To go to the movies, in a darkened cave,
to nestle on the armchair of your shoulder
in a good old woolly jumper
is the surest pleasure left to me.
How nice to let myself lie on the discreet oscillation
which is born of your body, carrying me
to that inebriation called rhyme;
to feel the clean smell of your hair,
to guess the taste of your saliva.
And although I see the dense crowd
(that the visuals have made so inoffensive)
shaking and laughing and being moved
by the dim light of the narrative,
I know that all this is but a mere act,
a commonplace magical effect,
watched and judged all along
by the obscene eye of the architect;
and even the clear shape of the landscape
is a rough veil over a sensitive illusion,
a metaphor or reflection from another world,
perfect and pure, where people have no place
(but, mind you, the miserable fleas do).
Still, you are real, you feel a heart
pulsing inside, and it even looks like
you have in you the secret inclination
to be your own master, and to share
the appropriate life of an insect.
Hence I dream and sense, suspended
by a thin thread, at the level of your breast;
but already, impatient, you mumble
that you are wasting your time on a pointless film;
better would have been to dance all night
in a cosy discotheque (a damned invention,
alien to any state of meditation),
or to go back home where, for free,
you are sure of more down-to-earth company.
To stay here on my own, without
the mystery of your white fragrant flesh,
becomes a frightening prospect;
how can I tell you that, after all, I
also want to find out about the knot in the plot?
Of the few hours that make up for a long life,
these are the fairest and the best;
the film is about to finish, stay with me until the end;
don’t you know you are lost, when you lose yourself from me?