I see some gentlemen, far, with monocles,
laughing
about these incense sticks
strung around me,

I don't know why,

somewhere,
in the same position,
a nun is meditating on the meaning of life
and the role of lying
in her life,


my heart is struggling on brocade
and my tinted neuroses look like
the cups of black tea,

the bus station is a spaceship,

I don't know why,

we,
who we will never be
what we could have been,
we're getting back into the body our organs,
in secret, as though they were stolen,

then,
it pass,
I become slightly,
soluble and indifferent,

a serene morning
where I will go on the street
with a disc,
I will throw it up and
from him will come sparrows,
sparrows,

the people will be very surprised
to see this ghost in flannel,
who ignores all road signs
and who is murmuring lazily

-with great love -

I'm just an extravagant and ridiculous
declamatory of my endless,
aberrant and fantastic poems,

and finally,
after having passed through various points of view,
the sky turned for me into
a bowl of cereal for the children.