Elizabeth Barret Browning with her eleven-points-poem.
It is like the discovery of America. She has opened the Frontier for me.

How can I elevate my poetry?

The paper stares point-blank at me.

The bullets are missing the skull.

I love thee, more than myself.

Share a wisdom uncovered by gun-powder, by share of joy and care of the barrel pointed at the moon.

Old wisdom:'The finger points at the moon in the reflection of moonlight in a pond'.

Which indicates which?

Today encompassed in the wallpaper. Locomotive motives of unrelinquished thirst.

Steam engines pilled up with the pressure of the room.

The scent of wood blasted to coal and pieces of ashes, treated like pulp of cranberrie juice, sliced up for consumption.

Fighting spirit in tomahawk coal mines of grisant peace in the valley.

Common thirst for unreliquinshed wanting of earhtly things.

How can I decorate my surrounding in gourmet Los Angeles smog?

The sea I can't reach like in a Russian painting.

Where am I? Stuck to the wall flat as a tyre. I can stare at you, while you don't even see me.

Gurdjeffian landscapes in pianissimo of Arabian Caucasian ladders with mystical content in two dimensions.

You walk passed me in 3d into the planes of the Sahara. A mirage upon the altitude of my vision upon the a wall of dimensions unreal in glass sand and cement portrayed in-between the jointure aired in the damp moist room off the wall.

Almost Appalachian tracks in Apache rhyme for the immigrants who laid the tracks for me. Smoke of burned visions and unrivalled rivalry as the well of my consciousness mirrors upon the screen stuck to the wall in front of me. I can't disclose my location. I can't differ with you. I can't but know that you have the skill that strikes me through patient moments of lack of furniture and comfort on tornado week-ends in Okalahoma at the end of the week almost.

A crime, a being, an am, conception, pre-conception, the future.

A typewriter, an unfinished poem.

Syndicates of words.

What is the order that thou has conceived?

Yes, I can write to you Great Being Spirit of the Western hemisphere as smoke morse for your burning passion of well being in vacant state through the midst of the dessert I can't find. Are you there? are you anywhere? Find me and bring back peace to my mind.

Ah it is late and I am in coma.

Benoît Arnaud Duval. 2008