TURNING THE EYES AWAY FROM HEAVEN

          TURNING AGAINST ONESELF

 

 

 

 

                            PISSING WATER

 

 

 

AND WOUNDED HAIR

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                             SERVITUDE

EN / FR

 

WE ARE PACKS

OF VANITY-THIRSTY DOGS ROAMING TIME

OUR CONSCIOUSNESSES CRASHED ON THE HIGHWAY

LIKE PUDDLES OF NEGLECTED LIVES

THAT FLOW IN THE MIDDLE OF THE LANDSCAPE

OF REST AREA

OUR EMPTY MAWS BY DESPAIR

ARE SEEKING A LAST DAY DROP

TO BREATH LIGHT

WITHOUT FATIGUE

THIS SENSE OF SELF

A MIXTURE OF COLORS

THAT DOESN’T MEAN MUCH

THEN DON’T FORGET TO KEEP

A SAD SHAPE FOR THE MEMORY

AND REMEMBER OF COURSE TO CHANGE

THE WATER OF THE FLOWERS TO PREVENT SADNESS

FROM FADING

 

        REVERSED ANGELS’ SKIN

        DOESN’T SHINE ANYMORE AND THE CLAY DOGS

        HAVE DRIED THEIR TEARS

A MISFORTUNE NEST FOR THE BIRD

IN DISGRACE

 

THIS QUALITY NIGHT

IN A QUALITY SUIT

MEN MURDERING OUR HOPES

THIS MEMORY OF OBLIVION WHEN SHADOW

BREATHES

APPEARANCES

A GARMENT

BLIND IN WINTER

GET OUT OF THE LABYRINTH

DEATH NOISE

IT’S DARK WHEN I CRY AND MY TEARS

BREATHE A DEATH NOISE

 

THE COLD-MOUTHED DICTATOR OF DREAMS

THE LAUNDRY CRYING AT THE BOTTOM OF THE TUB

LIGHTING A CANDLE TO BLESS THE FORGOTTEN

THE INTIMATE CARESS OF FLOWERS

FOG OF IMPATIENCE

 

RED’S DAY

CHAINED TO MISERY THESE BLIND DOGS

ARE GUIDING OUR NIGHTMARES

THE FRUIT IS EATEN,

WE DEVOUR OUR OWN SOAKING ENTRAILS

AS A CANNIBAL

MOUTH CLOSED TO REMEMBER THAT

BURNS ARE UNNECESSARY INITIATIONS

WE SHOULD CREATE GRAY OUT OF WORDS

SOME KIND OF MUSH

FILING IN THE BLANKS

GRAY PAGES WAITING FOR SOME

THINGS TO HAPPEN

A KIND OF RECIPE WHEN THERE IS NOTHING

TO SAY

GRAY PAGES OF MUSH BETWEEN US AND

A LABYRINTH WHERE THE MUTE EXIT HAS CEASED

SHOUTING

LOSING HIM

MY HANDS ARE KEEPING MEMORY OF POISON

I WOULD LIKE TO WASH THEM FOREVER

        PAGES OF SIGNS WRITTEN ON THE BACK

        OF TIME THAT STICK TO THE SWEAT

        OF FORBIDDEN VERBS

        HIGHLIGHT THE LINE WITH MUD OF THIS

        CUT HORIZON

        THE LONGER BORDER

 PISSING INTO DONKEYS’ MOUTH

EFFORT

SITTING IN A DOUBLE CHAIR

A HARD THONG DIGGING INTO THE MOUTH

 

 

 

AND THE SEPARATE SEX

ROTTEN SIDEWALKS LOST KNOWLEDGE

EXCEEDING THEIR DEADLINE, THEY CAN’T

FOLLOW ANYTHING MORE THAN A PATH FILLED

WITH SHIT AND SUFFERING

             COLLAPSED WINTER CABINS

             THE MOVED SOIL AND THE DEAD STILL

             RECEIVING MAIL

PLANTED IN THE HEART AN ANIMAL JAW

THAT DOESN’T LIE

THE WOUNDED EYES IN THE SWING OF TIME

THIS GRACELESS FLIRTING, THIS DISCRETE SPEECH

THAT STICKS TO THE WALL PAPERS WASHED WITH FATIGUE

IN THIS CARAVAN A WOMAN LOOKING

HUNDREDS OF CONFESSIONS

LOST SPUTUM

SOBS OF TREASON

SLAPS OF INSOMNIA

 

 

 

AND THE SEPARATE SEX

THE EXTERNAL LAW TAKES OVER

MATRIX IS A DOOR

WOUNDS AT EACH FOOT

EVERYONE IS GOING SOMEWHERE

A BRAVERY GIFT IN THE ARMS

TO CROSS THE RIVER

                     TWO CHAIRS ON A BED

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

JACKETS FOR DOGS

 

 

            REPRESSION PASSES BY THE MASK

            THAT COVERS

            THE FERTILITY OF THIS MOUTH WHICH AFFECTS

            THE REAL

            THE GERM

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                        DISORDER OF THESE ROTTEN MATTRESSES

                        DRAGGING THEIR STENCH

                        OF THOSE SLEEPLESS

                        NIGHTS

          SUCKING

          TO OPEN HIS NAME

 

 

 

 

TIRED SKULL IN SUSPENSION OF THE MEMORY

OF THINGS

THE MOUTH OF THE RIVER

MEMORIES LOCKED

THOSE ARCHITECTS WHO BUILT THESE CITIES

SORROW OF THE WORLD

THE VERTICAL

PASSAGE

THE NEST

CURTAIN DOWN

FULL OF HABITS

OF FORGOTTEN SENTENCES

OF  NAMELESS COLORS

OF TIRED ELASTIC

A PILE OF THINGS THAT FALL

WOUNDS OF SOLITUDE IN LOST

SKIES

              THE RIVER OF ABANDON AWAY

              AND OPEN SKY VISIBLE FROM NOWHERE

THE MUD OF THE BEGINNING

 

A TREE-BONE

 

THE BODY FILLED WITH BOREDOM

 

HE LOST HIS TONGUE OF LIES

                                                HAIR IN MY HANDS

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A MATERNAL MATERIAL IN THE MATRIX

OF THE HAND.

AOI KOTSUHIROI

WINTER 2016 ©

I REMEMBER THOSE WOUNDED EYES

THIS SMELL OF TRAIN

DIRTY AND WET

OF THIS COLD RAIN

OF ALL THESE ROTTEN HOURS

A PAINTING WITHOUT DELIGHTS

IN THIS EXTINGUISHED LIGHT

ACCIDENTS OF CERTAINTY

THIS MYTH LANGUAGE

IN THE DAILY LIFE OF DAYS

LIKE A FROZEN HELL

THE FOLLOWING DREAM TURNS THE PAGE

THINGS HAVE BEEN MADE

EN I FR     Text translated from French by Aoi Kotsuhiroi, corrected by Emilie Noteris

                     Special thanks to Salton Rice

I WAS HOT                         HEADACHE

YOU SEEK TO UNDERSTAND THE INTENTION

OF YOUR TORTURERS

THERE IS NONE

WE SHOULD BE ABLE TO SAY FUCK    BUT WITH

BEAUTY

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