On the Road

I finished On the Road by Jack Kerouack a few days ago and i regret i haven't read it before.
Exactly all i like.
Those who read it will understand, it might sound cliché but some art productions are just timeless.

Projet?

Couverture du recueil DIY qui est censé voir le jour sous peu :

Poeme X UPDATED

AMICITIA

I was riding on this train
lost in thoughts and memories,
lying stretched across two seats
feeling the restless rumble
with pictures of this girl
I'd never hold anymore on my mind
and eating expensive chocolate bars.
I was filling the small metal trashcan
which smells like ashes
with paper wraps.

I looked outside, the sun was about to rise
on the cow sprinkled fields,
ready to unveil the farms, the forests,
the landscapes
you only see through a french train window.
Always the same, as the smell
and the cold metal of the vent marking my elbow.
I could not shake the last image
i caught of my friends waving
leaning against a rail
one of them holding a coffee cup
steaming in the morning cold.

Them who sat with me in this house,
separated from the world,
laughing and singing,
not thinking one of us could be sad
on the phone with his girl
who had stolen all of his life.

The hour would come when our time would be over,
leaving only reminders:
sand in our shoes, music in our heads
from the strings that we strummed
or the song that we sang.
Some had already left.
Even though i was there
meeting their eyes across the room
listening to their words,
my dearest friends,
my mind was already gone
my eyes looking away
as they did on this train.

Drowsy, i felt it
would never stopped.
I imagined the end of the railroad track,
me standing at the edge of the world that i call mine
and a brand new one stretching in front of my eyes.
I was alone
with my twenty two years and a one-way plane ticket.

This one goes out to Kate (even though not about her) for giving all its sense to the Internet.

Poeme VII

LOTUS

I sneeze and hear the vibrations
in the body of my acoustic guitar
which leans against the corner of the heater
it is not at its place by the window;
i broke a string like this three winters ago.
I put it in another corner of the bedroom.
A white box with no perspective.

They are all parallel,
the pictures pinned on the shelf of the desk,
parallel with themselves, the walls,
the formica frame,
the speakers, books, paper stacks,
the lines of the drawers,
the laptop computer,
the desktop picture of the laptop computer,
CD boxes, little notes and schedule sheet,

The edge of the paper
on which i write lines,
not all straight
going to the basement or the attic
(as my primary school teacher said.)
Stanzas scribbled, crossed out,
sentenced to parole
until there is almost no white left.

A poem will grow out of this mess,
and'll never wither.

Poeme VI UPDATED

VELVET

I am in a dark room,
on a bed.
Under the covers.
It is not so dark since the light is strong
behind the blinds,
they are like my eyelids, not completely opaque.
I don't really know what time it is,
late in the afternoon probably,
i feel fine.
When my eyes are closed,
i could be anywhere,
this bedroom or another.
When i open my eyes i could see angels
painted on the ceiling
like in this bedroom
where she and i used to lie together.
I wait for the moment
when thoughts turn into dreams.

Now I open my eyes.
I stare at the walls, one by one,
white,
the same posters,
the same pictures,
but i still linger on them,
the variety of thoughts that arise in my mind
makes me leave them on the wall
and keep exploring each corner,
each letter,
each face,
the ceiling has a lot to look at too,
the design of the tiles,
i keep counting.

Music is playing.
Crystal guitar
the voice which sounds like cigarette,
the gentle, steady tambourine.
I'm not tired, i'm just lazy.
I'm a little bit tired
but i love being here,
all day.
"I want to nullify my life,"
i don't really know what that means
but i agree,
it is night in the day
and i nap my life away.

Un poeme que j'ai écrit il y a un petit moment, petit clin d'oeil au Velvet Underground

Bonsoir

j'avoue ça fait un bail que j'ai pas mis á jour, je reviens de Californie, j'ai quelque poemes presque prets je vais les poster.

peace out
stay gold
jah rastafarai

Poeme V UPDATED

DERIVE

It was very late at night and
I was walking the poorly lit path bordered by trees
that I walk when I’m restless
and I want to escape the loneliness of my room.

I had left the blaring signs of the shopping centers
and their smell of fried food,
the sight of the golden city lights,
on a dark canvas of running blue and green.
The trees congregated along the sidewalk
to form a dark stripe
and a place for animals.
Squirrels, birds,
the branches were rustling
when I walked by sometimes,
too often to make the noises scary.
Street lamps were evenly scattered

on the side of the road,
their attempt to light my way was futile
but it didn't matter because
there is nothing to see really on this path.
I was not thinking about how much more I was going to walk,
I just wanted to walk off my obsessions
and suddenly I was walking streets with no name
feeling even further away from home,
feeling the distance,

the ocean between this continent
and the one where my home stands,
too far to smell the breeze
but at once all I missed came hitting me like wave.
My friends, the way they talk when they want to be funny
my mother's foodthese words which don't make sense here
even when they are disguised in an English costume,
taking walks alone but in my neighborhood.
This is a token of home, a parody.
And it is not funny.
The bushy side of the sidewalk
punched with holes of clarity reeled by
forming a theater-size screen showing nothing
but the picture of loneliness.

A car roared by,
a bubble of light made of steel and glass
and I saw the face of its driver staring,
emotionless,
a still picture of him
with his two hands on the wheel,
in a transparent frame.
Was he going home or was he escaping it?
It felt like a sign of hope
just like when a UFO lands on a crop field
and proves we're not alone in the universe
but then I thought of myself
in front of my computer screen
opening empty email inboxes many times a day,
recalling words said by ex-girlfriends,
whole paragraphs which don't make sense.
I looked down,
the gray squares of concrete succeeded under my feet
as the Masonite tiles
of an emergency hall would
and the slits became impossible to walk on.

I tripped on a square edge
my eyes focused and I saw a parking officer
walking around his booth,
he readjusted his beige uniform
as I approached and my words broke the silence:
“Good evening,”
he replied and asked me some questions about myself,
where I came from.
We talked a little more since
at this hour no cars need to park
and when the silence settled he turned around.

Anywhere i lay my head

Je ne sais pas pourquoi j'ai pas posté ca plus tot mais j'ecoute cet album en boucle (serieusement) depuis le mois d'Aout, la musique est enorme, la voix tres agreable et les reprises par rapport a Tom Waits sont tres bien faites, en plus je suis amoureux de Scarlett Johannson d'une maniere obsessive.

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

From Me To You

Comme chacun le sais je suis en Caroline du Nord, en charge d'un poste d'assistant de Francais, tout cela pour dire que je suis loin de chez moi (represent le 21, Stalingrad ca degrade) et je voulais commencer ce blog par cacedéier le premier article a tout ceux qui pense toujours a moi, qui me passent des coups de fils etc.
Ils se reconnaiteront...

Cette chanson de Over My Dead Body est pour vous les gars :


You're always there to pick me up
when i'm down and out and left without
the strength and the courage to struggle on
you're always there to show me you care
and i'm so grateful, you mean the world to me
you are the definition of Friendship and Unity
because i know this Friendship
will be one that lasts Forever
and you know i will always be there for you
when i saw you, and you told me, i knew you'd always be there!