Le moindre savoir d’un chien au soleil

Se divisent et se regroupent les poils si glissants

Au souffle et à bout de souffle, apparaissent les parties diverses

Sa queue maintenue, son cœur suspendu

Aux sommeils lointains à nous inconnus

Milles feuilles tombent mais ils sont intacts, les pas d’hier

Et derrière le mur existe un arbre

C’est cet arbre qui s’appelle l’écrivain

On lui propose, on lui demande

On l’interroge, on le séduit,

Suivant le lien, marchant vers le seuil

C’est le bateau naufragé que voit l’écrivain

Mais il n’atteint pas plutôt il attend

Il attend sans respirer, ce chien au soleil

Pour qu’il vienne mais avec la volonté de rupture

Pour qu’il vienne surtout en persistance du monde

Courir, courir sous ces milles feuilles

Ensuite, s’arrêter devant le mur ou sous l’arbre

Comme il veut et comme il peut, dépendant d’un chemin fait des étoiles

Des étoiles de la nuit, et si c’était pour ce soir,

Où l’on ne regarde plus l’arrogance de la vérité

Ni la jeunesse d’un acrobate dans la prairie

Où ne se trouve rien de rien

Mais il hésite, notre écrivain

Que le chien aime cette prairie si vaste et si variée

Elle lui offre un lien et le temps à jouer

Il mime le soleil et l’arbre aussi

Il n’a besoin de rien pour ce moment dans la prairie

L’écrivain regarde sur le seuil

L’écrivain imagine d’un jour où il pleut

Il imagine aussi un chien sans la queue

Il n’imagine pas que cela

Il entend le bruit de ce moment

Puis il prend quelques stylos en couleurs et décide de remplir

Cet espace vert qui n’est pas le sien




A la Moquette, Cadre de l’atelier d’écriture


It is not about creating something “new” but rather creating a situation to find out what already existed.

Looking at her standing with her pendulous arms to the rhythm of her breathing I had to be in love with her.

Like people who has been waiting for the bus for a long time just to have the bus arriving but packed with people and no space for you.

I like to be in a country where I do not understand every words people are saying. I like to have this space without words and speakings to be able to sense things.


A short bio_A Junky among the Junkies

“Thanks for offering me to stay with you under the bridge, man… but I’m going rooftop with my girl tonight.”


All junkies seem to have a certain certainty. They seemed to have certain superiority. I don’t know if the pride comes from a sense of knowing something that the others don’t or a forced necessity from lack of it. Even when they lie, they lie so honestly. It’s like in the house of justice when you see the man in charge going in and out of the room of justice without a single change in their expression whereas their family would cry or shout according to the verdicts of the judge.


“He is to be remained in custody until the 25th July.”


“Oh my… it’s day after his birthday!”


Cracks and browns were reserved for the junkies and junkies were reserved for the foolish, uneducated, nameless crowds. The police told me that it’s dangerous to be here and asked me what I did. I told them that I was a university student. The woman police enlarged her eyes wide open and asked “So what are you doing down here?” But then again it’s not just the police. Even Monic told him off saying, “Why did you bring Cha here?”


I remember liking what I used to call “the coke sleep” It’s when I would have trains of images from the real life (in front of me) passing by as an assemblage of strong but unusual images. The images were not telling as to foretelling. I would use these images to have some positive impacts on the reality. We would be in a waste factory – like place with the sounds of electricity just next. I’d say something like “Let’s imagine that we are at the waterfall or at a riverside or something.” because the sounds of electricity to me were like water falling.


He would say “Listen to the various languages of stones, walls, shops and dogs then when you don’t hear them anymore, that’s when you write.”


He had a body like what I would say Siddhartha; a long and thin but boned body.