Ju Dou


l am your father
Home to sound my trumpet strong
It’s pitch black out here,
My precious woman I love you
I can hardly breathe
Help Help Murder

Tinkling bells, tinkling song
Listen carefully at night
I don’t want to live like this anymore
Our lives are passing by
the coffin as a sign of mourning
5 in golden yellow

Father Father
Could he be a mute
You’ve learned nothing
The gods have eyes
the whole night through
You pathetic cripple

The sun is burning today
I notice the wedding charms
At first I thought it
Aren’t you afraid the gods
They’re like black claws

Surrounded by a howling pack
when his parents died
When my son is born
Birthday speeches
Spare you

Will you be my wife once more
will have to leave the dyeing house
you have nothing to fear
If he really called you daddy
Let’s find a secret place
of cotton in bright red


Cleo from 5 to 7


Today the sun
Gnawed away by despair
With the wind rushing through
I’m like an empty house
and now, this great fear of death.
What a day.
Ashen, pale and alone.

What about women parachutists?
Dying for nothing.
and pitch-black.
Two months of chemotherapy
Their bodies are playthings,
and sent postcards saying,

Spring ended yesterday.
Beauty wasted
I saw a man piercing his arm.
I feel dreadful.
Is a lovely song.
But I never tire of hearing it
My sands slip away

the old days, our old hopes, our laughs.
Bardot Blvd., Aznavour Ave.
My thoughts were elsewhere.
My belly.
Is your illness.
Commander Robin,
Invaded by the sea

The azure of my daring eyes
has lasted two weeks.
I’m frightened
of love for a woman.
Everyone longs to taste
My disease is phone calls
They love by halves.


Seven Days … Seven Nights


I remember things.
the way she screamed.
Moderate and melodic.
especially in the evening.
I couldn’t stop myself

One, two, three, four…
to touch her anywhere…
found exhausted after a storm.
Sometimes one doesn’t feel like talking.
Moderato cantabile means
I wish you were dead.

Seven nights.
You wouldn’t stop crushing that flower.
No. Summer never comes in this region.
We could meet again.
I think I’m in love with you.
As if it were possible.

Funny how sometimes
There’s always wind here.
We weren’t able to love each other.
and taken to other forests.
Daffodils bloom every year.
Yes, hold on…

Look, it’s still daylight.
It’s my bedroom.
For the 100th time…
in the night, during the day…
in magazines… “heartache”.
We have little time left.

Lie down as you did then.
I think long periods of happiness
Then it started again slowly.
From the moment he first saw her.
Most birds here are seagulls
That will teach you to listen.


Angels of Sin


you saw a ghost…
but I’m not holding her.
the hole was full of thorns tonight.
being God’s seamstress …
She stains anything white.

allow me to hear her voice
Coquettish, ambitious, stubborn.
A thief masquerading as Sister Agnès.
and remember what you see.
is as wide as the world.

cage flowers.
from this anguish in my heart.
Someone who didn’t fear the nettles.
It’s the prettiest hymn of all,
Then your solitude

Love, unannounced,
Thoughts and actions
You show me my flaws,
Self-Iove is one.
your woodpile will collapse.

A bluebird used to come here,
thinks dusty tables shock God.
I beg of you, keep me.
with anguish.
A broken heart can be healed,

You held my hands
the words that hurt me most.
rewards for your suffering.
shall leave your body.
tell me you came because of me.

Farewell, Mother.
I dragged you into the light.
I’ve only worthless mementos.
Nightingales and finches
Your Saints will understand


The Passion of Joan of Arc


My mother.
there to eat the bread of sorrow
a natural death
is awaiting you.
in consecrated ground.

She looks just like a daughter
and betrayed you.
let my suffering be short
I have confessed only
my soul out of my body,

behold, the executioner
but simple and human
appeared before you
I know not whether God loves
not in helmet and armour,

In the torture chamber.
I cannot read.
in front of everybody
and drink the water of affliction.
and you.

Dear, dear Jesus
Did God promise
Did he have wings?
How do you distinguish
The surrounding flames protected

we condemn you
to a poignant drama
of the lamb that has strayed.
your visions did not come from God
So you still believe

His ways are not our ways.
that is why I was born.
and we are witnesses
to perpetual imprisonment
with herself.


Four Nights of a Dreamer


If one day you fall in love,
Confess that you want
Their visible disappearances

Separation, pain, tears.
Books lent to us
The Bonds of Love

Ended are the sorrows
a thousand deaths.
with her old husband.

Suddenly time stopped.
she whispers in my ear:
I love him. But it’ll pass.

Look at the moon.
to re-think fundamentally
Hoping and losing hope.

I’d have loved you secretly.
the woman in my dream.
A canvas sensually structured

In the park we walk
luminous, marvelous.
heard long ago and forgotten.

so dear to me never existed.
All is forgotten in

Sit down and tell me your story.
an angel to show me the way.
the problems of art

But our love is
but the gesture which lifts
when it seems I cannot

Tell him:
turmoil and rage,
space which delimits it

Yes. And God sends
wasting feelings
a perfect zero.


I Am Twenty


He knows three languages.
Flower pollen, mint, sand …
The Milky Way streams silver

It’s unbearable to part with you.
Sorry for writing curtly
A smoothing planer meets a fugue.
The line starts at the throat

Underground geniuses.
to wear out the days.
It’s thus the petals of first-found daisies
as the night shadows fail.

we keep watch over our son.
we all went to war,
singing the songs at the camp fire …
And I was sobbing,

The infantry’s black with sweat,
that they could cradle children tenderly,
and fall in love inconsolably.
then you won’t be afraid of anything.

The leaves of birch trees are so calm,
Will bend in silence over me.
We’ll look for music.
on the structure of the Universe.

Betimes I’m soothed by dreams,
But mostly I wrote about love,
firewood and sugar, cement and dates.
Introspection in the dusk.

We’re fed up with breathing hospital air.
Nothing ever pleases her.
about the meaning of life.
Killed at the front.

Cinematography by
this age cycle.
And I’ll reply:
The stream still murmurs