On the lower side, as fast as warning lights, my eyes sometimes struggle to take the light in. Proud, I stand up like a security gate. Bad seed in rolling paper. Rewind, the picture snapped. In copper and predatory reflection, I go round, I light up.
En pointe in the microwave. My life at the end of cable TV, I can’t wait to shield break the faraday cage. So I strip bare a smile on my face. Until I see golden commas. I have the blue funk like an OST of a toothless life.
I dream of a canicular cold Himalaya, of valleys covered with snow, bestially temperate. My illusions are frozen products. They taste like pavement in my mouth, the mood of trench in the trachea. The ascent is slow to swallow, the slope splattered with incidents.
Convict’s gilt thug’s ornament. Our mouth anesthetized, we feel no extra cookie in the jar. Mad Max degeneration and magma spreading. My fantasies are collector. I break granddad Terminator’s teeth. Metal liquid pours in my kidneys, my face as a transformer. Trouble drowns in the hole of my molars. On a green background, I deseed hate in decaying hopes. At dusk, I float real low and my only air bubble is dragging. Capped with iron, my smile is as frank as misery. Chrome in teeth, lead in blood.
I dream of the valleys of Himalaya, I dream to find the entrance. I go along the 36th as the anteroom, walked in even through the back door, broken into. I sleep there covered, on my 31-45, protect myself for curfew. Dressed with a vest, I relax since the bullets warm the climate. As for now when it goes dark, I need Wu-Tang.
And on the morning I piss crystal liquid. No worries as the Reaper will take the social security card.
Courtesy Galerie Jérôme Pauchant, Paris