In Twilight Hotel there is a sun that golds the wooden rooms up.
There aren’t passengers, just fantasms of.
This Lady all spiderwebs and sugar, she roams by the corridors at.
Cuz the night never falls on Twilight Hotel: into our perpetual evening; and the Lady Starlight.
And the Lady Starlight.
(Sometimes I wonder if everything I do is wrong).
All the furniture still remains as intact as neglected; and a crystal doll for.
The fandango of times will never ever leave its patina here.
Just the Sun, and other lions.
Is this strange, Antonella?
If one day I fall victim of your love, I wanna fall in Twilight Hotel; where an essence of the Laura Antonelli’s buttocks is caressed by the perfume of the whiskey.
That whiskey that tastes of storm and varnish.
In Twilight Motel.
Could she recognize our stray steps?
Our anguished pantings...
if one day I become you, and you become I.
Is this strange, Christine?
Do my nightdreams come from my cerebral cells?
Or from the muscles of the sky.
...I fall, but a strange force moves me forward: it’s a metaphor the force, it fits in a fist, the metaphor.
No matter how pouring the storm can be, when I’m crying, I’m still loving you.
The sun shine out there
I’m buried into ice
I just see all black; rage! Rage! Rage!
Enraged like a Velazquez boiling into a pot full of vipers and venom.
The darkness whispers in mysterios ways...
I dreamt of spiderwebs under a heavy storm, the rain falling on stairways of light, it was 1990 and I ran desperate across the blue streets of Summer.
The neon, the taxis of the night and a happy crowd of Norwegian eyes saw me running...my heart was destroyed, I was barefoot, I had no shirt on...I arrived to the downtown, which was a sunny street in my retina: but I was in the middle of the night.
2)
...Hey sugar, I been waiting for you in the Memory Motel, the key to Bangladesh trembled under Alpha Centauri...smashed in 1001 pieces, it becomes white doves flying toward a southern French sun...
There’s a place in your heart for me?
When the amphetaminic queen cries velcro tears in the mirror...then the pale fanfare plays a sick pasodoble...so the fear assaults me.
This place is empty, baby.
3)
The poison of the winds talks silent tonight...talks about things that are completely lost for me.
This place is empty without you.
My sweet life:
Blindfolded in a June’s morning sun, lonely airwaves, desert streetwalls of a London’s Sunday morning.
[If I die tonight
If I abandon this blue-blue world...
I’d wish to be put over a nazi tomb
Like crucified to the pain
And all covered in gasoline and spits, to be set afire to the ground
To the bones
To the blood.
To burn, ardent and high...if I abandon this gray-gray world today.
...And if the furious city of the suicidal ones calls me one day: will your heathen street be in my dreams?
4)
[Suddenly I did wake up, I was dreaming and sad, a sweet voice was telling me “how long will you put advices in your heart?”
The delicate sound of thunder was heard on the avenue of the wolves when I found myself in the scandalous afternoon.
The city or paradise of the suicidal ones was then a vision in my eyes:
There were deep lakes like women souls
It was like a garden of black plants, the most humane of them...
There were men-faced swans, their feet were esparto, and their chest was gas.
Their wings were gauze, they passed by, like whispers...a pale-small sun was hanging from a black sky full of noise.
Noise of exasperation, noise of sincere feelings, noise screaming for justice.
That sky was crying, because it was alive?
5)
If my nightsong made you cry, the bridges to Dieppe are encircled by a morning haze.
If the hours are a river of chrome, diamonds, light & steel, you are the shores.
If I’m all horror, and all shades, at least the sun will shine out there for you...
...even the Sun finds its loving fullness on the Earth, right?
Cuz when the Christ did sweat blood, when big drops of blood fell from his forehead...only the love that takes to the madness and to the death.
If you are a river of chrome, diamonds, light & steel, the time is your shores.
6)
Death and resurrection and death and resurrection of a dream, built in metallic water...the forest of Boulogne will love your feet like radars of rain...
Cuz I think that Paris, on Sunday, it’s only your legs.
And as the “S” river is a mirror of your shadow, the ambulances and La Sureté pass by...sister of the watery eyes, sister of the half-moon hips, my love: tell me...what we are?
7)
Atlas, the ample
Disgusting child of the dark morning gods
Your waves roar on the shores of my small town tonight, and I dream...
[In the halcyon days I used to roam like an androïd pursuing a pelikan
Today I just want to resurrect you in anger, in songs, in stories, in indignation!
Where’s my barbaric cult for your lips and your everything?
Oh, my sweet Saturday-Sunday...my copycat-pipeline...
The huge and blue menthol birds pass flying, I’m sitting down here, now...tonight I crossed the boulevard like a violent dark light: what’s wrong with being a man?
How a woman cries?
How a woman bleeds..?
The troops of invasion left the asylums now
Mangooses and penises-vipers dance calling l’apocalypse des animaux, maintenant.
But to be a man: what’s a man?
Once I was raised and fed with blue shores beyond the ocean, and with the legends of the cosmos...
Then I crossed the Red Sea asleep until my ankles turned into seaweed; yourself.
The almighty Cronos thundered from his astral waters
I prayed for te day.
I dreamt of the lions in love and how they take for granted the narcotic afternoon: pink and yellow.
I dreamt of the Molochs of ice, of your fuchsia lips, of the caliginous Summer...
I dreamt of drunk Guaranies and of white tombs whitened in an Anglo-Saxon style.
I dreamt of the book of your vices, and of the prophecy which will come like a vertigo...
I dreamt of that, which cannot be named, before the final vortex, the nothing of Solaris: heart and dagger...
To be a man: what is to be a man.
In Twilight Hotel there’s a sun that golds the wooden rooms up.
There aren’t passengers, just fantasms of.
This Lady all spiderwebs and sugar, she roams by the corridors at.
.
