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 looks like
the cups of black tea,

the bus station is a spaceship,

I don't know why,

we,
those who do will never be
what we could be,
we're getting back into the body our organs,
in secret, as if 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 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 it passing through various points of view,
the sky turned for me into
a bowl of cereal for the children.