far away

open up to me

You open up to me…
All is missing is a pair of legs to run away from you.



Back to the crowd
Steadily balanced on a bright ball.
He stands tall.
But it is a sad elephant we have here. That is why he turns his back.
He doesn’t want to see. He hears perfectly and that is enough.
His tail slowly sweeps the air, balancing for one side to the other like a clock.
The crowd isn’t clapping nor cheering. Sounds like they are simply talking, not paying attention to him.
How long will it take for him to fall. That feeling of pride and achievement will collapse like a great wall.

Perhaps will they throw tomatoes at him. Or tomAtoes as the Americans say.

It could be put up on the wall of a child’s room. As a gift.
But I already see the pitiful scene with my ridiculous present. You offer the gift. But the person doesn’t like it. They take it anyway not to be rude though they still are. And the next time you go to that person’s place, the gift will be no where in sight. Probably in the attic. Or in the fireplace.


Whenever I feel down and under
Or scared of the heavy thunder,
I pick up my brush to layer my thick pain,
Which turns into a colourful stain.
My head then goes to wander
away from all the sorry ponder….

I don’t scream, hit nor kick
Or any other exaggerated fit.
I paint cool animals
Such as penguins and mammals.
The image of these creatures that live in content
fill the void of this missing sentiment.


As a child I would have this recurrent nightmare every time I was ill. I can still remember the uncomfortable feeling that went through my body as I was sleeping.
I can’t describe what I could see but, I can say it was powerful.
My dreams can be so intense, they make me tired when I wake up. I am cold, my body is shaking. My hands and feet are like ice…

Back to my childhood, once woken up from the confusing nightmare I would get out of bed to stand in front of my parents’ room.  The door was closed. I would cry and call on them. My mother opened the door.
Though I woke her up,
Though it was late at night
Though it is also early in the morning
She smiled at me and took me in her arms. I could smell the warmth of her bed in her hair, the bitter breath of a dry mouth.

My mother would kneel down and helped me catch my breathe. We would breath loudly in and out. My lungs were filled with tears and horrible images swam around. Breath in slowly….. and then breath out…. a good thing to fo if ever you are having a panic attack. It probably won’t stop it, but may give you more time to realize what is going on.
My mother’s heavy hands caressed my sweaty hair. She told me I had a nightmare because my body was trying to tell me something, like I needed a pee.
So every time she would make me go to the toilet. Then she put me back to bed. Once under my cold cover my mother reminded me she would always be there, in the room next to mine. And she still is.


Hang in there...

Stiff and still.
Members and fingers missing.
Uncomplete, he asks for his own death.
Tonight, he won’t come home.

A day spent in your pyjamas, you run our the front door.
It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters right now.
You don’t even turn the lock or switch off the lights.
They carry his flaccid body to the emergency.

Later, you’ll dine alone. Not hungry,
food is too hard to chew.
This will be a very short night, sitting in a damp waiting room –
In the morning your neck will be sore
and his heart willl have stopped.


Too many stories for one man

Too many stories for one man

I had to stare at my feet,
If I was to look up I knew our eyes would meet,

Those beady eyes from which I run so fast,
With a glance he makes me feel outcast.



Bending Spine

Soft Curls

Toujours de quoi se lamenter, de quoi analyser, se moquer. Les idées que l’on rend absurdes pour ne pas évoquer leur réalité. La mort qu’en est-il…. Un sujet qui n’aura jamais de fin. Il est une fin en soit, La fin même.

Il n’y a plus rien.
Le vent a chassé tout le sable dans le désert.
Le ciel a perdu sa couleur et n’est qu’une épaisse couche de nuages.
L’herbe n’est plus une caresse sous un pied nu en été mais une écharde sous un ongle.
L’air a une odeur de cendre.
La dame vêtue de noir ouvre ses yeux noyés par les larmes.
Elle est âgée, les gens l’observent avec pitié et sans amour. Ils ont peur d’elle, de devenir cette femme âgée qui vient de perdre son mari. Une femme qui ne fera plus le marché en sa compagnie, qui ne se baladera plus en se tenant à son bras. Elle ne lui fera plus de petit déjeuné le matin, et ne le verra plus ouvrir son vin à une heure entre chien et loup et le humer ses yeux fermés.
Elle s’en rend compte oui, et d’une autre chose aussi. Elle regarde autour d’elle, “Ils sont moches” pense elle. Frappée par la ressemblance de chaque individu présent autour d’elle. Le même nez mais parfois plus gros, tordu, en trompette. Et puis ces corps ridicules, des tas de graisse heureusement recouverts de tissus. Des petites fesses jusqu’aux seins qui pendouillent aux genoux, tout pour recouvrir un squelette fébrile. Prêt à se briser sous un éternuement comme un château de carte à bord d’un bateau.
“Moche et ridicule, il en a bien de la chance à la fin” se dit la vieille dame.
Elle ne pleurait non pas de peine mais de solitude.
Mais maintenant elle sourit. Elle sait.

Time pulls you down

Time pulls you down



Close shave

cose shave
Her hair was what he loved most on her body.
The scent was always mouth watering.
So soft a newborn baby could cuddle up in it.
The color was the one of a shine stone a kid pick up of the shore.

Madame Boudin

She woes the men she does not want.


After a night of debauchery he tried to get out of bed. When he stood up his legs were too weak to hold him up. The mammoth body balanced on two twigs like a swing in slow motion. He let himself go onto the sofa with one regret, not reacting fast enough and letting the remote control get eaten by his gigantic ass.

Why I don’t like cute little dogs…
Beagle love Good boy.



6 thoughts on “PAINTINGS

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