Toujours à deux

Est-ce que t’as pleuré?

Il pleuvait autour de mes souvenirs.

Coulée chaude qui m’entraînait sous la réalité.

Jamais au dessus.

Des rivières de moments qui se déversaient dans mes rêves.

Il n’y fait plus chaud maintenant.

J’ai ouvert les fenêtres, les portes.

Je laisse le vent assécher les traces de nos passages.

Les cernes marquant le niveau des marées seuls témoins de l’humidité de nos voyages.


Waiting in line, waiting to pay for something I can’t afford. Buried in the depts of my purse. Sitting on the kitchen table. The weight.

Every consequence I anticipated. But not doubt. I’m faltering. Is that what peace of mind costs?

Should I give in, should I surrender, should I brush off the alarms, a tinnitus without prozac. Acceptance.

I am what I wanted to become yet the consequences of my changes are bringing back the outlines to the surface. I pressed too hard on the pencil. I can still see. No matter what.

And the pulls, and the pushes, and the hooks. My skin rips, but does not shed. I can see my bones.

As naked as I want to be, disguises cling to my fingers. I have made no promises. Put forth only my hunger.

The weight. In my purse. On the table. No one is looking. But I see.


Quelle journée! L’ai-je dit? Joie!


En musique…

Parce que j’ai trop de souvenirs des Saint Jean de mon adolescence… J’aime autant écouter ma musique. Écoutez la vous aussi, cliquez sur mes voeux 🙂

C’est juste plus ce que c’était. Enfin… C’est probablement moi qui ne voit plus les choses comme avant. Balancez moi votre politique à la gueule à l’année longue. On peut tu prendre un crisse de break une journée par année?

I’m wrong

I’m thinking maybe I’m wrong. I’m thinking too much is what I think. I’m thinking that that being happy thing is really more of a drag than anything. It’s so… foreign.

It’s fucking boring. I’m fucking boring. I went to pick wild flowers in a field on my lunch break yesterday… What. The. Fuck.

But I feel clouds forming. I feel fire building up. The darkness hovering.

My sweetest dreams contain coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Viewer’s discretion is advised.

Thank god for PMS.


Did I just write that?

A ride

We sped up
And we slowed down

Between, a burst of flesh

It’s the ride
It’s the speed

I could let you drive for a while

I could grab the wheel

I could get off

I could


C’est étrange de penser que j’avais si peur de regarder en arrière. C’est ce que je disais.

Mais en fait, je ne faisais que ça. Ma conviction d’être en train d’avancer venait de l’évasion. Pourtant c’est le passé qui me poussait dans l’cul.

Qu’est-ce que ça veut dire regarder en avant? Et si on le fait, est-ce qu’on doit ignorer les balises du passé?

Carburer aux souvenirs c’est plutôt malsain.

Est-ce que je préfère l’inconnu de demain ou la compagnie récalcitrante des hiers?

S’ils se rencontrent, feront-ils bon ménage? Certains sont tout simplement pas présentables…



pense à elle ben fort
moé j’pense à toé quand chu ent’ ses deux jambes
elle à pense à elle
-Lucien Francoeur, Devant le miroir

Qu’est-ce que je veux voir? La même chose qui te fait regarder. Qui te fait retourner à ces images. Qui te tordent les trippes. Qui te font te lécher les lèvres. Qui te font bander. Te caresser. Fermer tes yeux, juste un instant. Regarder encore.

Qu’est-ce que je veux voir? Ta poitrine, ton ventre, tes cuisses, entre tes jambes, ta queue au repos, ta main dessus, en dessous, sur tes couilles, bandé, dans ta main, vue de haut, d’en bas. En train de jouir, ton sperme sur ton ventre.

Qu’est-ce que je veux voir? Ce que tu fais. Ce que tu te fais. Il y a surement des choses que je n’arrive pas à imaginer. Ou que j’aime mieux imaginer et te laisser me montrer.

Dilaudid, man

Morphine induced creativity…

My Tyler Durden is acting out. I have an urge to punch her in the face and tell her to shut up, just shut the fuck up for a damn minute. Could be lack of sleep too. Or that fucking migraine that’s been trying to make my brain explode for the last two days.

Dilaudid pulverized between my teeth, now melting on my tongue…

My thoughts are my company. They have a certain individuality and separate existence, aye, personality. Having by chance recorded a few disconnected thoughts and then brought them into juxtaposition, they suggest a whole new field in which it was possible to labor and to think. Thought begat thought.

– Henry David Thoreau

Now, Tyler Durden makes so much more sense.

Noises receeding. Edges smoothing (smooth font edge). Soft keys. I always liked that one, soft keys. Is there such a thing as a keyboard with soft rubber keys? That must be fun.

Not that I want to go against everything, and rebel against all conventions. But why are people so afraid of their thoughts? Are they even allowing themselves to think, really think about things. I find it hard to relate to people mostly because of that. I just know. They haven’t thought. Why not shut up once in a while and listen? There’s a lot going on inside. Ignoring it will not make it go away (wow, that’s an original statement).

The fucking blankness in their eyes. I tell them. It’s not about having a social conscience or a political opinion. Not about thinking about your addictions and why your marriage failed. Beyond that. After the self improvement shit. Where does your mind lead you? Why don’t you go there once in a while?

It seems all the conversations I have or overhear are made of premade sentences. From a tv show. Doesn’t matter the topic. Even the most educated or cultivated. Just fill in the names, the places, the books or the movies. Some will talk only about bands in the top 10, some only about the most obscure. Same shit to me. Same speech. Same story.

Where do you want to go from here? Knowing this is as far as you are willing to go, where’s your motivation to live? Aren’t you curious, aren’t you intrigued? And faced with the possiblity that there is more to this, why are you afraid? Why not embrace your thoughts? Why not question everything?

Out of it, for a little while

Two hundred and fifty posts (well, that one is 251 but whatever). Two hundred and fifty pieces of my life I offered this space, to be read maybe. To stay alive that’s for sure.

Some posts I still can’t read. Some I wish I hadn’t written. Some I thought of deleting many times. Some I think another person wrote, because I can’t remember ever writing them.

(Here should be a paragraph about the pain, the shit, the sadness that I was feeling most of the time and how it inspired me. And how being happy scares me because I’m afraid I won’t be able to write about that, I’m afraid that I need to suffer to be myself. But I won’t write this paragraph because it’s bullshit.)

The fuel I was using has dried up. Gone. Not one drop left. And I have not felt that good in a long time. Fossile fuel is the past. Solar? Electric? Ethanol? Doesn’t matter. All I know is that it’s still here. The need, the drive, the hunger, the pleasure of writing.

That’s it. I just wanted to say this: at this very moment, I feel good.