People try to put us d-d-d-down

MY GENERATION

Like a little girl's dress
hiding secret cigarette holes
in between the pleats and lace,
this youth
is already used.
Arrogant and scared,
dressing like their parents
and talking like their little brothers,
taking pictures and making art,
going to bed very late at night.

"You'll see how it is,"
We barely had the time.

New responsibilities,
cars, rent, bills,
showing confidence and skills,
or lost on our mother's couch.
Girls grew to an age old enough to see the world
only through ex-tainted glasses.
Guys don't want to commit
and only want to get pussy or drinks.
Some of them are beautiful,
they create and hope
some follow the system and are on dope,

but i have faith.

As for me,
I didn't want to leave Teenage Wasteland.


Cacedédi au EFC Crew.

It's hard to keep the PMA.

Poeme mis a jour

UN JOUR DANS UNE VIE

Qu'est-ce que je fais ici
au milieu de l'apres-midi
assis dans le salon?
La tele brille sur le mur
et je ne la regarde meme pas,
dans cette maison, qui une fois de plus,
n'est pas la mienne.
Ca serait triste d'etre la a attendre demain.
Se demander si, comme un representant ponctuel, il viendra
sonner a la porte,
pour ramener ce qu'hier avait pris
Ou viendra-t-il faire de la publicite
et des compromis
pour vendre des emotions au rabais
et les forcer dans mon coeur et ma tete,
sans que je puisse refuser?

Un jour ma mere m'as demande si j'etais heureux.
Je lui ai dit
que je ne voulais plus etre heureux ou triste.
Qu'il y avait tellement entre les deux.
Elle m'a repondu que c'etait bien de laisser faire les choses
et faire ce qu'on doit.
Faire ce qu'on doit.

J'ai pris un morceaux de gateau
sur le comptoir, dans la cuisine,
dans la boite avec des taches de gras
et dans la menace constante de la souris.
Je n'arrivais pas a dire si il etait bon ou pas.
L'indecision constante du palais.
La cuisine potentielle d'un Ian Curtis
ou d'une Sylvia Plath,
elle me hante au petit dejeuner
et j'y reste le soir pour le confort
d'un verre.

Je me suis leve trop tot.
J'ai le temps maintenant,
il y a toujours le temps,
le temps de rester sur ce canape,
le temps de trouver une copine,
le temps avant d'aller au boulot,
Le temps que je laisse passer le matin
comme un vol de gerfauts.

Quand ce mercredi s'etait devide comme un dimanche,
j'ai decide d'aller faire un tour de velo.
Les roues tournaient aussi vite que les pensees dans ma tete
et j'ai remarque que les batiments du centre ville
apparaissent depuis la rue si on regarde assez tot.
Ils surgirent comme un phare entoure d'une lumiere d'or
au dessus d'une mer d'obscurite.
J'avais le choix, pourtant il fallait que j'y aille,
malgre l'air gele dans mes bronches.
J'ai denoue le bandana autour de ma gorge
et j'ai descendu la pente.

Il y a de la beaute dans ce monde
et c'est le seul or que je cherche.

Petite traduc pour une publication de Wake Forest, le dernier vers n'a rien a voir en francais mais je ne suis plus fache avec la langue francaise depuis un moment,
Dites moi ce que vous pensez et on pourra lacher des comm avec un verre de pinard et des wayfarers de vue en faisant des blagues de gallerie d'art :)

Straight Edge poem

POISON

These poisons that grab me by the ankle
like a hand out of its grave,
to hold me under the earth
in the world of the living dead,
i want to get rid of them.

The smoke in my lungs
and the liquor in my veins
no longer calm my nerves or numb my brains.

I have retrieved my heart
from the hands of a girl,
trapped it in my chest again
but it still wants out
and the chains of my ribs
can't suppress its shouts.

The instruments of convenience we created
made us the slaves of impatience
and the useless things we accumulated
don't offer nothing we can keep.

Although i have still not found
what is devouring my mind,
today was spent out of the grave
and the worms can still feast from my skin,
i have more life that i can use.

Desole pour la qualite mediocre du scannage

Baudelaire fun

A translation of Une Charogne by Charles Baudelaire,

CARRION

Do you remember that thing we saw, my love,
on this sweet summer morning?
On the edge of the path, a nasty carrion,
on a bed of stone was lying.

Legs up like a lustful woman,
burning and sweating its poisons
Casually and cynically had opened
its belly full of exhalations.

The sun, on the decay was casting its rays
as if to cook it nicely,
to give back to Nature by hundreds
what she had put back together formerly

And the sky was looking down on the carcass
that was blooming like a flower.
The smell was so strong that on the grass
you almost fainted, my dear.

The flies were humming on the putrid belly,
out of which came black swarms of worms
oozing out in a thick liquid
along the living rags.

All of this was going up and down like a wave
or ascending and crackling,
it looked like the corpse, swollen by a breath
was still living and multiplicating.

This world was playing a strange music
like the running water or the wind
or the grain that the winnower tosses
in rhythm, in his sieve.

The shapes were vanishing just like a dream,
a sketch slow to appear
on the forgotten canvas that the artist seems
to finish only in wonder.

Behind the rocks a worried dog
with an angry eye was looking at us
waiting to retrieve from the skeleton
the piece it had let go of.

And yet, you will be similar to this filth,
to this hideous infection,
you the sun of my world, the stars of my eyes,
my angel, my passion!

Yes, you will be such, you the queen of graces,
after the last sacraments
when you will go down under the earth
molding among the remains.

So, my beauty, tell the worms
that will eat you with kisses
that of my decayed love
i kept the shape and essence.

the Messiah hath returned

and he looks like that:


i have discovered today that i'm not a funny person and actually feel fine about it (no connexion with the image above)

When reality meets fiction

I have written a poem about a war veteran living in the street who meets a teenage skateboarder one night (i'll upload it later, it's in the collection)
well, during my last trip to the City of Angeles i saw this homeless guy, with a sign saying he was a veteran, he didn't fight in the same war my veteran did (he fought in Vietnam,) but he was on the same street! so i had to take a picture with him and spare a couple bucks...
Andy took the pic, i printed it and scanned it and now it looks like this, i think it looks cool... coz im a hipster, wait...

i'll upload some very recent poems soon,
thats me, nothing for weeks and then an outburst of creativity, but i see a shrink for that and "he told me thats the lack of sex thats bringing me down, "

Poem...

PARKWAY

The sloping side of the sidewalk is lined
with empty bottles, still wrapped in the brown paper
that does not conceal them,
disposed of in a drunken nihilist toss.
Thousands of nihilist tosses.

A kid is playing on an oil-stained parking lot
where broken glass glitters on the gray concrete,
amongst the crates and car parts.
When he goes home, the burned-heads go out,
they sit there, on the curb,
looking at the parking lot where they used to play.

Brian Harper Strikes Again

A quote to live by:

"Don't let the light go out or you'll become like one of those crotchety old men who make the rules for everybody else."
-Brian Harper

...

est-ce que quelqu'un lit encore ce blog?
does anybody still read this blog?

Bonsoir

Ca fait un petit moment que j'ai pas poste,
J'accumule, je reviendrai avec du nouveau bientot,
en attendant une petite photo d'une lecture de poesie il y a deux semaines./
I am "piling up" i'll be back with new works soon,
a little picture of a poetry reading a couple weeks ago.