You can scream, you can laugh, you can cry, you can say, you can quote, you can tell, you can testify, you can swear, word of honor, reach out, spit on the ground, wooden cross, iron cross, if I lie I go to hell… They won’t believe you. Buy a mouthpiece to stir up crowds, open an amazing blog to lure ghouls, drop leaflets, break pacts, lay a drama in three acts…
Nobody
On the 8:00 news, you can show your ass — bad ass! They’ll all say they didn’t see anything. You can recruit female volunteers — if you find enough to train your army. You can go to the Opéra Bastille with your troupe, drunk is the maestro, flooded is the stage, this time the water will pay.L’eau paiera ie l’opéra
If your army listens to you, take the Bastille with your troops. In front of the raiding journalists, you can wipe off the French guards’ bullets, the shells of 16, the lazzis that weigh, the rabbits that fuck, the ascetic wolves, the pigs in the diocese — the guard dies but doesn’t believe you.
The warm and lively beauty of touch is much deeper than the beauty of wisdom.
All will fall around you, you will rise. Despite your wounds, you will keep pace. At the sound of your fife, they will come back to life: triumphant proof that you have conquered death itself. If she loves you too, she will not let you go. Never mind, I’ve been dead for a long time. I can attest to that at length. Do I have to stretch my entire length on the talents of my long view? One comes from far longer danger. Hesitant, stubborn, the fife’s song will resume, lining his plate, embroidering his ariette on the rrran of war drums and the big sound of cannons. Did they believe you? I say no.
The fife will always be reborn in the great silence that will follow the explosion of mines at the bottom of the sapes and the collapse of the ramparts through and through on the departure. You can stand naked in what’s left of the uniform, the fife in the mouth, the ragged pants, from the heart to the belly and zguègue to the wind. The throbbing fife takes back his mortal pecan, a light bubble of incandescent gold, a bitter song of war and blood, rejoicing the dead and passers-by. The great hoot with the wind. Nothing that covers a living fife, who searches your heart better than a scalpel. You don’t care, you laugh. Through the battles you fought, you will survive. Who will believe you?
Will Believe
You can rise from your ashes, from your cross you can come down, believe in what you want, eat burning embers, drink from poisonous stones, suppress seasons, ignore reasons, swallow sea and fish, set yourself on fire, sacrifice yourself with hunger, cold, gall or rifle, you’ll be reborn, you scoundrel, and your fife will laugh again at the gunfire. No matter what happens, no matter what you do, no matter what you live, no matter what happens, it’s always the same story —– no one can believe it.
Only the small secrets need to be protected. The great are kept secret by public incredulity.
What you see is too big. What you’ve been told must be buried. You carved it into the trunk of an elm. Those who read it didn’t say yes. The elm has disappeared.Like most of its congeners, mown by elm disease. The inscription is no longer. Double sight, triple blunder, sad review. The words are obtuse — you have to have lived it. No one comes out unscathed. No one comes back the same. We are good to carry this terrible burden to death, and even more: to the consummation of centuries. Sadness is your home. Your grief is in flood. Face it, not a single one believed you.
Those who know do not speak and those who speak do not know. The wise teaches by his actions and not by his words.
Who else can you tell? Haven’t you told enough here, over there, everywhere? Passers-by have taken you for a fool. Hurluberlu. It was running. Are we leaving naked in the street? Who can hear this without dying of fear and horror? It is better to cover your ears, shower your toes, recite your prayers, tighten your eyes, blind the ice, cover your face and turn your back, boldly, with the courage of the coward and the panache of the badass. Put your words in your pocket. This talent that you waste, this tone that lets you go, you get killed on the job, and so much effort lost. Sorry if you’re upset, but I must say, people think you lie. They don’t believe you cry.
A warrior considers that he is already dead, so he has nothing to lose. The worst has already happened to him, he is calm and serene. If he were to be judged on his actions and words, one could never suspect that he was witness to everything. (Carlos Castaneda)
Delirium Tremens
Warrior guys, warrior gals, did these words touch you ? Did these flows get you ? Whatever you answer besure they don’t take it. How could they believe you, these people bound to death? Will they vibrate, these gods who are not yet? Time flies and lies. Eternity waits in a bowl of flour. The bread will cook later. You do expect the worst. Who works in the kitchen? What dish will be served when hunger get the nerve? Nobody knows. Nothing comes.
One dies under the machine gun. The enemy disengages at the feet of the laughing god. Ammunition derails. Death is the fruit of your entrails. Bad luck. Sad buck. No boat in. Wolves have no teeth. You crawl in the mud. Who will tell you: stand up? You will go to the end of delirium. You will free yourself from the vices that break you. You will get drunk perfumes in the breeze. See: the square is taken. The ramparts have fallen. There is no more frieze to the surplices of the priests. Warriors, get in a row. You will cry tomorrow.
Free your mind and your ass will follow.
You’ve crossed shores, empires. You’ve met monster giants. And now it’s worse. The prince is a child. Who will tell him tomorrow? What future for them? Dogs will no longer bark. Know that in La Palud I am never read. Friends, lower your weapons. Will different mornings dry your tears? While waiting for the alarm announcing the resumption, by shortening the stunning charm, the empire is constituted. The race is purified. The hold is assured. No one escapes his law everywhere in the country.
The taggers bulged. The Bastille fell. Suddenly the dungeon opened. Crowned with laurels the prisoners left. Have you been thanked for also releasing Issy’s weirdos? Bercy’s babas? Raincy’s screams that we hear from here? Sausages without worries, jumps are done without mercy, it’s sad and that’s how my story ends.
Farewell (if any)
Everything’s amazing. Target skin where I sink. Autumn is done. Winter I surrender. Continues with no news …