Hey you fool,
what yea doing with that rope?
is it love turned bad,
or is it a simpler way to cope,
dare you not have a stroke…
You can’t can air more than drinking love,
we’re built on blood
and one day each week, I sleep,
in the deep with a whip –
It is how I know I breathe…
A red brick builds a wall
for the gardens south of now,
and there is music,
it paints the colors in white,
on the sky,
in the image of ’89…
One Friday morning chasing cold away,
slightly raining, fast to walk
I had everything I’ve ever dreamed,
love awakes me for my team
soldier for a good cause,
I got a firm handshake as foretold…
Hunting moments on a bed of clouds
lips paint warm hues in the mind,
garden of the kings, waiting for the Queen
we wrote stories dancing on vinyls,
and waiting for a while and hoping wishes
a second train ran her to the south…
Étant toujours à Milan, hier soir j’ai fait une rencontre complètement inattendue. Je n’avais pas vu Riccardo depuis quelques années. Pour être plus exact, depuis son départ de Cochin en avril 2016. J’étais en train d’acheter, un mot en anglais, un mot en italien, de la mozzarella di Bufala dans un marché loin du centre, et cela m’a fait souvenir un des voyages de Riccardo quand, en rentrant à Paris, il nous a amené de la véritable Bufala. C’était un délice culinaire !
La vida es… un carnaval! Prima melodie ce îmi vine în gând avea versurile puțin diferite. Era o idee mai tristă, nu zic, utilă uneori, dar realist vorbind, depresivă.
Sunt la Milano. Am ajuns astăzi la prânz. E vorba de bilete cumpărate de multă vreme, pentru o escapadă inițial prevăzută în doi. Well, shit happens! Cât pe ce să nu vin. E întotdeauna primul instinct – să îmi iau jucăriile și să plec. Ei bine, nu și de data asta. Am mai pierdut concedii pe motive similare. Dar totul are o finalitate. I got the tickets so why not? Ei da, cu riscul de a trimite o undă de supărare pe meleaguri cunoscute… am evadat la Milano!!!
Is the stereo broken?
we have swimmers dreaming in the ocean,
in the color of our open wings
may it shine forever stolen bliss…
My poor warm beating heart
there are children playing on its grounds,
one story written for a good cause
has shaken me and made me thrive…
And I learn to slowly dance
wear a bow-tie and take a stand,
I’ll join my brothers in war
building fire better sooner than too late…
Is that on the radio
an old song that brings me childish joy,
I’ll be home on Sunday noon
range a silver shiny spoon….
Dedicated to a cute girl I once saw while waiting for a plane…
Mornings may be cold in France
planes are sometimes late to part
nothing really troubles you,
Agnes, how do you do!
Are you going home?
someone dear is waiting you…
how long has it been,
did you miss them dearly too?
Agnes, I have seen you do,
I’ve staged conversations
with the left side of your left eye,
my dreams flew far with you…
And I’ve seen your hands
the signs are written there;
what’s the image in your mind,
is it beauty that is kind?
Mornings may be frozen cold
planes keep running pretty late,
I wish you flowers on a Sunday
and to hold your lover’s hand…
Far away from home
swimming in the cold sea all alone,
I put trust in my Holy Father
then I shout the name I hold
and send waves to endless borders…
I believe in the stars I saw
there is more to it than a dark and silent whole,
they struck chords of a harp I own
and poured kisses in my soul –
I’m a thief and took your years and keep them locked,
Bruce may tell the stories in the end
but this day I quit rising walls that break
and start riding with myself…
New Year’s eve in Times Square and the sunrise at lake Braies,
I was blind and now I dream,
life is short and my shirt caught fire
and roses burn on a highway to the south
wild and free,
my heart is never tiered…
Some mornings are sunny and warm
others full of rain and cold,
some days are asking to be enjoyed
and there are days you’d rather not,
but baby hold on
love’s a good enough reason to carry on…
Some trains are deserted and dull
as some are shared with half your town,
and the abandoned houses by the rails
there is always one of those somewhere,
but baby put your smile on
love’s a good enough reason to carry on…
Some people are rushing by to work
others rest their head on to the left,
reading books or headphones in the ears,
people keep dreaming in the same terms,
but baby hold on,
love’s a good enough reason to carry on…
Dirty thirty, life is gone astray
shuttered glass, a bloody mess
with a word I shot her down
broke the strings and played along…
She was water, I was fire
burning hearts with wild desire,
wicked dreams and unchained will
I was made to run hot steel…
Hard rock bands and motor heads
I threw out the soul I had
and drew holes inside my chest
to pour out the deadly mist…
Thirteen bottles in the drawer
I raced one after the other,
years are lost and youth is worn
something must be very wrong…
[draft]
Un Jurnal Neverosimil 