Cette arabesque d'indiscrétion
L'empreinte du papillon
Une petite chanson sur une petite folie
Alors que le lys se fanait dans ta main
All in Poems 还有诗
Cette arabesque d'indiscrétion
L'empreinte du papillon
Une petite chanson sur une petite folie
Alors que le lys se fanait dans ta main
In the end he needs a little bit
And left on his collarbone a little bite mark
For all your fantasy and freedom
Reality is not just a neon umbrella
You said call me Dante
After the Devil May Cry
I said here is your glass
of cherry wine
For someone as sharp as yours
Let the rain fall
It’s not free to be free, to be free is all we ever asked. The sequel to The End of the Ends is here, Your Mirrors recollects the fragments of ideal-types in the ideal-place, plus the loveless love and sinless sins. Speaking of love, resistance, sorrows and longings, it’s now available on Amazon for you and the endless sea.
And I need you in my storyline
Wanted you in my toy box
Another okay place you occupied
I will clench the world for you
And paint the world in obliques for you
I also had a lover in Berlin
We went to the sea and part of us didn't came back
And passion is not willing to be saved
Appassionata is a bit better
Not even your best memory
Hide your negative films
There is no melody
Even your window panel screamed Alfred Mucha
The duress of the press-release
Our first paperback poetry anthology The End of the Ends is out.
For those who are in and into the abyss, for those who resist, for the only moth I know, and those who are in a love-hate relationship with some varnish in the vanished world…
Now available on Amazon, order your copy today and enjoy the songs.
All it take was
From membranes to memories
Something scattered, something else
It was the other bridge
The house being a dollhouse
All your dolls are lovely
You were in the living room playing piano
My cards were still warm in my hands
When I think about those winters
Before this dance was not made to last
In your coldness I was alive
In your warmth I was hypnotized
Lately I've been falling love with falling leaves
Like how it's made and unmade
Put your blood in the moon flask
How does it taste with a bit of gin
Last time you were killed
You pouted
There is a bloom in every loom
For every play you wrote
was by my rule
There was always a sunspot
To bury wormwood and wormholes in it
You carry the wickerman across the field
Does it takes away the fun in burning?