In the psych ward…

In the psych ward’s gardens is a tree
With a hole in the middle –
The windows are slightly opaque
And it doesn’t smell like flowers –
At night the exit lights glimmer
And the empty tree stands intact
Will luscious leaves and nesting birds.

Ligne 7 gothic

An alarm goes off and you find a seat. It’s all perfectly suspended in a bubble of lightning – you sit down. Your stop is at the end of the line, the bait to your fishing rope of a life. The other seats, mostly deserted, seem like they’d rather be speaking. An alarm goes off. Quite odd, all of this, when you’re the only fish you gut (asphyxiation is much too cruel). You come closer. To wherever.

An alarm goes off.

Frozen puddle

G. requested a poem entitled « frozen puddle ». Here is the result!


In some other
Quality of time there is
A school’s playground
With a leaky gutter
Crystalline winter

One morning, one miracle
Out of space this town is
Bound to if not higher at least
Other hands
It snowed all night
And the gutter froze

The early child
Looks at love

Soon boys her age
Will shatter the icy

But at least once
Having seen it
As the sun elevates

(Scent of smoke
In the air)

December 24th, midnight minus a minute

in the glass train station
all gathered
in their finest clothes
dining off expensive china
at candlelight


I walked miles in the snow
following the railway
to meet them


all dead
sitting at the table
only the wind sings
a Christmas carol


the girl in black velvet
black hair and eyes
white teeth and skin
won’t pass the salt


at the corner of my eye


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Can you see what’s in there?
Buttons, pearls, some broken necklace
still glowing faintly, like a year;
a pair of eyes in your face;
– What’s next? You,
stepping into the casket,
up and down the stairs, raising like dew
in the winter cherry basket –


But what’s more? You, my dear;
into the water, come,
into the purple sea.