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 Upside down. 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