are dead end streets also
Who tore out her eyes from moving forward in her forest
The girl sits down
She stops
She breaths a little
And prays never to be found
—oOo—
The translation tool made this a completely different story, which I like. The perspective of course. But it did translate the tone, something I find amusing.
It’s very hard to translate a poem. Even some other posts, that are of a narrative nature. Whenever I start to write, the language has already been decided. And to put the words in an other one just takes out the meaning, I feel. But I enjoyed the exercise!
Conte
Il était une fois une fille un peu perdue
Qui rebroussait chemin à chaque croisée
Qui cherchait les cul-de-sacs
Où il était plus façile de s’arrêter
Il était une fois une fille aventureuse
Qui s’était faufilée entre les arbres
Qui avait soufflé toutes les bougies
Qui cherchait le noir à tout prix
Il était une fois une fille qui voulait dire adieu
Qui s’était rendu compte qu’entre les arbres il y a des cul-de-sacs aussi
Qui s’était arraché les yeux à avancer dans sa forêt
Elle s’assoit la fille
Elle s’arrête
Elle respire un peu
Et prie de ne jamais être trouvée
Broadcast
And let me stay
I can be small
I can be invisible
But let me stay
—–oOSOo—–
I’m so tense these days, I can’t stand still. I blog for a while, then move to the couch to read a few pages, then go tidy up the kitchen, then come back to the computer, then watch some tv. Spin cycle. Yet everything is a mess.
—–oOSOo—–
Fickle. Too many pulls. Not enough will. Even this post tears me apart. A mountain of words. Can’t seem to settle for one. I want to say, write, sing, chant, whisper, implore for fuck’s sake. I belong here. I belong here.
—–oOSOo—–
It’s not block. It’s confusion. About every single stupid decision I’ve made. I’m not second guessing myself all the time. But I feel like I forgot something at the crossroads. Nothing, no one can bring it back for me. Because every one has moved on. What’s left behind is my bad judgement.
—–oOSOo—–
I’m hungry. Again. Always. I have to be fed.
Incubation
I write my posts in Blogger. Never use spell checking. Never save a draft. Never go back to change. Anything.
I sit, I write, I post. I don’t work the sentences. I don’t rearrange the paragraphs.
I do use dictionaries, sometimes for help, sometimes for inspiration.
I don’t ponder about, I don’t think ahead.
I sit, with a worry, with a pain, with a smile, with a desire.
I write, I fly, I live, I breath.
I post, I give, I surrender.
——-oOSOo——-
I read my past sometimes
I have regrets sometimes
I am happy sometimes
——-oOSOo——-
A very generouse writer showed me the beauty of working with words, the movements of inspiration, the pleasure of constant company.
I just can’t explain the abouts and hows. I can about the whys.
Attrape traffic
Je ne suis pas accros à mes stats. J’aime surtout savoir de quel pays viennent les gens qui passent ici. Le nombre de visites ne m’obsède pas, ça me laisse même indifférente.
Mais j’adore les mots clés! Pour mon propre plaisir. D’autres sont meilleurs que moi pour s’amuser publiquement avec les élans curieux des surfers.
Mais là, aujourd’hui, je sais pas ce qui se passe… Coudonc, y a tu un party Julie D’araiche/Michel Fugain en quelque part à soir? Parce que j’ai eu quatre hits dans la journée avec ces deux là. Ok, c’est pas tant que ça. Mais c’est tout de même étrange.
Mon plus gros succès est le mot JUPE. Un post, une centaine de hits. Le deuxième plus populaire étant MA CULOTTE. J’ai eu un hit avec “Matter les belles fesses” aussi aujourd’hui. Et “Latex bound dominated”.
Alors quelqu’un veut matter mes belles fesses dans des culottes en latex sous ma jupe en écoutant du Julie Daraiche et du Michel Fugain?