꧁ MLD ꧂

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Traductions par Tobias Ryan

Solar | MLD
Édition anglaise de :: Solaire
☞ Tirage signé, accompagné de son ex-libris personnalisé

“An old-fashioned hotel in Normandy.
January.
Close to the sea.
One street over from the Hôtel Flaubert.
Peach, pear, fresh herbs, musk rose, lilac, Hedione.
White musk, and vanilla.
The name of the perfume is Petite chérie.
It’s heavy, this man’s body.”

Bataille, hand of the lord | MLD
Édition anglaise de :: Cheffe de Bataille
☞ Tirage signé, accompagné de son ex-libris personnalisé

Couverture, photographie de Gilles Berquet

❝gashes on my knees I am ashamed low-voiced blackbirds et my face I try to throttle myself I cannot fight the sun of God without end suffering abandon the least I can I cry I cry louder he is vicious he guides me even while I believe I am fighting him he thrusts me against an oily hedge my eyes stick out tongue red the war is terrible a few steps from me a chasm opens up a mirror is held to me but I dare not look I am killed and my throat is slit I have to get back on my feet I must my left arm is coming off fuller and fuller of blood God persecutes me my stomach is open in every artery another world begins through force of killing me they kill me I have written it already by way of killing me they kill me I kill in the name of the Lord do you have news of my son the son that I brought forth and delivered as a hostage even he is a deposed king you leader of yesterday I know the pain in his flesh how heavily my choices lie I hate myself ut forgive myself give me the name befitting of me I want a grand funeral I can no longer see I show my hole to the face of God cursed earth cruelty is immortal the enemy is infinite after my death none will forget my name❞

At Night, There Is Nothing but the Night | MLD
Édition anglaise de :: Dans la nuit, il n'y a que la nuit
☞ Tirage signé, accompagné de son ex-libris personnalisé

“I believe in nettles that do not sting
in fresh cum
in worn out assholes in worn down lips
in stunted pricks
in Bataille-ready hair
the smell of cold piss
in dogs in crows
in the unknown Gods who I come close
to blowing as you crush me with your weight
my hole as such is an abyss
low rugged and unconscious
my tongue and slit are wet to the marrow
my throat is my palace your cum is my crown
she demands that you throw all the time more down
and swallows with a savage appetite
in my half-waking state she digests it
I am a rift
the only sustenance you permit me is the phallus impudicus
I would once lick your balls to give my tonsils your taste
The Blue of Noon remained my hell
and your cock went right through the middle of me”