My toes are stoned
stones in the concrete trees
trees from a canned soup
I saw she was marching home
then she met a precious stone
and she stopped for an hour alone
The clouds are darkening the chrome
running through the tallest building
away from the cracking smoke
Your face are washed with the tendering drop
I hope you never stop
from what you think of
The smallest dice could fall
on the golden glass
as a kind of avant-garde
Go, through the wall, through the bricks as long as you get never sick
18h
———————————————————————–
A clock of the end starts
A man in a room shocks
A sock with a square found
on the slippery wooden floor
under the falling ceiling
a candle of ice blinking
a joker lying
on a cold black sofa
from an italian vender
in an ancient small town,
away from the material, the colours, the sound.
———————————————————————–
The grey rectangle, triangle, circle
The steel strapes with yellow line, hairy line
The hanging hands
towering bodies
the death with them
My frame captures
a lot of pictures
without the lens,
I am the machine
———————————————————————–
Now I found,
my pen takes pictures
my hand treasures
the great exposures
of ideas existed in this lands
an infinite space of me
———————————————————————–
Sculptures avec literatures
are my treasures
and pleasures
whatever is the creature
I will not surrender
21h
