I dream of a land
A place full of loving care
I reach out my hand
But there is nothing there
I dream of a place
Where I can be me,
Everybody having space
So that everybody can see.
That they can see the sun
Shining glorious and bright
Nothing is being dun
But sparkling and bright
The alarm clock disturbs my dreaming
And downstairs my mother is screaming.
They all stood in mock-horror
As the tainted porter
Was carried away
Last lights blazing
Leaving hazy ending
To dark dismal day
As if a funeral had happened
They stood back
To withstand the shock
Clung unto one another as to talisman of rock
Hearing a gavel pound
They cried at the sound
At a sentencing for exile
No Judge No Jury No Trial
Five days a week I go to school
Smart to become, not to stay a fool;
"Work hard" is the number one rule.
Sometimes it's boring and sometimes it's cool.
I think to learn languages is a hit
But Maths and Physics are really sh**;
Maybe you don't think exactly like me.
It's my opinion, you don't have to agree;
The sixth choice I made is History
Because I think it's fun to see
What people did generations ago
With the consequences for our tomorrow.
So I want to continue to learn
One day an int'resting job to earn.
Up there on the high mountain tops
Covered with creamy sugary icing
Pierced by white furred arrow treetops
There was a lonely man climbing.
Of stopping him there was no way
He was young and strong and had no fear
He'd climbed everywhere from here to Cashmere,
Getting prouder everyday.
His life was made of sun, rocks and snow.
Red sunburns and of blue wind blow
Until one day in the brisk morning light
The mountain took him in icy plight.
Could a man dream of better end
With a coffin of blue sparkling snow?
Some live their dreams and some pretend
But we all, one day, will have to go.
Amour-passion en automne
Mon amour est un navire
Qui navigue dans les tempêtes
Jours de peines et jours de fêtes
Plus rien ne le chavire
A ma perte je suis guidé
Par une passion incontrôlable
Elle est belle et adorable
Et toutes ses larmes elle a vidé
Amour-passion que m'apprends-tu?
Si ce n'est douleur
Ça en a la couleur
Rouge épine trop pointue
Comme l'enfant qui s'endort
Je rêve d'amour et de liberté
Mon songe n'est pas masqué
Il a juste les cheveux d'or.
I don't feel very good tonight. I'm sick, I'm blind.
Maybe you can tell me if I'm going to die.
You say that I have to be strong.
I don't want to believe you doctor, I think you're wrong.
I bash my head against a wall every day
Because I have so much pain inside me.
I'd like to kill myself anyway
So nobody will see what I'm going to be.
But now I'm living in a big dark hall
With my fears. It's a nightmare
One more time my head against a wall
A gun in my hand, but I don't dare.
What can I do with this leukemia in my head?
I feel so strange, so mad, so dead.
Texas slays upon
White, dead trees blowing hemlock
Into human rights.
As a bird
Like a bird
I have no weight.
As a swan
In the silence
Of the lake.
And my loneliness.
To the stars
Thro' the velvet night, the stars we seek,
As we yearn to feel their light,
Waxing and waning, strong and weak,
Their mystery thus fills our sight.
Whence did they come, why are they here?
This question have we asked,
Since centuries told, owing to desire
For mankind to know its past.
Balls of fire, heavenly light,
The darkness they push back,
With their celestial power, their eternal might,
Which tears the night sky in half.
Eons to live, eons to die,
Stars we cannot reach - but we will try.
The sun wakes up every morning
And sleeps every evening.
At noon he is high in the sky,
At midnight he is down in the ground.
When the sun is out nobody's shy,
Even the birds make lovely sounds.
Creates blindness, blinds creativity.
A simmer left too long,
Until the obvious occurs.
Yet conditionality tires quickly,
So it is a lose-lose situation.
Patience is the remedy;
Aggression is for those without possessions.
That which comes to you, is the only thing to be held true.
Motive destroys all innocence,
And what can be trusted?
You have seen the eye,
The poetic eye.
It has been waiting to record you,
To adore you.
Yet the attention fades,
And my fancy with it.
Nonetheless, it likes what it sees,
Full of reason to be.
And you are another.
The dawn awakens on her starry face,
An unexpected... an outer space.
The 'fleur de lys ', an innocent beauty.
A perfect night, with morning right.
We hear right into day,
Their wanton music propels us.
Such a union, yet not uncommon...
We must not become attached,
The price of jealousy unmatched.
I see the sky from the other side,
Devoid of aeroplanes and thunder-machines,
A night-flight, a glide.
With a setting sun to illuminate,
The spotlight of tanned beauty,
Passing clouds put out the hate.
The source obscured by Mother Nature,
Independent deity of the trees and the soulless,
A gap in purpose and view for this creature.
Malady cured only by sunspots and surreal state of mind,
The addiction forcefully subtle',
The action naturally kind.
For a routine not easily broken...
Just as the sun breaks free from lingering clouds.
Head to Throat to Heart...
Weak in timeless space...
Without a hand to shake, without a cheek to kiss,
The momentary blindness wreaking, involuntary,
Upon this earth I do bequeath,
The ashes which I am made of.
The love of laughter and all thereafter,
I leave for those with life.
They shan't all strive, or grieve, or ever deceive,
For we shan't lie or try; but sit and swing,
In the lamp of a Djinn...
And never make an endeavour
To right the wrongs we sin,
Or confess the epics within. (untitled)
Spins the world with wonder great and tragic,
She rotates upon her own dictation,
Naked and free, we do not control her.
That limited period of activity,
Which luckily falls within our own limitations.
If only eternal life were possible,
Then would we know hell on earth.
Oh! That earthly love should live on forever',
Would the gun be evermore useful.
Great sentiment and emotion drag on...
In a putrid pool of feeling,
From which we cannot escape,
And do not wish to.
A mid-summer's fear
Nothing lightens the mood like an empty comparison.
Nothing softens the touch like a dirtied hand.
Does one habit necessarily die out with another?
In this question we meet the shadowed waves of heat
As they beat across the very heart of things.
More peculiar there couldn't be,
A moody fellow flips off a summer dream,
Lest he fall,
Into its blatant scheme.
Salt on the tip of your tongue,
On your lips...
Mind wrung on unseen pleasures,
Tension filled reactions,
Who wouldn't try?
Totally self reliant.
Interrupt your actions...
Those unthought of..
That which had to happen.
Tell the tale,
Let others prevail.
No use of strategy,
Pay the penalty.
Why sign the contract,
Honesty betrayed thee',
Like a lost language,
Struggling to resurface.
For gas, poison-burning
Acid. Heat in pouring pyramid,
Climax to the left,
Or the right?
Might spite the life given,
To small measure he himself was
Tampering on and on,
Empty echo, outside beliefs.
Tangled, mangled environment,
Truly torturing victim X,
The comet plays with the universe,
Putting all in reverse.
No lack of ambition, no lack of superstition.
What hinders the splinter
From breaking free from flesh.
Only one mirror belongs,
Reflecting, out of all, songs.
Lyrics parentally guided
to sickness, of youth.
What tampers with perfection?
Hang gloomily over long voyage
Little white wisps on this
The clearest of oceans
Between grace and harmony
I do not believe in permanence,
The rivers, mountains, and all other natural bodies seem...
Just waiting to die.
Nature has refuted the ideas that shape me,
The evergrowing circle of renewal,
Perishes, and vanishes,
An infinite number of times.
For time and time again,
An omen unearthed,
Reveals a place, an aura,
Not to be followed,
Even the greatest of our leaders have,
At one time or another,
Relinquished their independence.
They make themselves at home.
In an old creaky house...
Loaded down with baggage.
Emotional or habitual, none lives out of a suitcase.
Yet those who do not want to be followed,
Are the only true leaders.
For indifference is covered with mystery,
That ever-romantic trapping.
Self-reliance brings forth self-contentment,
Dependency a gaping hole always in need of filling.
Those who fret, feel only anxiety,
With a mortgage too heavy to sustain.
If you do not crack to every beck and call,
You have no price to pay,
But your own.
Lose yourself in an ocean of utter self-devotion.
Alive at seventy, smelling the sea breeze...
Chock full of exhilaration,
Without a moment's hesitation.
Pass on without a thought,
Each moment counts for naught.
How little the effort seems,
In relation to our dreams.
To fall from the loop... bears no consequence.
A change of pace, a change of place,
What do new friends know?
Ever more than they show.
Material philosophies, jaded.
Loss of the language we love,
looking up from above...
Appearances all too revealing,
Routines not so routine result in confidence.
What happened to the violence?
What happened to the hatred?
Hidden tri-lingual sin...
Body language counts for naught,
It is not sought.
Waste the day, sitting at ease;
Wait for that which you hate...
Here it gets warm at three,
The sun denies your time to be.
Short periods of anxiety-filled satisfaction;
Detestable stressed rest.
Nil relaxation, nil conversation.
Attention seekers explode into the air;
Phycochemic weapons lie in thirds.
Only too easy to assemble.
Shadowless choices, ill at ease, never moving...
Complete unpaved streets.
Should there be no effort, a silver spoon shining?
Tiny titbits of exalted sentiments.
Teach me to try!
No interest, no base;
Effort just comes back in my face.
A wise lie professes:
Anything worth having,
Doesn't take to grabbing.
I have found
in this profound
Which signifies a
dignified lie, alibi...
The true blue
symptom of flu.
With a quickness, a sickness
carrying friction, result
of a diction.
So lightly taken yet
makin' a real splash reel
for the heel of society's sobriety.
Big brother knows the other which
smothers prohibition, a kick-in
for the lonely sick kin.
A cure sure to endure that lasting
time asking, fasting, not a real solution...
Flaky she's shaky with lust but
must dust her mind short
of sublime rhythm into ever-present omniscient deity
wanting me, a short flee
This trinity, holy, reaching
Doesn't know the real meaning,
real seeming, hollow
no one follows, opens up
swallows, share your despair
reaching from down there.
What he wants, what she wants...
No unity, frailty, share with me
If you could open up,
fill the cup with your buttercup love.
Last I had the urge you
surge, a pop-drop dream
like the seam of your spine,
divine, climb up the vine,
make the juice push fruits
of time spent, feelings bent.
I want some of your face in
Fiend to dream my
The plot, not, stretched
You turn away, I go astray
Shot down in the ashtray.
Fun to read, fun to write,
Everyone likes to kick,
On this, the day of greatest peril,
My will is shaken to redefine my goals.
No good luck charm, no superstition,
Could mend bad fortune.
Terror strikes deep in me,
The reverse of natural cycle.
Anxiety is replaced by determination,
I cannot expect the best.
Seeking to be sent away...
This peril must be put to rest.
There is cowardice in desertion.
Why hang on to the artificial?
In a question I answer my own query,
What is left in life but the future?
The ground shakes with expectation,
The rain pours down indulgence,
Seeking pleasure, on this
Down Low Social Flow.
Deserted, see right across the tracks.
Old and Asian, crosses,
With bright white,
Scream out for the next
Shipment of commitment!
Plow down the walls.
Hit the gas, nothing to pass...
Resume speed on the ever-so
Innocent, ever-so meaningless
des Poèmes de Patrick
Dans les vents
Dans les vents lunaires, court un astre rouge sang,
Il fuit, comme nous tous fuyons la peur de mourir,
Il fuit, vole et brûle ses ailes comme un dément,
Dans les vents lunaires, j'ai vu un astre s'enfuir.
Cri, convulsion, la torche ne s'arrêtera pas,
Sans arrête, elle plane dans le grand vide spatial,
Que puis-je faire: je veux l'attirer dans mes bras,
L'embrasser, l'aimer à jamais d'un amour fatal;
Et comme toujours, elle ne s'arrête pas ici,
Au milieu des chiens hurlants, des orages étouffants,
Un corbeau cherche le soleil, la source de vie,
Je ne veux pas le soleil mais l'eblouissement;
Ces étoiles dans le ciel brillent comme des yeux,
Mais les comètes se moquent des astres immobiles,
Et se noient avec leurs sembables, les anges bleus,
Il m'est douloureux de retrouver ce monde vil.
Ma place est avec toi dans l'immensité du vide,
Car je ne désire que toi, et personne d'autre,
Nous foncerons ensemble entre les planetoïdes,
Ne nous souciant que de nous, de nous et de rien
Ange, ô verre
Petit matin de cuite,
Lendemain de visions
D'alcools, de fuites
Mon crâne commence
à fourmiller, chut!!
Aspirine, la délivrance
et après, la rechute.
Pour faire cette douleur
Je me sers à nouveau
Dans le bar des couleurs
Ce matin, si tôt . . .
Une seule question:
Malheureusement aucune réponse
Ne vient renverser mon âme.
Dans les volutes grises,
Au milieu des amplis . . .
Il dessine des frises
Qui retracent sa vie;
A grands coups de guitare,
De batterie, de basse,
Ou bien de cauchemars,
Toujours, il la retrace.
Que ce soit sa naissance,
Ses haines, ses amours,
Toujours les notes dansent,
Elles lui tournent autour.
Haut dans le ciel
Haut dans le ciel, l'aigle guette,
Son oeil fixe, ses ailes tendues
Et là-bas. Tâches brunes sur la crête
Quelques chamois au milieu des nues
Puis, tout à coup l'aigle fond sur sa proie
Il descend, descend, toujours plus proche
Et son regard reste froid
Tandis que les moutons ségaillent dans les roches
Alors le prédateur remonte, satisfait
Et les proies n'ont plus de sang,
d'os, soufflés par le vent tourmenté
Il ne reste plus rien de vivant.
Folie, folie, je plonge dedans,
Je me jette contre les murs,
J'avance en narguant
Fou, fou, je suis complètement fou,
Je dois être un peu marteau,
Car j'entends des coups,
De feu, de poing, de couteau.
Mon visage est peint en noir et blanc,
Mais mon sang est rouge, trop rouge,
Et dans lui, coulent mes tourments,
Dans tout mon corps, il bouge.
ont aidé l'année passée
Thoma R., Rafael L.
John W.K. S.
Enfin le premier Magazine est sorti de presse, et nous vous remercions de votre soutien et de vos contributions poétiques. Nous espérons que l'édition de l'an 2000 sera aussi riche en qualité.
Le bénéfice de la vente est allé intégralement à Amnesty International.