Quentin

hi, may you indicate a link where to listen to it?

#Soutine 1923 « Gipsy »
#pastels

Je ne vais nulle part alors j’écoute
À la radio près de la fenêtre
La voix de ceux qui ont tout gravi

Let’s feed this Butterfly with poems

Fighting addiction is
Playing a math game against yourself
Death, the queen of all ends, is the referee seated up there
You just have to wait for her to announce the freeing
"x-years sober and out"

Let the old sport talk to you—
This cocktail’s dull, anyway.
His wife’s half-heartedly looking for him,
And he knows better than you do
That in the end
No one’s going to applaud
Your daily struggle against yourself

#poem #poetry

It was in a moment of drifting or distraction
I had already started late
I allowed myself trivial digressions
The latest vacuum cleaner
Heating in every room
And just like that, the day slipped away down the empty boulevards

#poetry #poem

For French people here, what’s the pun? :)

Stains on the old walls
Held daily conversations with the morning rays,
With a joy known only to their kind:
Knowing they were never meant to be painted over.

The hands were there,
Lying still,
Exhausted,
Taking over for the eyes,
Speaking the soul’s truth.

Ever notice how
« Landscapes » sometimes
Escape our gaze
Without moving?
Kiddos you’ve got to be
even stiller

entendre.

est salutaire. Espérons que le déploiement de cet ethos journalistique en perpétuelle mutation trouve longtemps encore des interstices et des voix pour devenir. Espérons aussi que, dans sa lutte pour la rigueur, ne s’éteigne pas la nécessaire quête esthétique qu’il poursuit pour se faire mieux

Comme vous @salomesaque.bsky.social, N. Klein esquisse à chaque publication de nouvelles ontologies du journalisme. Face à la détérioration des conditions matérielles d’existence de la recherche universitaire, votre obstination salutaire pour dresser des remparts contre la double-pensée haineuse

Bluesky is the deep, steady breath you find when you’re gasping for air—
a window flung open on the highway.

The algorithm isn’t hiding behind the glass.
If I break open my phone,
All I’ll find are islands of color
And tracks without a train,
Floating on a sea of green plastic.
Algorithm is our circuit boards’
Faith

I love it. It makes me think of French writer Daniel Pennac inalienable rights of the readers :
to not read,
to skip pages,
to not finish a book,
to reread,
to read anything,
to read anywhere,
to sample and steal ("grappiller")
to read out-loud, and,
to be silent.

I am the door closer
For the absent-minded who fell asleep
In seedy motels,
A portable radio on my belt, crackling out
Soft Louisiana melodies.

Some old, repressed somewhere,
Thousands of tiny candles,
Extinguished,
Piled up in the warehouse,
Waiting for the blaze

A teenager on a train
Caught counting the pixels behind the window

6th grade, tumor operation day, lunchtime
Sneaking into the forbidden school phone room
- Hello, is mummy still alive?

I was five, massive horses
In the field near my child home
They would recognize my simmering life anxiety

A disgraceful face,
Absorbed in the neighbors' love quarrel,
Smiles - there, a lovely dimple

A terasse under a tree (Sophora Japonica)
The leaves dancing in the last rays of sunlight,
People stop drinking and applaud

Filght in eco class
The curtains hide business seats
The ease, the Champaign and the mecanisms

Dragonflies
In the open space
Have no post-it colour preference