the sinner

Notes des Rues — Konstantinos Skopelitis
because beyond my eyes there is the sky
with the stars in your eyes;
because at confession, my soul hasn’t kept
the mystery of the poetry that you are;
because you know to read among the rows,
among the seasons, among all the points
and all the unspoken commas;
because towards me you were written
like a novel of amorous fiction;
because you met me all the way like that love
at the corner of the street thinking that I am
to everyone when I was just your poetry
and not of someone else;
because I lived you as two lives in another life
sharing all kind of emotions that some never heard;
because my confessions became yours
having the spell above of the sinner and
the culpability offered clearly, through the eyes
and eyelashes of the fragile balance of chemistry
and of everything that could be kissed;
because I’ve been searching for you so much
and by a sublime chance, I’ve found myself;
because your prayer to your God was with me,
and all my thoughts returned again to you,
I’m not____ guilty_____ open the door____
✓✍🏻 ;₎₎
un p’tit je ne sais quoi © ᵏᴼᵏᴼ 
🎨 by Konstantinos Skopelitis 
subject, — Notes des Rues 
Isaac Delusion ♪

with you in mind

I can write to you only about everything I can not tell you…
just enough to not disturb your dreams with me on your site.

I already know your wireless feelings are hidden each night
thru the fated days under the keypad circuits of your inbox.

So deep you’re fixed to be with me as I’m with you in mind.
✓✍🏻 ;₎₎
un p’tit je ne sais quoi © ᵏᴼᵏᴼ

Etta James ♪
Photo by Daniel Olah on Unsplash

wild Irish rose

i wonder if tomorrow will be on my sky
an acute sound of your language using
as incantation a bluesy touch with high
sweet vibrations to put fog in the spam,
and to be seen only the hue of a rainbow
in the shadow of a black-golden beam
wrapped in fragrance of a wild Irish rose
©ᵏᴼᵏᴼ ↭ un p’tit je ne sais quoi

attire of words

I’m gonna seek for you
through all the beasts
of my hamlet and yours
until I’ll get tired and then
I’m gonna take it again
from the beginning.

You will rummage beyond
my eyes and you’ll seek for me
inside you like a medicament
soothes a body.

I will send all the wolfs
of my soul to catch
your trace and to sniff
the scent that’s been
anointed by my wild heart.

You will send all the guards
of your spirit to look for me
through the place where
we kissed each other
for the first time and where
we used pseudonyms designed
nicely to look like a confusing
plastic love instead of names.

You will wander through
each path, beaten up with
the finesse of my steps and
sculptured by stones in a delta
just for cheering my ankles.

You will run like a madly one
howling through the valleys
of my mind, and through
the mountains of my senses
of the woman I am, but also,
through hilly hills of any story
of ours that reminds you of me.

Then, when you will find me,
I will love you… — I will love you
exactly as I did it from the moment
when my lips uttered the first verse
for you. I will love you as I’d supposed
to love you, — forever. Wearing
the attire of words from all our deeds
out of a perpetual spiral looking
for the absolute in the space
of metaphors and artistic myths.

©ᵏᴼᵏᴼ ↭ un p’tit je ne sais quoi 
Eric Clapton │ Say Yes Dog │ Mumford & Sons

the steps

❝ your steps, children of my silence, 
holily, slowly placed, 
towards the bed of my vigilance
proceed dumb and frozen. 
    nobody pure, divine shade, 
    that they are soft, your steps selected! 
    gods!… all the gifts which I guess
come to me on these naked feet! 
if of your advanced lips, 
you prepare to alleviate it, 
an inhabitant of my thoughts 
the food of a kiss, 
    does not hasten this tender act, 
    to be soft and not to be not?
    because I lived to await you, 
    and my heart was only your steps.❞
— Paul Valéry —

just wondering so, of antithesis…

everything it’s in the speed,—
delirium as far as the sky,—
we are in antithesis the subjects
of a dirty simple game
my shy eyes descend desirously…
but I breathe you in this urban decor
she’s killing me,
she’s killing me, slowly…
she wants my heart,
she wants my heart,
from my chest;
she’s so gracefully
among of bored crowd on the road
and seems a hidden dance, where
two strangers submissively dance
my shy eyes descend desirously…
but I breathe you in this urban decor
she’s killing me,
she’s killing me, slowly,—
she wants my heart,
she wants my heart from my chest;
she’s killing me,
she’s killing me, slowly,—
she rips my heart,
she rips my heart from my chest;
burning on the asphalt and pulse the fire,
it burns, burns shockingly
burns too beautifully, the heart it burns,
it burns, I confess…
she’s killing me slowly, slowly
she tears my heart, oh, yes,—
from the chest,
the bitten lips are trembling slightly
and gravity attacks me,
butterflies and warm vibration
on the asphalt
as if we’re walking barefoot
through the bed,
the fire sirens cannot stop us
and the time, the wretch,
ticks away in a hurried way…
she’s killing me, she’s killing me,
she’s killing me, she’s killing me, ya’…


translation‧‧‧ ©ᵏᴼᵏᴼ ↭ un p’tit je ne sais quoi

forever from now

theme — alfie 🎨 Lucia Heffernan

your heart definitely is illiterate, —
otherwise what kind of excuses
I should find for it, forever from now,
when conjugates the verb of love
at imperfect as if adores to watch me
shining in lightly beam of the sunset,
when my body’s spoiled and covered
with shadows of your kisses, entirely
out of control in searching for me,
continually asking, — where’s my girl?

Sheffield │ Coyle Girelli

do it in slow motion…

The common cards known as hands are dealt… —
You express the impassivity as no one to read you.
This blindly game, the curiosity, — do it in slow motion.
The dealer looks at you asking what are you betting on
and you… well, y’know you’ve got nothing more to do
than a full concept, — straight — or an improved suit.
Which kind you choose, it’s perfect. Cards are shown.
The house always wins. And you know you’re lucky by
a good hand when you’ve been falling in love with me
©ᵏᴼᵏᴼ ↭ un p’tit je ne sais quoi
Larry Page


artwork by Wafflebean

while the nighttime unwraps me
to scent me with you appearing
from a playful beam of the moon,
the daylight metamorphoses me
using incantations of the flowers
in your daydream profile of love
©ᵏᴼᵏᴼ ↭ un p’tit je ne sais quoi

Luna Luna

mon manège à moi c’est toi

L’imprimer de notre amour, c’est partout.
Aux personnes disparues avec
le suivi international.
Sur les lieux du flagrant délit
et des faits…
Les traces sont de tous côté
par-ci par-là entièrement.
Non-personne et rien ne peut les nettoyer.
Nous sommes condamnés à jamais
dans une phrase sans verdict
pour nous deux d’être hanté avec
cette émotion définitive qui a survécu
au-delà de notre première rencontre.
Ce sentiment, qui s’appelle la liberté
pour l’âme et les pensées,
ne nous a jamais laissés seuls.
Avec peur et courage, nous sommes revenus
à la scène de cet échantillon poétique
en utilisant le tourbillon de la passion, l’amour,
à cause des preuves nécessaires
dessinant un rapport détaillé sur l’amour.
Ensuite, nous avons pris pour des preuves,
nos regards, nos calins et surtout la respiration
de l’air vêtir avec nos battements de coeur qui
palpite dans nos esprits, sophistiqué…

mon manège à moi c’est toi…  
©ᵏᴼᵏᴼ ↭ un p’tit je ne sais quoi

Étienne Daho

true love

Timeless by Lena Sotskova

At this hour of the whichever month,

I imagine how you take me by the hand
for walking together through that kind of time
where we could suspend the timepiece just a little bit,
only to feel the scent of your perfume on my skin
and the fever of your fingers
which is equal to the temperature of my hot pulse.
At this hour of the whichever month,
the past, the present moment and
the future gets decomposed
into the yesterday, today and tomorrow
making my moon to play with your sun
promising that the sunrise on your side
it will play again with the sunset on my side.
At this hour of the whichever month is a kiss…
incalculable kiss came from the past to the future, —
and your mouth smells like a flower of the moon,
and my taste is like a frosty-sun…
and true love looks like a poem wandering
through a melody… — set-to ask if at this hour
of the whichever month, do you think about me
Othman Wahabi

a miracle

Teal-Black Blue-Butterflies TreeFoggy PhotoArt

what a good, — that you are
what a miracle, — that I am
of the marvel one that you are
of the happening which I am
both, — colors that never met
one too high, — one too low

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