Down there

Six pieces of sugar lie scattered next to the bed, thrown like some dice; a shade of foliage-pumpkin, sweet is in the way towards rest and slumber, I tiptoe around with delicate steps to not get stuck, fleet-footed I slip through a field of missteps and do not succumb to the caramel-tinged temptation, I withstand again and again and do not falter, I dive unto the bed and lie down full length, with all my heart, on the faithful mattress, immersing myself in the bedding’s smooth comfort; it pleases me sub rosa, the honey encloses me, lasts me, rocks me. The amber, honey’s blissful gift, feeds me all asleep and all encompassing.

Down there I find myself punched to the ground, crushed by those who go without names, on a beaten path and tarred, it takes only feathers to complete the ordeal, I am half-way done. Very close to me there are anaglyphic glasses, red-cyan, stuck to the asphalt, almost fused to and consumed by it despite the weather bringing little else but wet snow and other forms of precipitation, all miserable, all heavy on nightfall. This is a fellowship borne by shared humiliation, against a relentless rage that puts us to pieces and bestows upon us henceforth memories of joyless times, of kickings to the body and a blood stain, of skin-abrasions and a superficial tear. Deprived of my pride, I should recover and suck on the fingers instead, against all odds, the nuisance and unpleasantries.

The battered back, beat down, they dance on top of it. It is convenient to maintain a relationship with a fellow sufferer and to let loose altogether. In a repository made out of amber one can be spared, maintain belief in the promises of childhood, retract from fire, iron, bitumen; the colours spilled at the Gründerzeit school’s gate, behind the medieval church, among contemporary factions. Placed end to end, where is the difference between the slate grey of the educational facility and the sandy hue of the religious institution, both respectively houses of an angry and rigid God, and the yellow dark-brown secretion of the conifers they are talking about so much?

A crimson leaf attests to fall, that is when the sky cried tears of joy, a peck on the cheek, it turns the coating of the sidewalk bright and sunny, almost soft enough to sleep upon. One needs to look out for beauty, elicit her from life, for it does not hand her out for free. Over time, the fossil resin hardens the same way as the youth lying down side by side with the sugar.

[The French language original version of this text can be found here: ]