Clap hands

Clap hands, be glad, cars honk on the avenues and the river of time, goes on unstoppable. I feel unbreakable, I feel redeemed, washed in a new light, as flowers bloom everywhere I look.
This is a crisis of global proportions, but then again, it’s only the same ones that are hiding and we don’t see them as we don’t reach out for them and the ones we got to see are the same ones, we see all the time in TV news and they come from Africa or Asia or those places where everybody knows the climate is not fit for you.
It doesn’t rain for a long time, but we can water the gardens and we can walk our dogs, everything is so right, just some bankers had to be replaced but music festivals did happen in time and beach migration had reasonable size, hey don’t you worry baby, says the singer or the song, nevermind, this is a crisis of global proportitions but we are going through it as if we were rowing a boat, in a lake, on a garden. I love your garden, did I already tell you that, really love your garden.

Lovesong

Lovesong by Ted Hughes

He loved her and she loved him
His kisses sucked out her whole past and future or tried to
He had no other appetite
She bit him she gnawed him she sucked
She wanted him complete inside her
Safe and Sure forever and ever
Their little cries fluttered into the curtains

Her eyes wanted nothing to get away
Her looks nailed down his hands his wrists his elbows
He gripped her hard so that life
Should not drag her from that moment
He wanted all future to cease
He wanted to topple with his arms round her
Or everlasting or whatever there was
Her embrace was an immense press
To print him into her bones
His smiles were the garrets of a fairy place
Where the real world would never come
Her smiles were spider bites
So he would lie still till she felt hungry
His word were occupying armies
Her laughs were an assasin's attempts
His looks were bullets daggers of revenge
Her glances were ghosts in the corner with horrible secrets
His whispers were whips and jackboots
Her kisses were lawyers steadily writing
His caresses were the last hooks of a castaway
Her love-tricks were the grinding of locks
And their deep cries crawled over the floors
Like an animal dragging a great trap
His promises were the surgeon's gag
Her promises took the top off his skull
She would get a brooch made of it
His vows pulled out all her sinews
He showed her how to make a love-knot
At the back of her secret drawer
Their screams stuck in the wall
Their heads fell apart into sleep like the two halves
Of a lopped melon, but love is hard to stop

In their entwined sleep they exchanged arms and legs
In their dreams their brains took each other hostage

In the morning they wore each other's face

Ceci n’est pas Magritte

"This période vache could not subsequently be transformed into a style. Barely a few weeks after the opening of the show, Magritte used the excuse of his wife’s supposedly negative reaction to bring the adventure to an end. “I would quite like to continue with the ‘approach’ I experimented with in Paris, and take it further. That’s my tendency: one of slow suicide. But there’s Georgette and my familiar disgust with being ‘sincere’. Georgette prefers the well-made painting of ‘yesteryear’, so particularly to please Georgette in future I’m going to show the painting of yesteryear. I’ll find a way to slip in a great big incongruity from time to time.”

Bernard Marcadé on René Magritte

More about this période ici

Things (Blue)