Painting A Libretto

Forget all rules, forget all restrictions, as to taste, as to what ought to be said, write for the pleasure of it...

William Carlos Williams


Walking alone
on the leafy paths
of Kempen woods
A whole slew of words
vain, thorny, mute
with neither an onset
nor an ending
cradled in mighty unsettling colours
scoff into my flesh
while I'm scoffing to their nonsense.

I bolt their way
but the beastly ones
have a ravishing power
to emerge from the abyss
into which I push them.
So I guzzle them up
voraciously
and they go in "All That Jazz"
joyful or mournful
on and on
in a wicked ballet
of jeering and sneering.

they get drunk
by their own beauty
their own wit and virtuosity
they burst into aesthetics
I feel restraint
they feel freedom
in wild words from a stranger
and they give in
to brilliant pyrotechnics.

They are sloe colored
like a shrub of blackthorn
portent, entrancing
dipped in purple, magenta, crimson
of vascular systems
all nuances off claret
those sensuous words
conceived in the stream
of conscious desire
frozen in ultra and aquamarine
of some northern sky.


When they give in to nostalgy
they are mute, sullen
Their thorn chiseling away
on my heart
as if it was a tombstone
in the lonely forgotten rest yard
of all my beloved ghosts
where I can't find their stone
cause through storms and Time
they have moved around
and I have lost them.

I go back home
lay down and let them get trapped
in the fibers of my mattress
their splashing colours lost
to my beloved departed

Infinite empty spaces
Infinite silence.
in my whole being.

Elusive forms
impossible to capture
ripened along the line
of the Time
fading colours
invisible shapes
coming close
to a silky greige
or an earthly ochre
or the undefinable colours
of rubbles in the bed
of a dried up forgotten river.
They give an uneasy feeling
to the daring
who ventures into their slew.


Conceived in the embrace
of a stillness
nearing death
they inflict wounds
to the living
and it's then that I realize
the power of written words
over all Art forms
it's then that I let loose
the crescendo fight between music and words
forgetting all rules, all restrictions,
I write for the pleasure of luring
untamed words from the souls
of Oh! Père Lachaise
into my one and only libretto.

Flora