The small pains

 

The small pains

Ah pain the navel

And migraine misery

Very volatile Scriptas

In liberty lasts

On the shelf I wander

Medicines offered

 

To the so subtle reflections

In deleterious steams

Of the outrageous chatter

Toward my jail transfer

My pains free themselves

I have too much suffered so much

 

Thanks to the juice of barrel

Rimbaud-Apollinaire

Sharpened tools

To become some of verse

I will be your muse-mother

If you my poet-glass

 

Broker in its curtail

In the urn green bulletin

Blue-sky colour parsley

But as muzzle

Barbed sons of iron

There is our universe

 

Plural in exile

Libertarian lover

Olfactory your slagheap

In his/her/its magic operates

Adieu world torturer

If so much concentrationnary

 

Ah pain the navel

And migraine misery

Very volatile Scriptas

In liberty losts

On the shelf I wander

Médicines offered

 

 

The flaming gypsy

 

The flaming gypsy

 

 

 

 

Play sing Tziganes

Dance dance gypsy

Go up rise flames

Iridescent our souls

 

 

Long legs slender body

Whirling rolling up herself

To the rebellious flames

Flaming spectacle

 

 

Play sing Tziganes

Dance dance gypsy

Go up bring up flames

And the roaming souls

 

 

Dance gypsy dance

For our joys and our pains

You must enter in trance

To erase the hate

 

 

Play sing Tziganes

Dance dance gypsy

Shine sparkle flames

Sound our profane songs

 

 

Your body of ember fires

Embrace forebears

Anxious to be born again

Of fire and the ember

 

 

Play sing Tziganes

Dance dance gypsy

Go up rise flames

Iridescent our souls

 

Extracted from a novel by Yfig

The brown pumpkin

The brown pumpkin

 

 

 

The brown pumpkin

And its thick round stomach

Lives in the vegetable garden

Without no friendship

The remainder of its days

The end of  its loves

 

Netting our destinies

of their roots crossings

To hopeless another one similar

Hide him the sun

Its neighboring nettles

Bad company

Trying to choke him

The humiliating of irony

 

Let neglected

San even an old cardboard

In the bottom of the garden

All close to the basin

And the sap left

Its dead roots

 

The winter arrived

On the tip of feet

Bringing the chilly

The kiss and cracks

Rains that make sleet

For that sounds the knell

 

The old round pumpkin

Feet in ices

Express regrets

In spite of its simple-minded air

He knows that he is going to die

Without can have tasted

Some of pleasures

That men created