04-03-2006
A life of after-Victor.
The taxi always listen to us to speak, Claire and me, they remain quiet, tighten the ear, and each time it is similar, they ends up more being retained and intervenes in the conversation, with reflexions which call upon all that was known as précedemment, undeniable proof that from the very start they listened. Of course, that Claire is a large sexy blonde is not foreign with the interest that they express us, even if if very quickly they fix itself on our often polemical speeches. When they have an opening speech on homosexuality, I always believe when Claire has to leave the taxi, arrived at it, it will be necessary me to suck the driver time that it leads me at home. I live with 6 euros of Claire, Claire to 7 euros from Claude. They is not expensive paid, 6 euros a pipe, but often it is free, a pipe. With the deposit also, some make pay the pipes, finally, it is what I heard. Things escape to me, even as Stephan sucked Muzil on her bed of hospital. It would be necessary propablement that I make an investigation with the Deposit, that I haunt the long corridors, that I collect testimonys, but the Time would never buy to me an investigation into the prostitution in the gay places of the capital, I imagine that for them, gay being and being whore, it' S quite the same, isn' T it? J criminalise not people who make trade of their bodies, each one is free to have itself as it hears it. I find that owl, to make the whore with the Deposit, even. I smell myself so much whore in front of the love, of the times. Or customer.
When one separates somebody, words in the conversation, of the thoughts, the ideas bring back for us unrelentingly to the other, even if it is not wanted, even if this evening one wanted to think of another thing. Tenderness changes of hatred almost, in dislike, I think of Victor of the horrible things, now. Unavowable things. But I them think because I like it, because I should not have known to like it correctly.
04-02-2006
My delusions.
If I listened myself, I would put Ampop à.fond, and I would dance, and I would shout the words:
-"How long does it take to Land this place, this fly is making me afraid, i' m not sour where the eye edge face the bread, i' m all alone with my delusions...", and while dancing, while shouting, I would jump on the pretty sofa color caramel where we had made love, you t'en remember, my love? I have even a whore of cassette which I made without you prevent, where if I looked at it, I will see you in love... Whore, you do not know whom paving stones of the streets that one borrowed when you explained me that you left me, that I was a moving guy, concerning, but that you did not feel with the height, these whores of paving stones, if I close the eyes I still see them ravelling with our shoes which are posed one there after the other like a well carried out choreography. You do not know that in Montreal, even if a boy followed me street Sainte Catherine, with a whore of beautiful bottom when I transfered it that I almost regretted not making it go up, to puff out his bottom with 4 legs to him on my bed, then the kiss like a bitch, as you you kissed me the last time, while thinking only of you, and statement that I had found you in vain, like that, selfish, eyefocused one our own pleasure, the pleasure you steal from my fucking ass i' ve done my best to offer to you the better it could Be, without sadness in A places of sadness, this kind of night I edge see in my future yew I closed my eyes, causes you left me now. Have well have with you I felt like protected, now alone I feel underprotected, maybe offer to the worst. So that' S finish, just by three words, so nothing' S gonna Be the same, just by three words, Rufus Wainwright sews sing life is has game, true coils has trophy, I think I roofing stone the game, I roofing stone the trophy. Nothing is final, before you I thought it, I still think it. It is because I it thought that I had the force to build with you things which were to be beautiful, more beautiful than one cannot imagine it, then I will not stop there. I have right evil. These are my desillusions.
"Good bye my to coil, good bye my friend, you had been the one, you had been the one for me...", James Blunt.
04-01-2006
On the Bridges of Arts i cry
On the Bridge of Arts, this Sunday, there are young people who drink and are caught in photograph, it y still the tablecloth with squares of Vichy on the wood boards which leave one winter of rain, drizzle, snow, the wine bottle which could well fall, slip on the boards, and be found with water. Under the Bridge of Arts, this Sunday, there are boats full tourists who slip on the Seine, and the children who shout under each bridge, when the sun is hidden. On the Bridge of Arts, there is wind, if one looks at well, it is not as well sun as that, the gray Seine joined even the horizon, of the same color. There is Victor, also, who awaits me there. Who does not say to me hello, who does not answer my radiant smile to see it, to be so glad to join it here, counters the barrier, with the prow of an imaginary ship which splits the river. With less than it is not the river which splits the pillars of support of the bridge. There is Victor whose tasks of redness on the nose light hardly a sad face. On the Bridge of Arts this Sunday, Victor says to me I believe that I will leave you. And it cries, and I see one of his tears slipping of his right eye on his cheek, in the Seine. On the Bridge of Arts this Sunday, there is my life which stops, which was too well, too quickly, lately. On the Bridges of Arts this Sunday of shit, there is the true life which catches up with the dream that I lived, the odor of dead fish and the pollution who lie on the odor of Victor that I had liked so much to find after 3 weeks of its voyage at the end of the world, the clouds which hide the sun as my tears tear off me the sight, the Seine which breaks out as my heart which beats suddenly more quickly, more extremely... On the Bridge of the cry this Sunday, there is Victor who leaves me, and on the Bridge of Arts this Sunday I think that I hate it, that I like it, that what it says to me is not true, who it is a dirty trick, that our history was not going to last in any case, which the love is not for me, which it is always the same history, that I hate it, that I like it, that I would like to have 15 years to have the courage of me foutre to the water, which I am strong enough for not me no testicles, and me a poor idiot who falls in love with what is impossible.
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