It is necessary to turn the other way the way time goes like in a clock but by going backwards the hands of the clock go backwards as well your eyes have been gouged out from your face from your face which is made only of skin there is skin your own skin over your eyes skin over your hands skin over the sky skin over your body skin over images skin over other human beings skin over skin there is only skin there is only skin blue like the sky with the clouds or white skin white like the sky with the clouds or black skin black as the night bottomless you can’t get your head out of the hole your head remains stuck in the hole there is no hole yet yet your head remains stuck in the hole there is no face yet yet your face has been erased if it has been erased it is because there was a face once upon a time there was a face for at least one day it is that very day that someone recognized you on the street as you were passing by and when he recognized you you yourself could see nothing you could only see the invisibly woven threads by your consciousness in space these threads that hold each thing one to another these threads like a canvas a spider’s web that keeps holding all things together that makes things relate to each other and that if one thing disappears the other thing disappears also or is that that as he closes his eyes he closes the shutters closes the window you will close the door with a double turn of the key I have closed my mind I have left only a scar on the skin and this scar opens up like an eye shedding tears like an eye like a bleeding eye, bleeding, and, into nullity.
Ivan de Monbrison is a poet and artist living in Paris born in 1969, from a French father and an Egyptian mother. He has been published in several languages globally.
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Heavy Feather Review 