III - february 2017

trois, drie & three

















The elusive blue reminds one of the tongue, a broken chair, a murmure of divisable purple. Let the sweetness be licked off, not shaken. I believe a little push will do to reach a gentle pollination. Melancholia develops in and around this room, either before entry of after departure. Rugged wood and harmed pieces of wire.

The clothes make the floor more fertile. Images of a sunken kingdom and purple fire. It is in this moment that the primary message is nothing more than a second

of compliance of one's own face. But it are these very things that live pass on.

I sit here and I hear and I listen,

it's warm outside, a slight throbbing accompanied by red hands,

an obscure shape, a bended form.

A feeling of sultriness. The sweltering heat of the room reminds me of their bodies. It is in this entirety that time, truly, also encompasses a space. Even if invasive forces have slipped the contrary through their arms once in a while, they've never refuted it either. It is a word like 'I' that burns and which allows the air to eat itself.



It is a precarious situation, in which the following words and their encompassing threats have been forgotten. It is the light that this time, opposite to all the whispers, keeps its mysteries. It spins a fine shadow on the tools, they smile shyly while it moves. I've tried on the old dresses again, but they didn't suit me anymore. Sometimes blood crawls when it is not too late. But I have a hard time imaging that. The view tells the plants on the window sill of the places where you can touch the clouds. The tea takes it cold. The wind is in vain again, some time has gone by since I last visited the corners. During the process of evasion, I put the machine in motion, while I felt the combustion in my lungs. Know that the light was flickering and that there was an occurence of respiratory problems. It tried to reconstruct itself internely but the tones were to obtuse and destructive. Know that it was hard to do.

Turn. Gently, slightly. Remember the tree. Remember the wind and the television. Remember the anger and the water, the warmth and the tower.

A piece of cloth, string, shirt, fish, milk, thanks, closet. I've looked through them. Then she emerged. Remember the slipstream, remember the melting concrete,

the yearning song. Remember when the sun was new.



                                        I've felt through them.


                                   I put my ears on the ground.


                                        I've opened my hands.



— — ―






funki boeks


funki boeks