We Both Yell

We Both Yell

In the reddish glow of the spotlight
He sings, hands on the keys, eyes downcast
He sings, screams his soul to the heaven
He sings, there’s no coffin

In the darkish shadows of the evening
I scream, hands on the keys, eyes stinging
I scream, sing this soul, my beloved beacon
I scream, there’s no coffin

In the absurd shades of the absence
He plays, not for them, not for us, for once
he plays, for himself, for his friend, resolved
He plays, you’re made of gold

In the cold irony of this space,
I cry, for him, for his friend, as always
I cry, not for myself, not for them, resolved
I cry, you’re made of gold

In the choking ache of the loss
He shouts, forever engraving his love
He shouts, forever carving his bond
He shouts, one of the lost the first to be found

In the dead of the night,
I sigh, don’t have any fuckin’ right
I sigh, can’t claim I understand his wound
I sigh, one of the lost, the first to be found

In the frantic rythm of our hearts
We both hurl, a soul that came to be dear
We both hurl, a soul we can’t forget, oh no
We both hurl, my hero lives on video

In the frantic rythm of our fates
We both yell, a soul I met too late,
We both yell, a soul he was blessed to know
We both yell, my hero lives on video

I curse, others insistin’ on the logical reasons
I curse, others tellin’ me that’s just ridiculous
I curse, others sayin’they’re just songs, and words,

I seethe, they don’t know, how my soul rings in harmony with yours
I seethe, they can’t decide, how my heart will finally be full
I seethe, ’cause fuck Spence, I know damn right I love you

And thus, we both yell
Not knowing each other yet
And thus, we both yell

We both yell


Little Pandora’s box

Dedicated to Jackson Rathbone and Spencer Bell

This poem is a reference to the song “Made Of  Gold”, by Jackson Rathbone. ( played by 100Monkeys).



Love is not earned or deserved…

It’s not given or even chosen…

It is.
Whether one likes it or not,
Whether one wants it or not.
A hard cold fact set in stone
From which one can never hide.
A warrior thriving on pain
Yet Peace with it can be made
Only then will the throbbing stop
The crying fade and numbness fall
With one saving grace,
The certainty that
One has known
What Loving is.


The crumbling has started already.
Not so much time has gone by and already, I can feel the fading. Pictures and recordings are still there, endlessly on repeat. Lost amongst the rest of my life, they pop up at the most unexpected times. They are what Aspartame is to Sugar. It tricks the tongue but leaves the core in withdrawal.
I am starting to forget.
Tidbits of memories get tangled with dreamed conversations until I can’t distinguish between those which happened and those which were never pronounced.
The well is still within my reach. Again and again, I turn towards it, extracting the few words I am lucky to be granted with. As precious as they are, they never convey the full feel of you.
I miss you.

Night mayhem

It is almost midnight. The wet road is turning cars into ocean waves and the birds are singing. They are calling for the stars. But the clouds won’t listen to their prayers. They refuse to spit the stars out because they taste like pop rocks.

I can’t seem to convince the Great Dragon to carry me up to steal the stars back. He keeps insisting he is a tree. Looks as ridiculous as we did in drama class, if I may say so. It is true that his scales are as rough as tree bark, but trees don’t breathe and they certainly not exhale smoke, do they? Yet amidst all this ruckus, your silence has been noticed.

The Dark Beast

At the bottom of my gut, the dark beast is waking up.

Snarling, it twists and turns in its fleshy cage

Regularly rattling the bones in its cold rage.

A heinous metronome fuelled by hate

Counting down the remaining beats of my heart.

When at night, the dark beast’s ennui grows and flares up,

It patiently stretches its gnarled claw

Layer after layer, strips the nerves raw

Firing salvos of stabbing pain

 All the way to my helpless brain.

A lycanthrope at birth, the dark beast sometimes climbs up

Ruthlessly crushes the lungs away

Scratching and flaying the flesh in its way

Coiled around my spine, it reaches the heart

And delightfully releases its poisonous bite

During those accursed nights when the dark beast keeps flying up

It viciously mauls the throat

Maliciously shreds the vocal chords

Silencing the soul to magnify the inflicted pain

Until I choke and drown on its spiky mane

The best in myself

Prior to meeting you, it was a non-existent concept
After a while, I noticed it coming up awfully often
The learning process is arduously slow despite my efforts
I keep failing over and over again and in the
End, I am afraid I will not get it.
Nothing seems to do the trick. Yet,
Carefully, you keep teaching me, demonstrating your own perfect mastery in front of the
Endless prospect of me ever learning.


The painting is hanging inconspicuous, tame and quiet against the wall.
That is not what it truly is or how it came to be. There was a time when it first lied helpless and bare on the ground waiting for the master to weave its magic in between the fibers of its canvas.
Memorise the way the lines are criss-crossing, twisting and bending unnaturally. Commit the colours and shades on the back of your eyelids.
Now, let yourself be carried away. Close your eyes. Extract the paint from the frame and see it flying all around. Do you see the canvas blank and bare at your feet ?
The paint is swirling and swooshing all around you. Can you feel it, grazing your fingers, slashing your cheeks, twisting up around your wrists and tickling the nape of your neck ?
A storm of colours raging all around you.
A chaotic ballet where none of the performers have agreed on the dance that is being performed.
The paint is raining upside down, sharply curving from right to left and left to right,  defying the laws of physics. It is not water after all, it is paint and paint likes to misbehave.
It is now getting much closer, seeping through your skin, thickening your blood and sinking in your bones, chemicals lying heavy on the back of your tongue, bitter and acrid. It tastes of gasoline, grass and burning plastic.
The energy buzzing from every drop is almost too much, on the verge of being unbearable, threatening to unravel your entire being, bones too heavy, skin too tight and lungs on fire.
The master’s raw voice cuts through the disorganised fog, growling “Enough!”. A click of his fingers and the silent emptiness is back. Your body is light again and sweet oxygen rushes back in your lungs, in your blood, in your bones. Open your eyes and look.

The painting is hanging  inconspicuous, tamed and quiet against the wall




The air was cold and thick. A typical Dickensian end of afternoon on the banks of the Thames, a forewarning of the harsh winter to come. Many people were still passing by, dancing through the bridges, twisting through the trees, toward the closest tube station, or the warmest cafe.

I was part of that choregraphy too, moving smoothly through the crow until an empty bench sucks me out of it. The instant I sat on the wet board, I disappeared. There without being there, bundled up in my numerous layers of wool, criss-crossing on my chest and swirling around my neck.

And all I could think of was all those persons who were passing through this patch of pavement, through this life that was mine and the diversity of lives humans lead on this planet. All those persons I got to meet and speak with or stalk through miles of cables and layers of clouds.

The crazy-minded and his improbable lover. A mere fluke and there they are, still  on the pictures, the frozen  000s and  1111s allowing a shard from a forgotten past to re-surface, brand as new on the young faces, with a scent of old spices, dust and candy floss.

The impossibly beautiful regularly impaired. Holed up in the centre of the world and still more connected to nature that I would ever be.

The ninja-scribbler, who knows how to wield a nice hat but not a pair of socks

The perfect son-in-law who does not seem to find his way to the altar despite the odds.

The lost Yasmina princess and her 1001-nights pitch black curls walking aimlessly waiting for the moment her life will start.

The peaceful warrior, training for a fight that may very well never come, through the green grass and the white snow,indefinitely cutting through the wind.

The musician with bare feet and a huge smile, who loves women but is only in love with his guitar. And in a corner, almost invisible, the quiet one, almost always mistaken for a shy one but only waiting for his turn to shine too.

The adorable grandma who’s now wearing my punk leather wristband.

Slowly but surely, the childish sounding circling song I am listening to guide the threads of my thoughts into a tapestry of the old ages. It’s a never ending merry go round of faces and names, rolling of the tongue and twirling in my heart, where everyone ends up as depicted as a fairytale hero.

Who would have thought that planting trees in volcanic soil could be a job, or that a hardcore metal singer would turn out to be an expert in literature?

So many paths have been revealed to making about them that makes me dizzy. But the absurdity and the nonsense of the situation are more than welcome. There are so many ways that my only worry now is that I will never get to know them all.

As the rain starts to fall down, I gather my bag and my memories, trying not to leave any behind, and I join the dance once again, zigzagging through the dog leashes and the babies buggies, avoiding pigeons and street gamblers to slip back onto the tracks of real life