Ô nuit —
  qui te dissous      dans ta propre  é‑vi‑dence,
— ou bien n’es‑tu qu’un signe —
                    fendu,
                        sans résidence —

Je cherche un sens
  déjà fuyant
      déjà   trop tard,
et l’ombre me répond
     par un éclat
             qui se sé‑pa‑re.

Le rêve —
  souverain faux‑roi —
        renverse mes pen‑sées;
ses portes s’ouvrent —
  non —
    se ferment —
        non —
                sont brisées.

Je marche
   ou je trébuche
      ou je glisse
hors du pas —
dans un théâtre
  où chaque mot
    dé‑fait
      ce qu’il dit   là.

(whisper)
  « L’invisible est ton seul empire. »
(chuckling)
  « Vois comme l’empire se dé‑chi‑re. »

Et moi —
  pauvre témoin
d’un texte qui se défait —
je tends la main
  vers l’air —
    l’air même
        dis‑pa‑raît.

Ô spectre du réel —
  masque aux lèvres incertaines —
tu cries
  sans voix,
tu pleures
  sans larmes,
tu reviens.

Je veux saisir ton nom —
  il tombe
    en mille éclats —
et chaque éclat me dit:
  « Tu ne me sauras pas. »

Ainsi va mon esprit —
  nau‑fra‑gé
    dans l’a‑bî‑me,
où le sens se dérobe,
où la forme s’a‑bî‑me.

Et pourtant —
  dans ce chaos —
une clarté s’enfuit:
  un souffle,
   un presque‑mot,
    un silence
      qui luit.

O night —
  dissolving softly
    in your own  self‑proof,
— or are you but a sign —
      split open,
        roofless,
          aloof —

I chase a meaning
  already fleeing,
    already
      undone,
and shadow answers me
  with a flash
    that comes un‑spun.

The dream —
  false‑king
   of kingdoms made of smoke —
opens its doors —
  no —
   closes —
    no —
      they’ve broken.

I walk —
  or stagger —
   or slip
outside my stride,
in a theatre
  where every word
   un‑does
    its own in‑side.

(whisper)
  “The unseen is your only throne.”
(chuckling)
  “See how the throne is over‑thrown.”

And I —
  poor witness
to a text un‑making itself —
reach out my hand
  toward the air —
   the air itself
    evac‑u‑ates.

O specter of the real —
  mask with trembling lips —
you cry
  without a voice,
you return
  in shattered slips.

I try to grasp your name —
  it falls
   in shards of glass —
and every shard declares:
  “You shall not know my mass.”

So drifts my mind —
  ship‑wrecked
   in the deep,
where meaning hides,
where forms collapse
  and weep.

Yet in this chaos —
  something faint
   takes flight:
a breath,
  an almost‑word,
   a silence
    giving light.

an AI assited Song based on an  experimental solo guitar piece I wrote with all diminished chords and scales. This gave the piece a classic  early 20th century French Jazz sound I liked so I embellished it with some French and English lyrics  and had the machine create the singer whom I called  " Francine Pale". It was enjoyable to create and I hope people enjoy it to for its unusualness and artistic scope. Im planning an full Album called "VIEW"