Stinking pelt

Line 9
On the way home
The local tabloid
Spread on the floor
I pick it up
I read
This woman
87 y.o.
Was hit by a car
This other woman
72 y.o.
Not crossing the street
Fast enough
By a truck
This couple
79 and 76 y.o.
Crashed on the road
Were killed when
Another car
Hit them
Getting old
Is like a sinking ship
Water is cold
And you’re
Never sure
Where hell
Is coming from

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Alone on Mars

On Line 9
When hurling down with
The last train
The iron tracks screaming
And ghosts standing alert
You’re not exactly dead yet
But not
Exactly alive
That moment in between
When you don’t
Have to think
Whether you’re
Dead or alive
Is comfortable
You wish
It’d never end

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Paris, the day after, I don’t care for your prayers

This morning, there was a strange silence in my street, and it didn’t bode well. Indeed, I live in Paris’ near suburb and today should have been run here a semi-marathon. Every year, on this particular Sunday, I’m awaken early by a rock band playing loudly to encourage all participants. This morning, within this deafening silence, I could hear the chimes of St Cloud’s church, however far it is. What a symbol! What sadness!

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Adam says no more (chapter LXXXVII)


It was the end of October when old Mr. Me went to the capital with May Linh and the kid and it was very nice weather there, neither too hot nor too rainy. But it was winter already when we came back up the mountains where we lived now with May Linh. A soggy winter. And I got a cold I just couldn’t get rid of. I had almost stopped smoking cigarettes because of the horrendous coughing and that says something. I could tell my health was declining rapidly now. I would still drink beer and the kid would get me high with tisanes. I was hardly eating anymore.

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