A suitable case for treatment

I left the house of childhood
In a coat of black porcupine quills
I had a builder’s brick to chew on
I came from the cement floor of the new crematorium build
I crawled into the hedge like a slug

It was the sun on a cold day
Not a kiss, not a hand to hold, not an embrace
But the sun on a cold day
That made me cry for my

Lonely skater on the ice rink of a dream
Of a crushed matchbox
With a soul inside that had no eyes

It was the sun on a cold day
A replacement for
Bubbles and froth and mumbled baby words
Taken like bits of cheese by rats in a slum
Into the human shadows of hunger

And that was that
They removed the food from my plate
And substituted dead flies
They pushed me under the factory machine
Like a gum wrapper

I began to search for a name
For the sunshine on a cold day
For its tepid heat against my tears

And that was that
I was promoted to the dole queue
In the sun on a cold day

Jag lämnade barndomens hus
I ett skikt av svart Porcupine spolar
Jag hade en byggmästare tegel att tugga på
Jag kom från cementgolvet i den nya krematorium bygga
Jag kröde in i häcken som en snigel
Det var solen på en kall dag
Inte en kyss, inte en hand att hålla, inte en omfamning
Men solen på en kall dag
Det fick mig att gråta för min
Lonely skater på isbanan i en dröm
Av en krossad tändsticksask
Med en själ inuti som inte hade några ögon
Det var solen på en kall dag
En ersättning för
Bubblor och skum och mumlade baby ord
Tas som bitar av ost av råttor i ett slummen
I människans skuggor av hunger
Och det var att
De bort maten från min tallrik
Och substituerade döda flugor
De sköt mig under fabriken maskinen
Som ett tuggummi omslag
Jag började söka efter ett namn
För solskenet på en kall dag
För sin ljummet värme mot mina tårar
Och det var att
Jag befordrades till Dole kö
I solen en kall dag

मैंने बचपन का घर छोड़ दिया
काले साही quills के एक कोट में
मैं एक बिल्डर की ईंट पर चबाना था
मैं नए श्मशान निर्माण के सीमेंट मंजिल से आया था
मैं एक स्लग की तरह बचाव में रेंगते
यह एक ठंडे दिन पर सूरज था
नहीं एक चुंबन, नहीं एक हाथ पकड़, नहीं एक गले लगाने के लिए
लेकिन एक ठंडे दिन पर सूरज
कि मुझे मेरे लिए रोना
एक सपने के आइस रिंक पर अकेला स्केटर
एक कुचल माचिस की
अंदर एक आत्मा के साथ कि कोई आंखें थी
यह एक ठंडे दिन पर सूरज था
के लिए एक प्रतिस्थापन
बुलबुले और झाग और मुंहासों बच्चे के शब्द
एक झुग्गी बस्ती में चूहों द्वारा पनीर के बिट्स की तरह लिया
भूख के मानव छाया में
और वह था कि
उन्होंने मेरी थाली से खाना हटा दिया
और मृत मक्खियों को प्रतिस्थापित किया
उन्होंने मुझे फैक्ट्री मशीन के नीचे धकेल दिया
एक गम रैपर की तरह
मैं एक नाम के लिए खोज करने के लिए शुरू किया
ठंड के दिन धूप के लिए
मेरे आंसुओं के खिलाफ अपनी गुनगुना गर्मी के लिए
और वह था कि
मैं डोले कतार में पदोन्नत किया गया था
ठंड के दिन धूप में

In The Hydraulic Power Station

Walking down Narrow Street
Tall thin words
Climb out of our mouths
Like flying cymbals

I glimpse the dark flowing river
Through a letterbox
It’s high tide and the waves
Crash against the creaky wood

A violin scare like a centipede
Fits between us
It jumps into the river with a splash

You are plagued by the weakness of the moon
That floats in your blood
Like ice melting in hot water

The diminished chord of your eyes
Encloses a yearning
That envelopes itself in your pale flesh

On the Thames walkway now
I’m like a riverboat tethered to you by a long rope
I can’t get near you
I can’t get away from you

This dotted line of love
Is weakened again and again
By a heavyweight of teachings
That swings to-and-fro in our air

From a broad sweeping view of the river
Down a narrow fenced walkway
Your thoughts are channeled
They pinpoint a point in the perspective
Like a single crochet jumping up and down

The pubs we pass by
None of them suits our purpose
Like smoky clefts in the rivers ribs
Sudden orchestral sounds amid the silences

In the hall of the Hydraulic Power Station
We take our seats
The church organ of your voice
Starts from a whisper and rises
Like an angel into the vault

It’s here I fear
that I fear that my own music
Rides faster and louder like the high tide
That your little song is an Ophelia in the water
It’s here I realise
That the beat of my song
Flows around your rock in silent fury
That you stand immobile
Like a colossal limestone statue
In the ebb and flow of the tide
The spidery notes of my feelings
Carry you on a byre

I am self-contained
Like a ship on the water
Floating in your dry dock

At high tide you are safe
Behind the river walls
While my crow’s nest of dreams collides with meteorites
You face white as porcelain
Your eyes brimming with floodwaters
That returns to their secret channels

On the hydraulic station spiral staircase
You have to try the locked door
That overhangs the void
You climb to the rooftop
To see over the city
And there you take flight
With gull-like thoughts

In the hydraulic station
You slip between machines
Like an art video
Conveyed like the twine of DNA
Twisting out into the air again
Becoming a face blown like paper
Into a fourth dimension
Through the drone of machines
In my imagination

In the hydraulic station
Though I look for you
You are in front of me
On the winding staircase to the roof
In the basement installation
In the hall of machines
I look up to you
Like Paul the apostle
At the blinding light
I look for you
You blind me with
Biblical words
You shimmer like the moon
In a silver cup of water
Your eyes are buttons
Sown to your past
Leaking tears from a great sea

In the hydraulic power station
Great greased shafts of steel
Trumpet of piston
In church lights
Working song
You are its lost beating heart of loneliness

You are its warm blood of isolation
Living in this past
Almost as past as the past
You are its flesh of history
Its bygone times appear in you
You appear in its bygone times
Of existence and non-existence
Of separateness and knowledge
From the wild you are there
In front of me
In touch with only your voice
In touch with only your eyes
Missing like an orphaned runaway
Real like the bars of a chorale

In the hydraulic power station between
Real heavy machinery
You oscillate like a star

Voici une traduction littérale

Voici une traduction littérale
De ma poésie en anglais

Ma vraie langue est inconnue
Mon monde réel n’est jamais vu

Here is a literal translation

Here is a literal translation
Of my poetry into English

My real language is unknown
My real world is never seen

Quel est le langage du tourment

Quel est le langage du tourment?
Où est la voix de l’amour ?
Dans toutes les foules de peuples
Où puis-je battre mes ailes?

Puis un jour je suis devenu comme mes frères
Nous qui sommes inutiles sur le terrain
Nous, les pieds paralysés par des engelures
Mais qui plongent à l’unisson sur les toits

Dans le rêve, il est merveilleux de voler
Il n’y a qu’un sentiment d’émerveillement en eux
Alors que dans les rêves de la terre
Je recherche des villes pour ma mère morte ou fuir des monstres

What is the language of torment

What is the language of torment?
Where is the voice of love?
In all the crowds of peoples
Where do I flap my wings?

Then one day I became like my brothers
We who are useless on the ground
We with feet crippled by frostbite
But who swoop in unison over the rooftops

In dream it is wonderful to fly
There is only a feeling of wonder in them
While in dreams of the earth
I search cities for my dead mother or run from monsters

Amant peindre votre visage sur mon visage

Amant peindre votre visage sur mon visage
Amant peindre vos mains sur mes mains
L’amant peigne ta poitrine sur ma poitrine
Amant faire de mon ombre votre ombre

Amant utiliser ma bouche pour vos mots
Amant utiliser mon souffle pour vos soupirs
Amant utiliser mes pensées pour votre imagination
Amant utiliser mes rêves pour vos rêves

Et quand je, et quand je, et quand je
Besoin de vous, vous êtes toujours là

Lover paint your face on my face

Lover paint your face on my face
Lover paint your hands on my hands
Lover paint your breast onto my breast
Lover make my shadow your shadow

Lover use my mouth for your words
Lover use my breath for your sighs
Lover use my thoughts for your imagination
Lover use my dreams for your dreams

And when I, and when I, and when I
Need you, you are always there

Mes désirs peuvent-ils me tuer ?

Mes désirs peuvent-ils me tuer ?
Mes amours peuvent-ils me conduire à la mort éternelle ?

Mes branches peuvent-ils brûler dans leur feu
Mes fleurs peuvent-elles mourir et s’évanouir dans l’oubli

Si je grandis trop grand, puis-je être abattu?
Est-ce qu’un ange se tiendra à côté de moi avec une hache?

Mais si je ne grandis pas du tout
Le temps et les ténèbres m’étoufferont-ils et utiliseront-ils ma chair pour allumer leurs feux

Mes besoins peuvent-ils me dévorer comme un fluide embaumisdans dans une tombe ?
Est-ce que je veux que tu me détruises comme un lion dans un marais de crocodiles ?

Mes espoirs peuvent-ils être déclarés invalides pour avoir espéré votre amour terrestre ?
Mes rêves peuvent-ils être rayés du record pour avoir rêvé de tes baisers sur mes lèvres ?

Can my desires kill me?

Can my desires kill me?
Can my loves lead me into eternal death?

Can my branches burn in their fire
Can my blossoms die and fade into oblivion

If I grow too tall can I be cut down?
Will an angel stand next to me with an axe?

But if I do not grow at all
Will time and darkness smother me and use my flesh to light their fires

Can my needs devour me like an embalmers fluid in a tomb?
Can my wanting you destroy me like a lion in a swamp of crocodiles?

Can my hopes be declared invalid for hoping for your earthly love?
Can my dreams be struck off the record for dreaming of your kisses on my lips?

The Womans Cult

The girl had seen the sign
A dance beneath the stars
Meant only for womankind
Where all of the men were barred

She slipped away beguiled
From her lover’s bed
To the call of the wild
Was by the darkness led

Into a forest clearing
Where torches lit the scene
Of wild woman sneering
And calling things obscene

And with their wild dance
She swirled and spun and swayed
Into demonic trances
She wantonly now had strayed

Her lover found her missing
Came looking for his muse
And while entranced she called his name
So he answered bemused

They jumped on him like wild beasts
They tore his body apart
Upon the bloodstained ground, they feast
They even ate his heart

The villagers were angry
At what the women had done
They took their swords and knives
And slaughtered every one

They beat their breast in sorrow
When the maids were identified
They were their wives and daughters
That had once lived by their side

You should peel the skin

You should peel the skin and eat the fruit
But you discard the heart and eat the shell

You should dam the river and drink the water
But you dry up the stream and eat the dust

If a wildflower grows too high
You cut it down I don’t know why

You build the skyscrapers up to the sky
But who will cut them down or try?

Please include in real life

Please include in real life
This foggy existence
No more than a small animal in a dusty den
Born by chance

Please include in real life
This foggy existence
No more than a field mouse
Scampering across the meadow
Born by chance

Please include in real life
This foggy existence
The spirit of breath
The beating heart
Alive by chance

Little more than a field mouse
Born by chance in a dusty den
Scampering across the meadow
Never ever seen again

He walked for a whole year

He walked for a whole year
Through a great desert
He died of thirst
But he got up again
He died of hunger
But he got up again
He died in his sleep
But he got up again

Then on the very last hour of his journey
A great yellow horse came to him
Now he rides towards the great ocean
Where the white gloves of the angry clouds
Grasp the rocks and the sand of the shoreline
And hurl them like spit through the air

1800PetsAndVets®

LOVE YOUR PET™

Blog Site of Gabriele R.

Post, news, diary... All the world around me, ALL THE WORDS AROUND YOU

wake up and smell the humans

The website of Sean Crawley

bongdoogle doodles

'The contemporary art work of m.caimbeul’

The PROG Mind

Delve Deeper

Lady Jane Grey Revisited

Iconography of Lady Jane Grey

Bag Full of Rocks

My rocks are the memories from different adventures. I thought I would just leave this bag here.

Relatos desde mi ventana

Sentimientos, emociones y reflexiones

Thinking Chitalia

As opposed to a “not thinking chitalia”

.*♥**♥*★ *♥*..*♥*. BERNARD *♥**♥*★ *♥*..*♥*.

♥♥ ♥♥ MES PLUS BEAUX BISOUS D'AMITIES A VOUS ♥♥ ♥♥

AuAu Over

Storytelling Notes Blog

a.mermaid'spen_

Be careful, I might convince you.. You are art.✨

Naked on the inside

Writing like no one will read it.

sva-vida

"self discovery"

clairevetica

poems, prose and pathways

%d bloggers like this: