Home

I am trapped in the dementia of this place

that has never been imbued with the flavor of  childhood .

But it  still haunts me like a family excommunication .

I am the skin of walls oozing the  madhouse ...

 The dustbin of time has settled on the mummies 

in the dying room ,frozen in front of the TV screen 

where an announcer declares that the program

has been briefly interrupted for eternity ...

 Often ,I had dates with chicks  who had run away

from the crypt ,hiding  beneath the shroud 

that concealed shameful nights of ecstasy ...

 The week was marked by  silence .

sunday was chicken and fries .

  The strangler never forgets those moment of grace

when an honorable calling is forged ...

 What a wonderful life ! and I was in love with Sandy Shaw...

  Well-mannered ghosts still put on their slippers at the entrance

to convince themselves the're still  alive .

 I remember that good dog who died from living too long .

   we never pay attention to our fellow travelers !

0r we sometimes water them absentmindedly ...

   Mom hanged herself in the attic .

That sunday the chicken tasted  like arsenic ...

Sometimes I join the ectoplasms  who are waiting

for the next part of the program ...

 I take off my shoes at the entrance and pet the good dog .

  wherever you stay or always return to ,

   that is where hell lies ...

  I wonder who set fire to that damn hole ?

And i'm still in love with  Sandy shaw...