Maxime Le Moing | Writings | Recordings | Films | Live | Agenda | French version

A week has gone into wine.

The decrepit village
of these encounters cut
with secateurs
in the gloomy seal
of an uncertain goodbye


The pulp of the finger
is the raw material
of the finger snap.

It is filled
with collagen which
maintains the elasticity
of the skin.

When two fingers
are pressed
against each other
to make this force ripple,
it is a piercing shock
that nourishes the hand.

Only the old people
make of this imbalance
soft clicks.


The old man
listens to the highway
in the distance.

Its blood flow
receives this road flow
in an event
which inflates and deflates
(in pulsation).

He knows that his eardrums
are only the drums of the heart.



is written on a split trunk.

Pass the wind
in the branches of fir trees without needles.
Some insects,

And a pruner
in the lower part.


The garden hose
is the ultimate hose.

When empty
and walked on,
the bottleneck gives off
the last gurgling sounds
of a calculating organ.


in a shopping
she absorbs
a metal concert.

The iron
curtains close
the shops, which together
squeal goodnight.


A blooming
is the hotel
of tangled

below is
a glissando
delight of all
the zealous beats.


Basements full
the eardrums.

When the ear sticks
to the stop posts,
lampposts, metal rods,
it enjoys

a deafening violence
of the fists hitting them.


The skin of the leaf
is a white mattress on which
the mine and the line lie.

Drawing a living model
is exposing
the jolts of carbon.


Scrambled atmosphere,
in the supermarket
it picks up the radio poorly

The empty stomach holds out its antenna.

It mix the music,
change the wave from the fresh section to the biscuit section.
(transitions spit)

And the ears position
the choice of meal.


The sky enters
the summer meadow,
scrolls a highway
of volatile insects.

It lie down there.

Never before

has the Doppler effect
restore their bumblebees
so much.


Aluminum is a crumpled
rain cloud that lodges
in the folds of crisps.

It is an excellent
weather indicator
a powerful magic trick
like a thunderstorm that
breaks in the mouth.


makes you deaf
silence is
an appetite suppressant.


Love conversation

sitting on her
red wheeled suitcase
her feet hit
the hull with a

bou-boum bou-boum
bou-boum bou-boum bou-boum


Under this bridge
flow the demonstrators but
their song does not advance any more.

It is sheltered
rumbles in the enclosure. His fate:
a mouth-to-mouth relay fleeing outwards.

It’s a brittle flow
a force that struggles to resonate
in a breach.


while listening to the waterfall
crush the foam.


The words contained
in one of the barrel vaults
are playing ping-pong.

They bounce
very quickly thirteen times
until they lose the point.

Sometimes one exceeds
the time limit of his death, slips
in the round trip of the other.

Listening becomes denser,
we come across a waterfall.


The railroad
tunnels have
a collection of horns.

These blows of syncope
the acoustics of the hole.

Darkness will return
in choking-reverberation.


At the first trumpet notes
the ear unrolls
a juvenile oasis.

We follow the instrument,
the silence of a mirage.

It is the step followed by another
which guides thirst.
Darkness will return in choking-reverberation


When the party ends,
the acid house absorbing
its own organs,
a morning walk in the open fields
reminds us of this music.

No forest needed
to hear the birds.

They plug into
the electrical wires
of the rare metal trees,

extending the empty sky of fluorescent chirps.