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1.
so little depth in this skull
crater of bones
a hole
hiding in it
like inside a hollow tooth
strange cavity
it could be
a cell or a hideout
you get the impression
of slowly drowning
senseless feeling
of never
have been really alive
but clearly aware
all that time
that those
garments
made out with ash
had been previously
so meticulously sewn
onto some transparent skin
2.
the wall had just fallen
you narrowly escaped
having nowhere to go
on the threshold
with right behind you
the four limbs of your room
being glued together
now
no empty space was left
for you to breath
and glaring through
the night
you could but only guess
spread out over a desk
the open window
of a sheet of paper
where one had been
all along
colluding there some lunacy
busy at erasing
all the photos
all the colors
all the shadows
then you suddenly
sprang out of bed
a bit like out of a pit
bed or grave
smile or scar
thus bargaining your misery
_________
Ivan de Monbrison is the son of a half-Jewish Egyptian woman with Tcherkess origins, and a Protestant Frenchman with Jewish Russian blood. He was born in Paris, and started writing poetry almost forty years ago. He has learnt some Russian, Arab, English, Spanish, Italian, Hindi, and Bengali in the due course of those forty years, and has forgotten most of it in the meantime.