Poem in french and studio of Ivan de Monbrison in Paris

Quelle est cette ombre qui essuie ses lèvres molles sur mon corps embaumé dans sa salive ? Une main retient ce bandeau posé sur mon visage qu’encercle l’anneau de tes doigts qui m’étranglent. Ce geste tu l’as déjà fait mille fois par le passé mais ce que tu croyais voir en moi s’est déjà effacé.

Ivan de Monbrison sketching blind

poem and painting by Ivan de Monbrison

Painting and poem in french by Ivan de Monbrison

Poem and painting by Ivan de Monbrison

Painting and poem by Ivan de Monbrison

Poem in french and painting by Ivan de Monbrison

Paintings by Ivan de Monbrison

Studies for a portrait

Mental Night Don’t lessen to be but tranquillity in a heaven of prosperity shall grace be given to all who can spare the mourning of a child on the air. I shall give back the grace of falling among dying youth the solid yearning of the truth the whisper of the one eyed cats revealing death we can’t hide. Ivan de Monbrison

Poem in french by Ivan de Monbrison in his studio

Portrait and sculptures in the studio of Ivan de Monbrison

Portrait in the studio of Ivan de Monbrison

Painting and poem by Ivan de Monbrison

Nocturne Cadavre poussé par la porte du vide je n’existe que dans mon sommeil et je marche sur la corde invisible de cette somnambule présence les morts recouvrent mon corps la plaie cousue de fils blancs et ce qui masque le décor laisse apparaître ces visages blancs sans dents et tuméfiés d’avoir bu jusqu’à la lie le sang des morts désossés cette ombre à laquelle se lie l’instant pressé par une main le corps décapité. Ivan de Monbrison

Mad-oddity Images of dreams old schemes whatever is begotten befalls the body of a creep the eye dashing with light in sorrow of whisper on my lap the child deserving madness showing adultory of childhood’s disease under the secret arch of pain. Ivan de Monbrison

Growing over the earth, indians of mystic eyes, the fire of our bones, to carry the skeleton of the dead child in our arms is to give it back to the fire of our dreams, magic spirit of beast shall bring back the dying green grass red in ecstasy of mourning, the soil, where the dead corpses of our fathers were once children too. Ivan de Monbrison

Growing over the earth, indians of mystic eyes, the fire of our bones, to carry the skeleton of the dead child in our arms is to give it back to the fire of our dreams, magic spirit of beast shall bring back the dying green grass red in ecstasy of mourning, the soil, where the dead corpses of our fathers were once children too. Ivan de Monbrison

Unwritten poem showing the dead rope of aloofness naked street of youth knowing wild rage of stormy eyes the weather of childhood shall know the attitude of the saint in his bellowing awarness of death we walk barefoot on top of madworld not seeing who we are killing stallion and breathing on ongoing savagery in yellow brains our cissors cutting through space thoughts into pieces like images gliding onto solitudes. Ivan de Monbrison