Les symboles brillent
et notre arche semble éveillée d’un sommeil millénaire,
elle vibre lorsque nous dormons,
nos mages les plus brillants
avouent leur incompétence quant à la signification de ces manifestations étranges

J’aperçois les vieilles pierres de l’arche
durant mon sommeil,
elles possèdent une aura brillante
et semblent émettre un chant que je comprends
mais dont je ne puis me souvenir au reveil

Nous avons formé
un groupe et nous veillons l’arche nuit et jour,
guettant la moindre de ses manifestations.
Certains pensent que nous devrions lui rendre un culte
ou qu’il faut s’échapper tant qu’il en est encore temps

on ne le répétera jamais assez :
l’important n’est pas l’uppercut
mais le jeu de jambes.

un tourment au printemps, le parfum du marquis corse, les rires des malades

suave ellipse falsifiée en plein soleil
sage eclipse d’un monde douillet
qui ne parle que de toi

je peux enlever
tes vètements
…
je peux me retenir de pleurer
je peux me retenir de crier
je peux me retenir de te tuer
je peux.
…
mais jouir
je ne peux.

Il n’avait pas empoisonné la source par plaisir,
on l’avait obligé à tuer tous ces gens

Et quel futur ?
Pour les petits durs
Et quel futur ?
Entre quatre murs
Et quelle société ?
Pour les enragés
Et quelle société ?
Pour les gueules cassées
Pour les têtes brulées
Pour les agités
Pour les Pieds Nickelés ?
Quelle société ?
Pour les Béruriers
Pour les défoncés
Pour les détraqués ?

Heureusement, lui n’est absolument pas intéressé. Posseder lui est une contrainte plutot qu’une joie, il a envie de pouvoir tout laisser tomber, du jour au lendemain, pour partir aux antipodes. Ah, l’attrait des horizons lointains, le parfum de l’inconnu, la musique des langages exotiques… Aucun froissement de billets, aucun tintement de pièces n’a autant de valeur à ses yeux.

Je suis si loin de nulle part, mais pas lui, seulement moi…

quelques épices
dans un bol de lait

faire chauffer à feu doux durant cinq minutes,

introduire les cendres de belette,

servir tiède

Je crois bien que c’est Sartre qui signait « Lui »…
Je ne suis pas Simone de Beauvoir, seulement Gu.

– Quelle coïncidence!
– Ce n’est pas une coïncidence.
– Si, c’en est une. Autrement ça ne serait pas si troublant…

Au dehors
Les chiens se frottent aux herbes sages

Les courbes folles
lancées à la conquete du ciel
n’ont pas le temps
d’attrapper la rage

le récitant : facile, mais ça défoule.

Oh malheureux renard
Les milichiens t’ont eu !
Oh malheureux renard
Ta rage n’est pas perdue !

– Et toi ?

Humour, classe, beauté, mais qu’est-ce qui me manque, enfin ?

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Elle dit :

Je crois qu’il aime beaucoup ses pieds

– A quoi penses-tu ?
– A Napoléon.

Moi, je regarde dans tes yeux … et je t’aime.

Changer de vie a un prix