They expect the world to come to them in HD

half buried in their couches and then they’re surprised

they missed out,

surprised, appalled by the misery in the streets…

and the white kids and other kids

with high speed internet connections

they don’t achieve much…

see the world in white and blue.

MAN, it really don’t look like we were born

from the heart of a man who wanted to love and survive.

this one's for Hunter S. Thompson, who lived like a man is supposed to

and who wouldve turned 75 today.

AU REVOIR, M. GHILAS

Je ne serai plus jamais un prof

je ne souffrirai plus des fous de la conformité

du moins plus dans ces murs, dans leurs murs,

plus des humiliations dans le bureau de la Principale ou contre le tableau noir.

Vieilles connasses, jeunes zélés, au revoir.

Au revoir les petits cons qui s’en branlaient, j’arrivais pas à vous en vouloir
et les fayots au premier rang, j’arrivais pas à vous voir.

Je ferme une dernière porte à clef, nez à nez avec l’emploi du temps

imprimé en couleurs et scotché par l’adjoint quand l’année était jeune

et rugissait dans mes oreilles, comme la cloche plusieurs fois par jour

…je traverse ce couloir une dernière fois.

Par la fenêtre je regarde les clochers et les toits

puis je vois les fantômes de l’automne et de l’hiver et le chagrin du printemps

quand la nature revivait et que moi j’étais rattaché ici,

les centaines de fois quand j’ai gravé ces murs violets avec mes yeux :

JE DETESTE CE BOULOT DE MERDE ET TOUT LE MONDE ICI.

Je regarde mes jolies chaussures, un peu abîmées,

elles font danser des confetti sur le carrelage rouge foncé

des petits morceaux de papiers qu’un gamin à fait

avec le dernier quizz que j’ai distribué il y a une heure ou deux.

Des confettis blancs parsemés de lettres noires pour fêter un nouvel été.

Une victoire pour eux mais aussi pour moi

Mélangée, par la confusion, aux souvenirs du prix que j’ai dû payer pendant des mois

pour toucher ma paye

mais maintenant tout ça, c’est déchiré, prêt à être balayé

comme des feuilles d’été, tombées ou un papillon de nuit, cramé.
Je suis plus heureux que l’école soit finie à 26 piges

que quand j’en avais 6 ou 16.

Je traverse la cour vide, je dis au revoir à la grosse concierge

qui me trouvait toujours élégant.

Je pousse la porte en verre et cette petite ville me balance de la liberté droit au visage,

avec des feuilles mortes dans son vent,

et de la vie, de la vie qu’il m’appartient de ne jamais laisser s’échapper,

de saisir, dans le trouble d’un été saoul.

Je vais prendre un dernier train

dans mon cœur je sens un pincement que j’aime beaucoup,

je ne me retourne sûrement pas, non, pas pour vous.

écrit au et pour le collège Jules Ferry, 21200 Beaune

______________________________

I’ll never be a teacher anymore
I’ll never have to suffer from conformity whores     

at least not inside these walls;                                

from humiliation by the board, in the Principal’s office.   

Goodbye old hags and young boars,       

rowdy kids who couldn’t care less and the ones in the front row.   

I lock a last door and face the now obsolete schedule taped on it

carefully printed in color by the assistant when the schoolyear was young

and screaming in my ears like the bell many times a day

…and i tread this hall one last time.

I look at rooftops and steeples through the window

and i see the ghosts of fall, winter and springtime sorrow

when nature was blooming and i was alienated,

the countless times I’ve carved these ugly purple walls with my eyes :

I HATE THIS JOB AND EVERYONE HERE.

I look at my nice shoes, kinda beat up now,

they make confetti dance on the Burgundy tiles,

festive bits some kid made from a last quizz

I handed out earlier.

White confetti with black letters to celebrate a new summer.

A victory for these kids and a victory for me

fused by confusion with the reminiscence of a toll i paid for months

to get paid

but now torn, ready to be swiped away,

like a dry summer leaf, a dead moth…
I’m happier that school’s over at 26 than at 6 or 16.

I cross the empty playground, say good bye to the fat janitor

who always thought I was elegant.

I push the glass door and this small city hurls freedom to my face,

with fallen leaves in its wind,

life for me to grab and never let go, seize in a drunken haze, in a summer daze.

Headed for a last train

i feel something in my heart that I really like and I certainly don’t look back.

written at and for collège Jules Ferry, 21200 Beaune

ODE TO OJOS

She said she likes being around me too,

              that we could get together if the weather gets better

              that it’s too bad it rained again, and again

              that we couldn’t make it to the cemetery at the end of the night, in the early morning.

Earlier, while biking through the countryside

I started singing The Smiths’ Cemetery gates at the top of my lungs

when I saw the tombs rise behind the rural bushes.

Victor borrowed some flowers from them.

I said : “No sweat, these tombs won’t moss or fade away

at least not before the Final Decay…”

            This girl’s pretty, my sexual appetite’s dead.

“… and these people are here to stay.”

With love and hate and passions just like mine,

They were born and then they lived and then they died

and I am sick of scattering bits of me and my heart

here and there like these spring time flowers scatter seeds

on the stern, sterile tombs I can barely see from here.

                sick of recalling to whom I’ve left ‘em.

but I’m still looking for a black hole as deep as the eyes of a Spanish girl

who looked sad, sola, leaning against the wall,

yes, a black hole to drop another bit, another end, another one

to be broken, left for dead, never to be fixed or found again.

Is this world that cynical or I have really lost track

like I lost my sunglasses, my earplugs, my reason behind each day

like I broke my phone…in an anger burst?

There’s no way I’m gonna hear her voice again,

it’s lost in a deaf, poisoned well.

            Drowned brains, sober sickness.

But this world’s cynical, it’s been proved by research

and the rain has fallen down on us for only 15 minutes

like it had a purpose, something to show or prove,

something to waste while the hostile clouds moved.

I thought I should thank her for setting fire to my heart,

at least for one night. Gracias.

She also said she’s sad that life is different from the books she reads

so I said “Write yourself a fuckin’ life then.”

I bike home, look at a perfect house and the sun hits my eyes,

i look down at the gravel and see a rat’s carrion.

            My book’s called : No hope kids we are.

La Faute aux Dinosaures - Recueil apocalypticopoétique - Mediapop Editions

"...j'ai laissé mon livre de Dieu pour lire des livres d'hommes"

        

43 pages, 8 €

DISPO :
*fnac

*Amazon

DISPO à Dijon :
*le Consortium/37, rue de Longvic
*Shifty Boardshop/2, rue des Perrières

me contacter : anthoghilas@hotmail.com

UNTITLED

Waiting on a gigantic concrete square,

the parking lot of a supermarket.

I hold my sunglasses in my hand.

The tinted glass against my palm

reflects the surroundings:

concrete cubes, signs on the walls.

Waiting as the last car,

                        the last customer leaves.

“Soaring on the reflection there should be palm trees.”

ASTHENIA

“Tell me, tell me, tell me what bothers you.

Tell me what’s on your mind…what’s on the mind.”

“Well, every fucking thing about this life.

The good things that came to me today, all the beauty

at the end of the day that’s all very nice

but tomorrow, what do I get? Bad shit? Maybe.”

I am talking to myself walking through a construction field

and I’m not even drunk.

Fear and anguish and anguish and anguish.

I can think of a thousand places and recall a thousand moments

haunting and daunting or pleasing and appeasing like a motherly kiss

but I’m stuck in this one and I don’t have time to ponder,

only time to wonder about worthless shit

when my thoughts wander like a beat hermit on dystopian gravel

carried by calloused feet.

Now, on my left hand let pages get heavy

behind my glasses, my eyes get weary.

Let a good book settle inside me

like a good full moon settles in the sky

and keeps you from sleeping but you’re not completely awake

…just drowsy

and you take time to stare at that moon

outside the window, between buildings.

Now get stoked on that moon,

get stoked on a sunset between buildings

or on a new song you dig

or an old song you dig, til you get sick of it.

On a pretty girl’s high heels

get stoked on that skirt she probably wears

for a worthy occasion.

Imagine her skin, how you would caress it.

Calloused fingers

on that beauty-products-soaked skin.

Well, as for me, I’m an astronaut

and I take notes. I float.

above parking lots and cemeteries

above parking lots that look like cemeteries.

right above all the heads on the train platform

whose ears buzz from the suitcases, dragging.

Above lines of people, crosses of gold…

but I see a crowd at a show, dancing

so I start descending…

Standing in front of the stage I stare at the bassist.

I look at her fingers lit by blue lights

at the veins on her hands and knuckles, dilated by the heat

they make her not so doll-like, more real.

These womanly fingers stroke the strings, make music.

Drops of beer are being spilled at my feet.

Later, outside, I’m looking for a nihilist kiss

a kiss to get me out of this, this feeling,

cause I got no pills on me,

only jelly beans.

I only have jelly beans in my pocket, like a kid. I eat the mouthful

and chew on it but I’m looking for a nihilist kiss.

A hand strokes my head and this girl I know sits next to me

I might get it, this kiss.

Clear up my thoughts

see one thing at a time, unlike the eyes of a fly.

But among these people, this intact bubble on white gravel

I’m on the outside looking in

like when I talk to myself, walking through a construction field.

 

(the band is the Dum Dum Girls and you should listen to them cause theyre great.)