Month: May 2006

About that mood…

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About That mood post.

I feel I have to say something. So I will. Because I think it will make things easier for me, for whoever stops by here.

I’ve said this in private, and now I will say it here. Nothing that I write here relates to anyone that reads me. It is not about you, or you, or him, or her. Unless I notify you in private, you will not read about you here. Never. I do not fuck with other people’s feelings or trust.

I would love to say the things I write to the persons my words are intended to, and sometimes I do. This is only an extension of feelings and thoughts. Not a place to settle scores or give false hopes or whatever might be percieved.

My email address is right here in my profile. If you want to talk to me, please do so, I’ll be happy to hear from you. I’m not hiding. There is no screen. No games.

I just wanted to make this clear. I hope no one takes it the wrong way. I don’t want to hurt anyone, that’s not what I’m about. So if I have, I apologize. But I’m glad I said it.

L’été, l’été, l’été c’est fait pour jouer

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Ce sera un été chaud et humide qu’ils disent. Moi je l’savais. J’aimerais que ce soit un été qui sent bon aussi. Les concombres du jardin, coupés, salés, poivrés, sur la table. La crème solaire. La sueur. Le steak sur le charcoal. L’haleine de Mr Freeze des enfants. Le chlore de la piscine. L’eau du lac. Les frites sur la route de campagne. Le popcorn au ciné-parc. La barbe à papa à la Ronde. Le Kool Aid à l’orange. La crème glacée molle à la crèmerie. La bière froide sur le patio. La sangria sur la terrasse. Le joint sur Ste-Cath au festival de Jazz.

Plus de parfums du passé simple.

Des odeurs faiseuses de souvenirs.

Des mélodies aussi, comme seule l’été peut en donner. Les enfants, leurs amis et nous, dans la piscine. Les moteurs de bateaux. Les insectes dans leur forêt d’herbes hautes. Les voisins qui jasent doucement sur la galerie à deux heures du matin. L’écho du Grand Prix sur les rives du St-Laurent. La guitare au bord du feu. Les rires du party dans la maison d’en face. Les roues de mon vélo sur les cailloux du sentier.

Plus de ce chant lancinant, déchirant qui m’assourdi.

Des airs nouveaux. Soundtrack pour une série sans fin. Sans prequel, sans sequel. Real time.

Ma découverte ce soir: Shooter Jennings. Mais j’arrive pas à mettre le code pour le player pour le moment… suivez le lien si ça vous chante!

Shooter Jennings: Sweet Savanah (c’est pas un vieux porn des années 80 ça?)

On the waterfront

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The ducks were still there. The music was the same. I was out of breath again.

Has a fall been that silent before? I see everything rushing by. I don’t grasp at anything.

Slide.

I’ve never let go of anything that big. The handles carved experiences in my hands.

Miles cannot erase. My knees pumping cannot erase. My heart ready to burst will not erase.

One day, I said. One day you’ll see the ducks and hear the music.

It will take your breath away.

That mood

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Another time, another misplaced promise
At the end of the day, I was still in that mood
I don’t understand how everything works
But I do. Sometimes. Without much thought I know

I wish at times I wasn’t able to perceive so much
I wish at times I was wrong more often
Some inner working getting broken
So I wouldn’t anticipate so brutally

Spare me nothing but your lies
Don’t lead me on then float above my own high
Words cost nothing but are worth my world
I’m broke, I have said so much

There is nothing between your lines
That I haven’t read before
And in these silent bursts of lucidity
You’ll come to understand how much I know

Of all the things you haven’t said
One I will always know you wish you had
But time has eased the urgency
And life itself has escaped the opportunity

I can’t turn away, I can’t walk
If only because of how you smiled
A thousand thoughts, a million tears ago
But for a glimpse into the possibility

That I was wrong

Ce qui aurait été parfait

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ta tête entre mes jambes, ta langue en moi, tes doigts
aussi, dans mon cul.

ma tête entre tes jambes, ta queue dans ma
bouche, ma langue, mes doigts, sur elle, tes couilles
aussi. je me confesserais de tous mes péchés, à
genoux, ta queue dans mon visage.

mains, langues, doigts, bouches. mes cheveux, tes
cuisses, ton ventre, ma vulve, mes fesses, tes fesses.

mais bon. ça doit être l’alcool qui parle.

bonne… whatever. soirée, fin de semaine.

Faim, c’est tout.

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baiser
manger
manger
manger
les mots
ta peau
j’ouvre grand
mets y tes doigts
tes lèvres
mes dents s’enfoncent
entre le rose et le rouge
je laisse couler tes saveurs
sur ma langue
et plus jamais
je serai repue

Deeper than the pond

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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.

Go Taylor!!!

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.
.
And I am not saying anything else…
.

A Crunchy story

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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

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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