Previously on Hans Lucas #11
The carbon print of a momentous and definite instant incises the world in the rectangle of a morning. Elsewhere the night infuses without joy into the green of the blue street lamps.
The Sleeping Ones, beautiful as strangers torn from intoxication.
The metal eye blinds the wrinkles of a phalanx.
The pink smile of acidulated curtains storms the all-powerful distress of deserted souls.
Immobile we think of this other smile, split with a cigarette. To that panting torso.
Immobile we will not go further,
Farther than the disturbing absolute, struck by the burning of a unique wall
If ostensibly full of this infinity disfiguring with a few letters
The sun of the dunes. Let us stop to catch our breath
And breathe in these magnificent eels
Like the radiant twist of a reptilian throat.
Bare she sleeps
Curled up in her farewell mane
And this grimacing skin that contemplates it is only the reflection of a mask that laughs
She sleeps and we sleep,
Unconscious and care-free,
And we are still thinking of this one who collapses; his back slumped in the lash of the closed eyelids of another’s. He shines however, this man, in contact with the purple taffeta of the emerald and is moved by a vivid little blue rectangle.
Silky as well, the human shadow gently lurking.
Invisible, we dream.
- Éléonore Antzenberger