All the old folks are losing their heads. What do you think? Why would I be an exception? Law is tough, but law. As he used to say, uh? Isn’t that my neighbor? The old bum Ficelle never had a bit of brain, but with age, se mean he’s been! No knowing what he said. And still, he was half my age when the Archons took him to rot. Pretending not. We must die to feed them.
All the old people, yes. I know I won’t cut it. I’m comfortable, I’m not bringing her back. I’m the one who remembers. When someone asks me anything, I say Yes I remember very well! Well! You believe what? QSue I lose my mind? Once I said that to a cop who gave me a dirty look. Nevertheless, he really had a stupid face. I don’t like cops and their kind. Wait? Stop the cop? You confuse me with your stories! It’s not that it bothers me, no, but you’re so confusing, you know! You talk too much, that’s it. You’re not that bad, but not so good. And too talkative, you chat all the time. You just shut up my potato face.
What are you saying? Just speak up. Or shut up. I don’t know what I’m saying anymore. It’s your fault too! You always have to bring her back. Let me talk, since you have nothing to say. Where did I put my head pill? I gotta get one or they’re gonna take the bastards. What was I saying? Oh yeah, you talk too much. Shut up once and for all. I’m talking and you’re listening. It’s not complicated. Before you understood what I was saying, now I don’t know where you’re going, but when I talk to you, you’re not there. Never there when I need you.
You did the shopping? What did you bring us? Not fish I hope, you always bring fish, you know I hate that. It’s sticky, it slips and it stinks. I don’t understand why you like to fish. Sitting for hours on a rock! If you still fished coconuts! Or French fries. How long have you been making me French fries? Ch’sais even could. Long ago it’s safe. That yes. Too long. Sometimes I want you to be a fairy. A chop and knock! You change your stinky fish into a plate of fries! Yes, I would really like that. Macache! More fish.
What kind of fish is that? Do I know? Who cares, it’s violent fish. Why don’t you go fishing for fries?
You go wrong, change roof, he says like that. Move from there. Look for the world where you are. Go but without settling there. Visit. Explore. The astral is your garden. The multiverse awaits you, prospers. Go pick the flowers of Helicanthe in infinite delicacy, in incredible fragrance — structural polymelody with inexhaustible beauty. Everything is yours. The new, the new, the possible, and what doesn’t exist. Don’t be complacent. Take everything. What you don’t want can’t be of use to anyone else.
Just pass. But quickly. Armed with your speed, you will no longer need comets. When you decide to live, the shooting stars run slower than your soul. Please, do not pray. Do not bow down. Be the god who hovers above. He will descend from heaven to sit at the right of you.
To your left are the dead in groups. The disappointed in life who envy you. You divert the conversation. Nothing to give, not a crumb. The geese ate them.
Where are they going? Who are they? As they are far from the ground!
You were born the year of the rabbits. There were rabbits all over the island. By the fields. In the city. They were not bad, just a little clumsy. At the top of the volcano, charming under the thistle. When in your samovar was boiling chamomile and in the street of the bed so many marbles flowed. The rabbit droppings filled everything on earth. What a wonderful bargain or a sad affair!
ten days after you slammed the door
your blood splashing from the aorta
till your heart is beating no more
watch over this body we take
from the weakest to the strongest
leave the bad to the good hostess
to temperance you’re exhorted
don’t punish you as you did
your soul’s screaming you’re not dead
come on, the wind carries you
where misfortune will be comfort
how can such a void abort
First Evening (Première Soirée)
Outside, a curious tree
Beat a branch at the window
To see what it could see.
Perched on my enormous easy chair,
Half nude, she clasped her hands.
Her feet trembled on the floor,
As soft as they could be.
I watched as a ray of pale light,
Trapped in the tree outside,
Danced from her mouth
To her breast, like a fly on a flower.
I kissed her delicate ankles.
She had a soft, brusque laugh
That broke into shining crystals –
A pretty little laugh.
Her feet ducked under her chemise;
“Will you please stop it!…”
But I laughed at her cries –
I knew she really liked it.
Her eye trembled beneath my lips;
They closed at my touch.
Her head went back; she cried:
“Oh, really! That’s too much!
“My dear, I’m warning you…”
I stopped her protest with a kiss
And she laughed, low –
A laugh that wanted more than this…
Her clothes were almost off;
Outside, a curious tree
Beat a branch at the window
To see what it could see.
Cahiers de Douai, 1870Arthur was 16
Don’t stay where your life put you.
What do we know about you? Mourning is not appropriate.
Your life will do nothing. You made it live,
Not the other way around. He kills you.
His blade is bare
who leaves as she came.
Don’t wait for the molt,
don’t linger under the naked
for fear that heaven will take revenge.
There’s the wind eating you.
The weather is changing.
He gets scared
And in a corner puts you.
This corner of you that itches.
You see yourself weak, fragile. You know you are fearful, deceitful, unhappy. Stop. Progress. Forget these basenesses. You are princess and vengeful. Do you think you are synonymous? You are quite the opposite. I know, I have seen it. In your night the sun can shine for whole days. Black banished, on the scrap clouds. See the avenging sun, its glory, it is victorious. It dazzles the nights. Near the Pole it is called high midnight sun. Since when? Do you know who?
Would you like to go? Please don’t settle there. No stalling. You stop, you lost. They will take your due, they will dry your dew and the plump body of you will end in fondue.
Let’s live every day as if it were the last. Because one day it will be true. (Woody Allen)
I’m pretty bad. I suffer too. I frolic at night. “Where did you screw up? What referral did you miss? Ignorance is the mother of my vices. She’s wrong and I’m wrong.” The time is up. The instance is past. Turn on a blinker. Look for a link. Walk through this world where you are well. It’s easy. The waves are ductile, listen to them. Follow them. The multiverse again, its swirls in your body, your soft hat on your knees, your field of little cabbages.
It’s all yours. Take it all. What you don’t want won’t serve him. Be greedy. Lively and funny. Shake your old ass that has nothing to lose. You will only be able to heal when you come back from hell. To the very depths of evil you must go. Where does the death of the body and the life of the Spirit go.
Armed with his speed, he runs. He runs like an old man when his engine fails. What does he need a comet, that Johnny who doesn’t know where to smear. Who dulls after you. Who coughs. Pride drags to his knees. His light is less prompt. And you, you are not ashamed. You go. He walks away and knows nothing about you. Your fingers. Your choices. Her Jane Doe is you.
I am a dog. I take off.this neologism is signed Léo Ferré And I have nothing against the idea that dogs come to me, since they are made for that. (source) Still Ferré, or almost… What you call love I call wait. Heart to sell. Soul to take. Bile to give. The solution is not unique. The problem is lustful. Playful and whimsical. Erotic. Frenetic. It’s big dick. It looks like lard for lard. Have you lost your dimples? They left your cheeks for the hollow of your kidneys. Satin migration on the silk of the mornings. It suits you. It’s not nothing. It’s good.
Wake up, you need the world. And the round craves your slow arms, your leg going, your dancing foot. Your incense eye.Et borgne? The hymn that sowed you, the sky that lost you, money is on the table, take the money and run. All the dogs lead to Rome. A last glass of rum before the big departure. If you are no longer my wife, at least try to be a man. (source) Pretty apple.
Flower too soon faded, of an innate indolence, its ears are gleaned, the damned memories have not brought it back. Do not remain walled where boredom has led her. Go your way, whatever it takes, look good, don’t shut up. Eat the meat. Shit in the moor. Put sex on the ticket.
If you must, you will follow in Merlin’s footsteps and defeat to Croquelien what still holds your heart. The Golden Dragon bites your flesh. That he tears you and the bond will perish.
Oh! Here she goes! You’re a fool.
Long agony of a homeless man in the hospital of Brive-la-Gaillarde. He had been delirious for weeks in his inner world full of holes and bumps. He relived scenes in bulk, fights of his old parents, delusions of readings, moments that he never had. A painful end to life, says the caregiver.
On May 25, 1949 at 5pm, the old Gueugueu aka Ficelle left us for a better world.
Four days earlier, at the same time, through the narrow door, I entered here.