The men who sold their land

There's a message on a board saying the queen will fall one day. And the men are running wild. A castle won't hold them all. A castle with no queen and no crown. The men will cry. The men will die. Perdition manifestos will replace their bibles. Death will tattoo their necks. And the fear is such that the men grab the troves and the treaties and run away. The North is lost. The compass went mad. Let's ditch our lands and live on the shores of Terameer.

A constant flow of thoughts expressed by other people can stop and deaden your own thought and your own initiative…. That is why constant learning softens your brain…. Stopping the creation of your own thoughts to give room for the thoughts from other books reminds me of Shakespeare’s remark about his contemporaries who sold their land in order to see other countries.

Arthur Schopenhauer, January 9

Movement lost them in the first place. Motion destroyed their hearts and ate their core. And all they had left were their wandering feet. Lost in the sand. Most gave up their minds to the vile winds of the valleys. But for those who waited, their walk led them to Sougeysez. The land with no kingdoms and no kings. Where people share their food, where property and reign have no language equivalents. Mine and yours are one and the same. And the Sougeysi dialect makes it clear. Sougeysez's medicine man sees them from afar. And as his father and grand-father did, he spreads his arms and says "Let them in".

Let them in. In order for it to work, the door must remain unlocked. People might enter without knocking, they might crash your party and drink your wine. Let them in, and let them drink – because you might meet somebody interesting.

Amanda Palmer

The youngest men in the tribe sat around the wanderers. 9 were left. The Sougeysi give power to the youth. They are the ones who lead the hunts and pierce the game. They are the ones who dance first during ceremonies. And because they've never been to a ceremony before, the opening dance is always different. The Sougeysi tradition is one of constant change. The 9 men show them their broken compasses, their maps and their treaties. They explain with signs and drawings. And the youngsters laugh and smile.

Scientists can be too rational. They're like a rich man drowned by ambition and to whom you need to smile and remind he might not be on the right track.

Kauffa, The only travelling Sougeysi

Kauffa takes his pen and grabs one of the men's maps. He writes a poem in the margin. He draws a deer and a wild boar. He describes the 9 men in Sougeysi. The men look at one another. These maps are their only guides to Terameer. Should they stop Kauffa ? Should they take the maps and the treaties and run ? But the eldest wanderer isn't looking at them. He is looking at Kauffa. He is reminded of a time where he used to populate the margins of his own booklets with nonsense and off-topic thoughts.

Marginalia

The name the elder used to give to those fragments of thought and seeds of insight he scribbled in the margins of a book

The men who sold their land look at each other. They've lost their lord and their North. They've lost their compass and their core. They landed in a village where everything belongs to everyone. Where doors open to strangers. 

The queen's men sold their lands but got paid in souls. They breathe a new air and their empty lungs take it in. While aiming for Terameer, they forgot the margins of their journey. And slowly their mind, drowned by the smoke of the Sougeysi hookahs, leapt into a world where margins are the journey. Where logic takes a stroll in the fields of idleness and absurdity. And they smiled, and they stopped and they breathed.

It's interesting

It's interesting

The time we spent building a hollow tower
And how we left to live elsewhere
Rex still waiting inside, ducking ever lower
Dodging growing bats, mad of despair

Roof's leaking, love
And floor's covered with buckets
I'll layer my jackets
When push comes to shove

It's interesting

The stones stacked
The sweat dropped here
A smell of fear
And all that cement cracked

Southern aile's shaky
Ivory tower barely holds
Kitchen's sinking, sprouting molds
And nature's lacking mercy

It's interesting

How you build a house thinking it's the future
And the second you lay the last stone
Past takes over and time conquers all
Blooming mess and cracks galore

It's interesting 

We built a house thinking it would last
And last it did ... until we built it

You are garbage, you are gold

Hands marred in mud

Sweaty face, odd old breath

And a fight that was never meant to be

 

Stand as if the world depends on it

Yet your knees disdain your will

And you'll kneel like you always will

 

Titans move inside you

Yet abysses lay around

You are found and lost, beauty and perdition

 

Grind your teeth

You are no captain

And the only master is the soul itself

 

Commander of void

Conquerer of nil

Let fatigue take over, and settle for little

 

You save what you can

Hands, cupola of hope

But self is water and sifts through it all

 

Own nothing

Be possessed

And yield under the weight of air

 

You are garbage

You are gold

You are formless, tenant of no mould

Slip, slide

It's a trip on the side of a sliding mountain

A life too sharp to be taken in hands

He held his heart like a fan

His fingers like a towel

The fighting champ bruised and hurt

Down to the bone

I'll take you as you are. Come and sing

We belong.

Up the mountain, on the side. Where the souvenirs fall

There where I throw my stones

I lie and look

Up

One day my hands like burning fists

Will fly

Through the sky

And land on your doorstep

My fingers

Will snap

They'll play. The tune

My fingers will wipe. The tears off your face

You chose him and you can

You said yes. Understood

But lord oh beauty. Look at my moves and my eyes

I ain't battling no flies

I'm a proper fighter. With a proper name

And lord oh beauty. My hands and my fingers

Will slip slide down your hair

Tell him to sleep

I'm here for now

 

Jim

I am the ambassador of strange. I represent. My moves and my jumps, my hands drawing circles and squares, my chest bumping in refusal and anger. When I land from my short stint flight, I come back as a dark archangel, lay my feet ona ground that is now to be transformed. I am the living glacier. The dark build. The element of how. The master of uncertainty. The new in now. If you are searching for shelter, if your end goal is to hide, then you've come to the wrong place. Here we reign. We. I am the ambassador of strange. Every freak, every weirdo, every nutcase, every madman, every psycho, every lunatic, every wacky, troubled maniac, every deranged, mentally challenged, introverted, hard to grasp dancing monster out there. Each and every one them. All pay me their prayers for me to dance tonight. Brothers, this is an ode to our folly. This dance is a song for our difference. Rise with le. Lift your feet off the ground and just like me, take a stand against the common, the frequent, the same. We're a species apart. Let's start acting like one.

Dans le sens du sang

Sur la feuille d'un arbre, toute jaunie par le temps, s'installe le dieu de l'hiver. Il baille de fatigue, se gratte le menton d'ennui et pète de temps en temps. Il s'allonge en pensant. Il ne sait plus quoi faire maintenant. L'attente a trop duré. Devrait-il foncer?

Il aime bien s'allonger. Son ventre transparaît. Ses mains derrière sa tête, il a un peu oublié tous les évènements de la journée. Il n'y a plus que l'instant. Qui pèse. Qui apèse. Il ne sait plus quoi faire de ses dix doigts.

Il a peur du jour où le soleil le mettra définitivement au chômage. C'est déjà arrivé. Il y a longtemps. Mais il est tellement vieux et pourtant tellement jeune que tout semble comme un rendez-vous d'une heure. Passé, oublié.

Il se rappelle du temps où le vent le caressait et lui faisait tout oublier. Mais dernièrement ça devient plus difficile. Le vent passe et n'emporte rien. Il pleure si souvent. Se sent vide et détruit. Il tombe des feuilles où il se prélasse. Il a le coeur sanglant. Il pleure si souvent.

La tristesse décore son front d'un grand bouquet de lauriers vieux qui sentent la chicha. Il marche comme un réverbère, la tête plus claire que le corps, effrayé par le moindre bruit. Il était fort. Puissant. Sans peur. Le moindre mouvement le fait sursauter. Comment parvenir à la fin de la journée.

Il tremble de peur. Et il pleure. Il veut tomber dans un trou. Il veut disparaître. Il veut devenir une goutte comme toutes ces gouttes. Pourquoi changer les saisons, pourquoi se casser la tête et les pieds à transformer le monde aussi souvent, pourquoi se fatiguer si lui ne peut pas s'installer et pleurer dans le silence de sa petite solitude, se noyer dans ses larmes, puis flotter jusqu'au fond de la rivière rose, verte qui happe les âmes des hommes perdus? Pourquoi survivre quand la mort ouvre sa bouche comme une rose désireuse et joue à la féline? Pourquoi transmettre la vie quand ses entrailles mêmes crient de douleur, que son corps gras, qu'il transporte, le dégoûte, que ses mains sans forme le répugnent ? Pourquoi quand l'univers lui murmure avec son vide intemporel toutes sortes de phrases séductrices, puisque le vide sidéral l'appelle et lui lèche l'oreille? Puisque l'histoire s'engouffre dans ses os et le prends dans un futur qu'il sent et renifle ? Pourquoi quand ses mains ne tiennent plus, que la mort le pousse, que la vie le dégoûte, pourquoi quand tout semble faux et que tout sent la faux, que tout l'attaque sans le toucher, pourquoi quand les touches lui font mal, quand les marches lui échappent, qu'il trébuche et tombe pendant des heures pour se retourver mort, presque mort, ensanglanté et chagrineux au milieu d'une marre de sang, pourquoi s'entêter à se relever? Quand dormir dans son sang lui donne un tel plaisir, pourquoi se relever, pourquoi ne pas s'affamer et sentir cette douleur le dévorer ? Pourquoi ne pas manger sa chaire? Se nourrir de sa dégeulassitude? De sa lassitude? Peut-il manger sa fatigue? Chier sa mort par l'anus? Retomber dans la pauvreté de son esprit qu'il ne nourrit plus? Ce pauvre esprit et ce pauvre corps qu'il torture parce qu'il ne sait plus ce qu'il veut et qu'il reste hésitant même lorsqu'il le réalise.

The slowness of the night

The whore moves strangely to be honest. She looks at you as if she didn't care. The night is a country. It has no citizens. Only shady visitors who end there with no visa but their madness and fatigue. Their pass is their insomnia.

Insomnia is the visitor's visa into the night
It clears you and takes your bribe when you write
You need to slip some ink dollars into the night's braw
Anger won't get you anywhere
Rhymes are a pain

And you do get lost. You need that beauty you once saw, that immaculate line of words, these perfect nuanced sentences. You need the elegance of it all, without the long thought process. You want it to flow. To fall and rise, to lift your soul. What a feeling. Your own words lifting your soul. I can write and forget and cry and walk and make mistakes and feel bad and run and fall and hit a fence while on a bike and shout and ask for help and be tired and paint and draw and sing. I can sing. I can cry.

What a waste. What a w a s t e. Your tears are a rain I can do without. Your tears are the umbrella of my joy. For when you cry, I know you are. Here. Fully. Joy in tears. Tears in joy.

I can do without your tears though. But I cannot do without the night. I cannot find myself if I don't travel there from time to time. I cannot find the path if I don't lose my usual identity in that amazing realm.

The night is a country. I am a one day visitor. My visa expire soon. I should be going. But I'm too scared to start walking. I feel lonely.

No power whatsoever
Emotions are plain
Rhymes are a pain

Travel alone. Get lost for a decade. Even if the word serves your dreams. If you don' thave the answer you want and the questions you need, you'll stay lost for a decade.

Can you save my soul ?

Can you share my steps ?

Can you be with me once more ? The way we were. I need nobody though. My hate for you makes me go foreward. Fore-word. But who are you ? Are you another person or are you me ? That grit I have, are these mu teeth grinning against you, dreaming of biting and chewing your mind and brain or are they trying to chew me ? When I grit at night, am I trying to eat myself ? My strange teeth ? Are trying to eat me ? Am I trying to eat me ? I shouldn't let go during the night.

It is a strange territoty

Back to the end


It's been sometime since the start of this war. Hardships and down times occured but survival has been the dominant component throughout and this should not be forgotten and its importance should not be lessened.

It's been hard. However, it will keep getting harder. Hence hardship is not the solid constant of this war, it is rather the variable, the moving unfinished deal to pursue.

I'd better drown

It feels like a decade ago. You've lost grasp over things and all you can do is watch these fingers of yours and wonder if they're long enough. Your lover never told you anything about them. Are they ugly? Are you fat? Do you like yourself? Can you settle for what you have? Do you need more? Do you suffer from chronic insatisfaction? Are you less intelligent than your peers? Should you feel despair?

I don't know. You don't know. And we both swim in that ocean of question marks. Our shirts get stuck in the hooks of these things. They slow us down. But then again, we decide to take our shirts off. We are bare-chested. And we don't care. We keep swimming. But why?

I don't know. I guess you don't know either. Do you want to guess? You've got a billion question mark beside you. Black, big punctuation floating in a sea you didn't/haven't/tried but failed to/ won't ever understand. I don't understand. What should you do? Should you guess? Should you ask yourself a question? What if you do?

I tell you what will happen: you will drown. If you start picking these marks, they will weigh enough to drown you. You will die. Stop.

Don't ask yourself any questions. Keep swimming. Shut up. Go forth

But then again, where will you go?

Burma Karma

Karma, Karma hit me hard
Do me just this favor
Hit me with the flavor
Make me cry and make me

Myriade

Black monster of thy will
Don't slash or burn or kill
Don't squander all your thirst
On fallen souls you burst

Keep your hunger and your dreams
For larger lands and realms
Walk upon the valleyside
Search for the lights of Myriade

Town of the splendid and lost
Sense the beauty of frost
Wait for these palms to show
The way to the kingdom of snow

Breathe fire, black old godly beast
Breathe, point your wings to the east
Fly, your heart will suck the darkness to come
Fly, you shall smell the beauty of the dumb

Far from thy path you will meet
Happy dancing little breed
Small, handsome people of Myriade
Joyful nation to abide

They know no sorrow
They know no pain
Their soul's are hollow
And though smiley, too plain

Kill the odd forgetful country
Burn the lost and get the bounty
Take their joy and show them tears
From where I stand I'll point my ears

Make me here the Myriades
Let me sing, songs so wide
Make me here the Myriades
Joy is dull, has no pride

Black Messiah

I am the Negro black ghost with black chains and a black tie on the top of that white mountain you see there
My bent head and my crooked nose, my big lips and my deep voice on the top of that mountain you know
The humming sound you hear when you come by is the prayor I send to the flies who suck my blood and spare my soul
I am the lord of the mountain you admire
I am the guardian black ghostly god of that rock you fear
I am the manifestation, the impersonation, the flesh of the greatness of ghosts
I am the idea made man
I am the Christ of this land
Run before I do

Yan

Je trouverai ma voie dans les ronces, je plongerai mes mains et je chercherai l'issue et mes mains retirées sangltantes et christiques seront la scansion de ma verve éthylique.

Yan, Yanoé, Chantre de la perdition, prends dans tes mains ma petite vie perdue et sanctifie mon cri sugrenu.

Yano, Yanoé, de par les débris de verre plantés dans ma peau, les morceaux de bois enfoncés dans mes veines. Je jure, je jure que je la trouverai cette voie. Ce chemin je le trouverai. L'ordre perdu, meme dans la nuit de ma perte, je le trouverai, je plongerai mes mains entre les tessons de bouteille. Dans les décharges de l'univers, dans la merde des hommes et le sang des enfants, dans le crime doux et souriant. Je plongerai mes doigts dans les caisses de métal aiguisé, je me ruerai dans l'allée des saintes épées et j'en ressortirai.

Pas une parcelle de mon corps ne crachera pas du sang. Pas un morceau de chair épargné. Je suerai de mes veines comme de mon front la haine contre cet énergumène qui fait que ma vie ne retrouve pas sa danse.

Yan, Yanoé, Yano douce personne, poltron lache et salopard, je sais qui tu es. Je te connais mieux que moi. Car tu n'es...

Qu'une partie de ma personne. Tu es ma faiblesse et mon cri discret. Je te tuerai mon chéri. J'égorgerai ce qui fait de toi le maillon de ma fainéantise. Mon existence paresseuse qui ne se lève pas. Lève toi Yan. Lève toi en moi

Et merde, ces mots qui tradusient mon ame. La faiblesse de l'initiative. Lève toi Yan

Et pour de vrai. Je ne veux pas faire de ma salvation un poème aux rimes croisées. Ma salvation est réelle, ma renaissance est là. Elle bat de milles feux. Elle crie toute sa joie. Yan prends ma main et promets. Promets moi de traverser le texte, de venir et de crier sans cesse

A mes oreilles, la promesse

La Promesse de Soie

Au nom de mon ego blessé et de l'humiliation qui crépite sur la rétine de mes yeux, au nom de mes poings faibles et relachés, au nom de mon coeur qui pense avoir peur, au nom de cette peur illusoire, au nom de la crainte de soi, de mon coeur de soie, de la douceur de l'etre que je suis, au nom de ses sourcils froncés et de sa colère potentielle, au nom de ses sauts d'humeur, au nom de mes genoux pliés, devant le dieu en qui je crois, au nom du doute et de la perdition, au nom de l'ordre retrouvé dans le chaos.

Au nom de tout ce que je représente et veux représenter, au nom du torse qu je hisse à la sueur de mon front que je lève, je veux construire aujourd'hui mon honneur, et promettre à la lance plantée dans ma cote et que je retire lentement qu'au moment où je placerai un point, au bout de ce texte, je serai pret.

Je promets de ne plus avoir peur de me mettre en colère. Je promets que la limite clairement définie du contact physique sera celle qui mettra fin à l'effort diplomatique et au calme, au m'enfoutisme vi-à-vis des insultes verbales, la limite clairement définie du contact physique sera celle qui précipitera ma colère et que Dieu aide ceux qui l'auront provoquée.

Prends

Parfois glisse entre tes doigts une peur que tu ne peux maitriser. Cette sensation de perdre tout sans rien gagner et le sentiment net que les choses s'effacent et ne sont plus ce qu'elles sont. Est-ce l'incident d'avant-hier soir, est-ce la discussion de la veille?
Qu'est-ce qui trouble cette étendue bleue que je contemplais, qu'est-ce brouille mes souvenirs et mes reves, qu'est-ce qui ombrage mon bonheur et comment retenir ma colère pour ne pas le tuer.
Si mes mains s'affalent sur son visage, comment me retenir pour ne pas aller en prison. Et pourquoi ne pas le tuer. Le tuer et s'enfuir. Loin dans la foret. Mais il n'y a plus de foret. Il faut se perdre très loin pour trouver des bois. Les bois des rénégats, des reclus, des incompris, des heureux imbéciles, des différents, des marginaux et de ceux qui l'ont mérité.
La solitude et la colère. L'une consume l'autre et l'autre la nourrit.
Les poings qui se serrent et je sais. Je sais. Ce ne sont pas des mots en l'air, ce n'est pas une manière de s'encourager, ce n'est pas un stratagème pour calmer sa peur. Je sais que si je le revois, si je le reconnais, Dieu ne pourra pas arreter mes poings. Dieu le père et ses 300 anges ne pourra pas retenir mon corps. Je vais le mordre avec mes canines et je vais cracher son sang sur sa figure et Jesus le fils et le St-Esprit mettront la main devant les yeux devant l'horreur que je ferais à sa face. Le souvenir de son visage d'ores et déjà disparaissant. Ma colère a déjà signé ta mort. Trouve toi un trou pour te cacher parce qu'elle va silloner la terre jusqu'à ce qu'elle t'y immole et qu'elle rende la dette qu'elle doit aux asticots ses amis.

Je vais te tuer et te laisser enterré dans le sang qui entoure ton corps et dessine une auréole autour de ta mort accordée. Je te l'accorde cette mort. Tu l'as bien méritée. Ta cervelle éclatée s'en souviendra longtemps. Les asticots raffolent de neurones. Tu vas la voir de tes yeux ta disparition. Tu vas les sentir à mes amis filiformes dévorer ton passé et éclipser ton avenir.
Ton avenir de chien verreux. Meurs dans la terre et regarde d'où tu es la pitié du dieu qui t'as épargné l'horreur de ta survie, qui as daigné t'accorder, dans sa miséricorde sublime le don de la mort. Car la vie ne te vas pas. Ne t'allais pas. Ne t'irais pas et qu'en tout cas sa colère fumante aurait trébuché un jour sur ton corps et, vexée, t'aurais effacé. A quoi bon reporter? Le choix de la mort, le privilège, le sceau se fait dans le moment. Meurs pour toujours chien verreux.

Vicky

I walked up a stiff alley this afternoon
I had my bag hanging on the shoulder
Vicky was waiting at the top
I love her lips
And when she smiles, a sun rises up on my life
I've been thinking of a lot about dark things lately
But her smile waiting for me three steps away wiped it all out
Vicky
I'm afraid of the power of words
Once said, they cannot be retrieved
Once written, they can't be erased
And start weighing on everyhthing they concern
If used too often, some words can become dull
They can kill a feeling
They burden it with their vacuity and their soulless nature
That's why I don't say it too often
That's why you always feel like if we've known each other for some days
If I say it each time I see you, and God knows it would be meant,
If I say it each time I touch those lips of yours
The weary impression that this feeling is an asset, that our relationship is a concluded contract,
The queasy sensation that you're mine
Will diffuse in the space we share
And you're not mine
Us is not a contract
I'm just the lucky guy that you chose
I'm the dreamer that hugs you close
I'm the sleepy hobo that lies near, in the shade of your heart

Monty

Montgomery decided to die yesterday
He bought some gas, a box of matchsticks, a gallon of water and a fridge
He wants to ice some water and drink it
That way he'll hurt his voice so badly that nobody will hear him scream and try to save him while he burns to death
Montgomery, thank god you took the right decision yesterday
Dying is the right thing for you
It suits you perfectly
It's got the color of your eyes and the dumbness of your personae
It's black and void
It's really you
Die you moron