Self-Portraits

a mournful regret for vanished illusions

Eyes that whistle the true waltz of the tars

Eyes like a supermassive black hole

In my eyes, a waterfall… all I can hear, a siren call

it’s not these fading beauties, these damaged goods, born in a diseased worthless century that will satisfy a heart like mine

Je lui dédie ces fleurs maladives

My dreams, they come a kissin’ cause I can’t get sleep, no

But what can eternity of damnation matter to someone who has felt, if only for a second, the infinity of delight

Les fleurs nouvelles que je rêve