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| photographs from the blog of Marie-Paule Deville-Chabrolle |
The wedding
cardboard Celebrate marginality of fates collide, overlap haphazardly, who marry or pass the buck in a wedding procession.
They invite us in an entertaining way to fill the gaps in these slices of life, these selections, these snippets of life.
It was after one of my walks I picked the fruit of a text that I present here.
I'm "old" one has plucked like a pigeon and took the opportunity to stand on its own. I am the one who clings to hopes of ordinary people. Becta one we gaze upon it shows the tip of his nose. The scarecrow who stretches out his arms to gain height, the bird of ill omen thwarting the blows of fate and the wars drew his organ, as others waved a flag. One who runs away to the sound of Pachelbel's canon. One who likes to upset conventional wisdom by turning the guns on broomsticks, the kamikaze bashful lovers of freedom. I'm also the one that twirls above the universal ballot. One who collects his booty in the heart of the fragments of urban poetry, laughter, glimmers of hope, sparks of genius. I am the old lady who comes and goes overnight, by telling them she did not empty in between. The playing hopscotch to switch in no time from earth to heaven. I'm also the girl throwing stones into the pond which splash dreams and lies shimmering truth. I am the one who knows the thousand and one evils of humanity remaining invariable since the beginning of time. Stones, lice and cabbage, I grow to develop a market garden dotted with beliefs. A cemetery that discloses the secret of winged words, a place where everything that emerges from the earth feeds the combined efforts imperfect and still do. Boldness irrigating micrograms and prose appetizing peddled from one shore to another, according to a waltz wandering. The Wedding singularities and plurality to fertilize interbreeding tasty.
fact remains that for some or for others, I am a fortune teller, a drivelling bad fortune. Pigeon denigrated, traveler's shadow, or dove incantatrice, I am a constant metamorphosis which his traveling circus any time of day or night. Which vanishes in October between the thieves on the run and that reappears in the middle of flakes and debris of December. My feathers in the sky describe paths which says a lot about my intentions.
Children of October, and Eid Akanot Anna Doïdou first, welcome these poems ephemeral by burning in the black brick my songs imaginary
"HOPE IS A BIRD
FLYING IN THE SKY OF THE INSURRECTION.
THE INSURGENCY IS AN EXPECTATION
FEATHERS FLYING IN THE SKY.
THE BIRD IS AN UPRISING
FLYING IN THE SKY HOPE.
THE SKY IS HOPE
FLYING IN THE UPRISING OF A FEATHER ".
Chalk and soon the snow will mix to coagulate the dreams changing. This could be
the epitaph of the old pigeon.
- According reads from The Marriage of cardboard Jean-Daniel Dupuy, published in 2005 editions of The Bad Seed
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