The turniquet death

With the tourniquet firmly in place, she will no longer crave

She falls asleep, on her own shoulder

Fallen angel, at the human addicted form,

Far from paradise without debt,

From pulpit to money, from money to pulpite

She injects herself with part of her pleasure to ruin

Until she forgets her wander roommates where where she could have propped herself up under this soiled bridge

This bridge which trembles at the thought of so much wasted life

They fall asleep in an imagined hue firmament as their night life disappears in an artificial orgasm

The tourniquet loosens

It’s noon but it's dark

How much did she hold on to life

Just tonight she returned to home washing station with immaculate parquet floors

She tought about a poem

« My heaven in hell , oh my fallen angel,

Alice in the land of soul sickness ,

I bleed my eyes, in a dramatic play

I'm lost in the middle of the maze, but I can't cry out for help,

The chime that calls the guardians, rings the demons

Without either , who is ally, who is enemy in the land of self betrayal

To the left, to the right , Right to left

My hell in heaven, my angel fall

My angel falls

A cold and a heat, in the distance

In an explosion of bright color, a flash

She is scared of going to hell,

How do you dare sweet heroin

Taking my soul,

She is scared of going to hell »

She puts on her long lace-up boots and her ripped tights

Her shadow is lighter than her under eyes, magnificently tired,

Insidious, persistent, her addiction leads her to wander

Her laced boots begin to have holes, like her soul

Maybe she's already dead, only by parts

« I would only save (kill) her »

The serial killer plays with the blade of his knife

Observing her from a dark corner on the other side of the street

A strong light emanating from the car wash reveals her figure vulgarly disguised

Disguised for man, for him, for death

If she recognize him, her serial killer fake love, maybe she could relive

The night has just fallen, he open the door

How could she imagine there is a killer in the laundry

She was already in hell, soon death

Under an incadescent light, an anorexie prostitute wash her clothes

A pledge of cleanliness

Nobodie’s watching

She better run ratter than thinking about poetry

Another kind of chore, she will soon have to take off her clothes

She approach the man with a fast gesture of hand, and her arm covered by slight marks

Her purse burst on the floor

The turniquet, a spoon…

Oh he took her hand than her arm

Is it too late now

He recognized the beggarly beauty of this insulting gesture

A man she should have recognized

He tought she loved her like she was craving her morning heroin

In all his silent rage he raised the knife and he pierced her

One step ahead of her with a blind eye, he had been watching her for a while

He was obsessed with her yellow sweater, a sun-colored sweater

Yellow like his kitchen

The kitchen of a murderer

A kitchen where knives cannot be washed

The blood burst on the floor

He clean the mess while whistling

Oh you young bee of dirty honey, how far you are from your hive made of cardboard

You, you who had known my kitchen, my living room, my bed

How do you not remember me

How do you not remember my name, he whisled

You who reached out to me like a stranger

Tell me if the floor will be clean enought for your now useless boots, and he whisled

He left a flower on the kitchen floor

All yellow, like her stupid short shirt

A few days after they see another vanishing poster, blowing in the wind

Who mourns the death of whores?

Another yellow flower soon

Under the stars of a sunny night, on the roof of a ransacked hotel, a gang of young drug addicts are at war with each other

They prick themselves with black diamonds under the shaky bridge of the city

They tease each other and wonder when the girl in yellow shirt will return

The disappearance sheet having appeared to them under a mild wind

They caught it believing in the poster of a concert poster they wouldn't have had the money for anyway

Its her, it is them

Who cares about the yellow shirt prostitute more than the desperate killer

She was like a puppets, the kind of human killer crave, like she craved her death in another form

The group of youth watched her for a while in the picture of the missing person she alf was

Is she now in heaven

Or in another kind of hell