Monday, November 26, 2012

Permanent Settlement

Dear friends, readers, passers by, Hugh, Ben, (Mike you are my face book friend already)...,

I have not written anything here for a while and probably will not, although I miss hanging out in the tea room.
One of the reasons I will not is . Please listen, download (feel free to put 0 in the value box, I will not resent you), hopefully like and most of all, .
I hope to hear from you soon.

Ever yours,
With deep, unvoiced, distant attachment,

Monday, August 31, 2009

New Dwellings...

Hello readers and passers-by,

Just a quick word to let you know that I am giving a hand here. I am sipping more precisely here.
It is needless to say, Hugh, Ben and Mike, that wherever I set my tea tray, you are more than welcome.
More news soon I hope.

All the best in the meantime.

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

The Pangs of MrT

The world is full of somebody else’s colours.

Everywhere I look, like painted. The smells, flashlights, diffracted sunrays, the games of strangers. The fresh grass, drinks and naps, intimacies and connivances. The long knit net of their affections, initiations, the game of strangers. Eyes glittering, candles and only half a face emerges from the darkness, familiar, welcoming. You can hear their voices from outside. You can hear them laugh. Every little intonation you can almost feel in the air, swallow one syllable at a time, let it quiver through your lungs. And then, again, the knot of tears.

There are silhouettes in the dunes. Kites. The sun is blinding. Some are alone, far away, cut out against the long blue emptiness of a sky. Unreachable, some call some other, casual, once twice, easy, the name, as if just saying yes or no. The sun is soft and warm. They run, some bare chested, some in panties, sparkling sand. Salt. Sun goes down. The shiver on their arms. On yours. Theirs, pleasure. The day goes on forever. Every hour, a new game for strangers.

Not for you. For the knot of tears.

MrT is an orphan. He is a man without a story. He is the man without the link.

Alas, I do not belong.

Soundtrack: "Fantasma Parastasie", Aidan Baker & Tim Hecker

Thursday, January 24, 2008


I have grown in an ocean of void.

Veiled limbs move in the caress of flesh-coloured silence, arch in the shadow of intimacy. There is a body unknown. There are words that may not be mine. There is as always the worn-out business of strangers in mirrors. Quite a convenient business.

I might drift away. I might - only.

Shaded lips try to sing a tune. That I have not heard nor sung before. That which is not a variation, not another alteration of the same old urge. But it comes unwillingly through the throat with colours and textures I despise. The usual business of self-loathing. Quite a gratifying business.

A ghost wanders about the French tearoom. About my own eyes. About my own words. About the kingdom of boredom and crude words that desperately sound affected and vain.

Something wants to pour out through the lips.

Crouched figure in the semi-darkness of remembrance, discuss with itself the consistency of all known emotions and sighs. The smell of wood. Wood polish. Mind your steps. There is recognition in the mirror, only then the business starts to make sense.

Something wants to pour out through the lips. A voice. That is beyond mimicry, maybe, at last.

Curled up body in the ticking of the hours bends closely on the crude words, for it knows there is, behind the pretentious business of contingence tailing existence, behind the thunders of rhetoric, behind the unbearable piling of millenaries, ages and eras, that led to the case of individuals debating the sake of individuals, it knows there is, before all, a scandal.


The body longs to stretch. It knows there is, patient and scarce, behind scandal, a miracle.

Soundtrack: "Broken Harp", PJ Harvey

Thursday, April 13, 2006

In The Meantime

You may visit the website I have designed for my brother.

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

I Have Never Touched You

I have never touched you. I have been walking behind you all the time. Playing with your shadow, skipping amidst the projections of your slender limbs against hot asphalt. I have never touched you.
I have never reached you. Scents of you, flowing from your scarf to my nostrils, like tiny flowers carried in the wind. Silky hairs undulate like seaweeds in an ocean of desire, craving, turning their ends to me, little witnesses, standing sharp from your skull, ready to jump at me like an army’s load of spears. They know. I have never reached you.
You have never seen me. Bent and wired for fear you might notice me and run away. Inhuman. A thing. You have never seen me.

But then.
Darkness. The backstreets are like a home. The intimacy of darkness. Corners, smells, and sounds. A home. A womb. The smell of you is everywhere. On them. Your face, on theirs. Like a mask. Their skulls feel just like yours should. Fragile and soft in my hand. All in my hand, the fear, screams. I wish they did not, I wish they stopped, their voices, their ways, treacherous, ungracious, ugly, filthy imitation of you, you, if only, only you could know how much I want you.

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

The Striking Silence of MrT

They ask me why I am so quiet, but if I tell them, then I am not quiet anymore.
They ask me why I am so quiet, and my only answer is to spread my arms over the table, like wings on warm sand the soft wind caresses, sees to horizon, and beyond, in the voracious immateriality of sky blue emptiness, vagueness of a lazy mind, summer time procrastinators, the want for otherness, a stranger’s body delimiting one’s body, touch, nude in the blazing sun, disarmed.
Not a sound.
You’d think a bird should cross such a sky every now and then.
Not a sound.
A shift.
So I look up, childlike shyness stains the corner of my lips. Fold my arms.
Why are you so quiet?
Not a sound, not a sound.

Soundtrack: "I Almost Touch", Foehn