Poeme III

un de mes vieux poemes que j'ai remis á jour:

END OF THE WORLD

I used to be a cashier.
One day,
while the white neon lights of the ceiling
were blinding me and the neverending bipping
was making my head feel like a big melon,
a noise had to be added to the industrial-chicken-coop atmosphere:
a crying five year old,
his mother didn't want to buy the gums at the end of the counter
at first.
She put the gums and the rest of her things on the counter belt and the crying stopped.
The kid started playing with the debit card machine
so she told him the police would put him in jail if he didn't stop.
Then he started asking questions about my expanded lobes and the ink on my arms,
because at this age self consciousness doesn't exist.
I answered him.
His mother asked if i did drugs.
I answered i didn't, which is true.
They left, the legs of the kid no longer dangling from the cart
but kicking and he resumed his crying,
for some reasons.

This happened every day but this time it reminded me that
some parents teach their children fear and intolerance,
that curiosity is repressed by authority
and that i've been shown fear in a handful of dust
that i saw atrocity in normality
that i saw death on TV.
that i've heard ignorance in anchormen's words
that i've learned some people live in a different world
that i've seen people torturing animals
and expecting God's mercy.
that i've seen horror in the mundane
and disruption in stability.
Also i've learned that a remote control and a pair of slippers
are instruments of destruction
and that matrimony is not love but society.

This was my Supermarket in California
and I thought that this world would end as it began
in a big bright explosion of flames
caused by a void:
the one in people's head.

I am truly sorry
but i don't want your TV shows,
your sedatives and alarm clocks
your babies and multiple door locks.
I'm not crazy,
your World is crazy.
Institutionalized.

xanthox


á lire: Supermarket in California, Allen Ginsberg
http://www.writing.upenn.edu/~afilreis/88/supermarket.html
(j'ai écris la majeur partie de ce poeme avant de rajouté la reference...)

á écouter: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vXK0Hjfkrgw

Erwin Olaf

J'avais juste envie de parler de cet artiste Néerlandais dont j'ai vu l'expo l'autre jour:
des photos qui ressemblent á des peintures,
de la beauté pure,
des filles á la Gil Elvgren,
rien á redire...



désolé de ne pas mettre á jour plus souvent, je crains.
Aussi lachez vos comm, t'as vu.

Poeme II

CASUALTIES

When i wake up, restful in my bed
And it is three in the afternoon,
I know i've been manipulated
By the hands of fate again.
They have dates and facts tattooed on their arms
and LOVE and HATE across their knuckles,
They won't leave me be.
I'm thinking until my brain is full to the brim
With words and old pictures of my dad.
Among all these words some are heftier:
Friendship
and the consciousness to fight the drunk crowd.
I'm here while some practise for a game.

I hear steps which are not my mother's,
I also know it is time to step out in the world
and stay gold.
Although they say all roads lead to Rome
This derelict path is one i roam
Avoiding the cracks on the sidewalk,
And averting the sight of crosses
Which advertise a god i won't trust.
Death from above for the casualties,
Blindfolded
but granted a new life,
not to be enjoyed now.

Tell me where's hope when the neon signs
Are the only things which shine at night :
The new guides to follow through the dark.
The only clarity to possess
To read the Neverending Story.
I wish i could stare into those eyes.
Even if the same moon bathes them,
A thousand miles away they remain.

Shopping windows are full of Sperrys
And dead bodies wearing fancy shirts,
As dead as the fur on the jackets.
When i've chased the light on my way
I can see my house has disappeared,
I will never push its door again
And now that the walls have collapsed
Dystopia spreads in front of my eyes.
I'm not complaining, i'll rub it off.

xanthox

Poeme I UPDATED

YESTERDAY

In a world made of earth, bricks and thoughts
there is an urge
as communicative as a yawn,
through glass and steel,
from car to car,
form him to her, across the room.
In the dining-room
the group of friends are talking
around the white table
smeared with coffee and beer rings
on it, books and magazines.
In the basement drums are hit.

Open windows vomit sound
and music on the wooden terrace
like meat pouring out of a sausage maker.
Vibrations distort the air
and hearts pump creativity
through my friends' systems.
Their eyes see the sun for a brief moment,
looking up to the windows cutting
the light with three black bars.
The sunlight behind the clouds.

The heavy, foamy clouds,
deformed by the wind like Play dough,
overlapping each other,
float away to let the rays of light explode
as i watch them from the beach
on my big blue screen.

The night will erase all this,
when the alcohol that it brings
will pump into my friends' bodies.
It will numb their fingers
and put stupid smiles on their faces,
it will make their heads spin
like the sprockets of our bicycles
as fast as the records playing music,
and leave more rings on the white table.

voila bast ;)

Le Boulon de l'Amitié 2

Pond Surfing, Dijon
Printemps/Eté 2008
fuck yeah

Gabi, Quentin, Victor, xAnthox