Everything happens as if countless researchers were awakening. They look at the dizzying past, the strange vestiges, the big stones, the strange clouds, more and more bizarre, and they rub their eyes, incredulous. Here we are at the beginning, very modest, of the greatest adventure of all time: sniff the trick, trigger the unmask.


Beyond the intermittences of the heart, he reigns. With ardour, full of enthusiasm, he expands his empire. What is sweeter than his wild heart? Crazier than the greatest of the wise? He leads you after him and forces you to run. Flighty when he leaves, he forces you to die.

He? Absolute love. Fortunately, he exists, even if you don’t believe him. I know he will wait for you as long as you need.

More is needed every second. Love opens us to the other side of life. Without love, death. Death lived, rehearsed, pondered, you see it, you live it, you eat it, it nourishes you. It spoils your life. It also advises you. It kills for fun.

What can a man have apart of his life and his death? (Carlos Castaneda)


It’s fucking leaning!

That’s what we’ve become, unbeliever beavers. To go on and on and on and on. The bubble bursts. The sheaf is there. But the heart beats. It’s the spring of the eyes. We can’t believe it. Gossip dealers, cheating dealers, world deceivers, public abusers, let your reign die. Let your law end. Naked on strikes, we dream. We strike. Believe without believing.

What if tomorrow didn’t exist? Baffe! We wake up in this old, worn-out world, with cracking seams, shiny sleeves of dirt. Hobbies: we see the frame, the sun filters through. Pass-walls, we see the back of the decor.

Damn it tilts! We see the void through the boards! Souchon la Souche rocked my youth. Feeling made man. Emotion naked. Nostalgia often, fleeting cruelty, reality more than naked. This one is not ready to laugh. Even if we laughed, it would be us, not him.


I’ve missed you many times

Alain Souchon

I’ve been watching you for 18 years.
You’re in Bagneux down the leaves.
I’ll never see you, I don’t like it,
But I’m playing the harmonica.
You’re in my skin, my little airs,
One wire disconnected, no more air,
In gas oil trucks
They hit hard under the stars.

I’ve missed you many times,
But today there is home
A little blonde ball named after you.

Do you see migraine queens
In the beautiful garden of Touraine?
It pulls me by a stretch of my life,
But I still sleep in Cheverny.
Here, it’s cheerful and it goes well:
We go to bed late, there’s no morning
And if you ever saw me,
I’m not too nice, not nice.

I’ve missed you many times,
But today there is home
A little blonde ball named after you.

I’ve been watching you for 18 years.
You’re in Bagneux, in the leaves.
I’ll never see you, I don’t like it,
But I’m playing the harmonica.



The Poets

Léo Ferré


These are funny guys who live by their pen
Or who don’t live it depends on the season
They are funny guys who cross the mist
With steps of birds under the wing of songs

Their soul is in carafe under the bridges of the Seine
Their money in the books they never sold
Their wife is somewhere at the end of a song
Who speaks to us of love and forbidden fruit

They put colors on the gray pavers
When they walk on it they think they’re on the sea
They put ribbons around the alphabet
And get out in the street their words to take the air

These are funny guys looking at flowers
And see in their folds female smiles
These are funny guys who sing misfortune
On the heart pianos of and the soul violins


Laugh at everything

We can be laughed at. It all depends on which laugh, vociferous the immortal palm of the boards, the aera with the hair of foam, the painter in words, the anar henaurme. It’s not a fault, it’s a quote. Meanwhile, others sink into the cold fog, they wander in the dark, far from the light that awakens and transports us. Tell me, you who read me, why see everything in gray? Who told you to live in hell? No one has condemned you to death, since you live in the eternal present, you will live. You might as well do it well. If you are there, there is a good reason for that.

There is no such thing as chance. Everything that happens is wanted. (Buddha)


I tell you about a past that oppresses you. You asked me to stop talking about the Reptilians. They ruled over us, they are still here, I can’t help it. The Archons are freaking you out. Would it be better to sleep soundly dreaming of a pink Eden? Of a paradise with two balls? Would it be better to lie? Another would like me to calm down on Jesus. Let me stop saying that he did not exist. Should I also stop being myself? I can’t.

My visions carry me. Often unpleasant, horrible even, they never lied. Straightforward enough to show naked ass.



Beaver, he called her

You tell me you have no taste for life. Let the void attract you. You tell me that you do not feel at home here, that you thirst for nothing, because nothing can be worse than your current life. Not that you suffer from an infirmity, an incurable disease, or anything like that. Not that you have no country, no roof, no food. Your deep evil does not come from there. It is the world as you see it that disgusts you. You don’t want to live among all these impure, evil, or indifferent people. You thirst for absolute, perfection? Not even. You thirst for death. You think that after this smoke screen called life, death will give you oblivion of nothingness. What if you were wrong? If you were wrong all along the line? Is the malaise in the world, or in your heart? 

Sartre liked to prick his eye on a root, scrutinize it long enough for it to become other, absurdly, too real to be true. It gave him the puke. Nausea, he said. Qué ès? No sé! My good Sartre,he was anything but good whether a root made you puke, would be nice to see! A beaver told me, who knows about roots. Contemplate anything, you will find the void. And not the sheaf: it comes from the belly.

Nevertheless. This philosophy of the absurd gave birth to nihilism, and closer to us, to the no future of dog punks. Punks don’t give a shit about the roots. But they caught the eye of Sartre, the one who frowns. So they see disgusting everywhere. It rubbed off on the painting, the movie, the TV, the fastoche, and on Houellebecq, the sad cantor of the ugly. The impossibility of the Nile. Nihil.

We have the right to prefer the bright side of things. Even if the gills take us for noodles. To glorify the poop, gallerists and critics will end drowned in the manure pit. The shit is in the eye of the one who looks.at the sidewalk?


The Nausea

Jean-Paul Sartre


I see my hand, blossoming on the table. It lives – it’s me. It opens, fingers open and point. It’s on its back. She shows me her fat belly. She looks like a backwards beast. The fingers are the legs. I have fun stirring them, very quickly, like the legs of a crab that fell on its back. The crab is dead: the legs curl up, come back on the belly of my hand. I see the nails – the only thing of me that does not live. And again. My hand turns, lies flat on my stomach, it now offers me its back. A silver back, a little shiny – it looks like a fish, if there were no red hairs at the birth of the phalanges.

I feel my hand. It’s me, these two beasts moving at the end of my arms. My hand scratches one of its legs, with the nail of another leg; I feel its weight on the table which is not me. It is long, long, this impression of weight does not pass. There is no reason for it to pass. In the long run, it is intolerable… I take off my hand, put it in my pocket. But I immediately feel, through the cloth, the warmth of my thigh. Immediately, I blow my hand out of my pocket; I let it hang against the back of the chair. Now, I feel its weight at the end of my arm. It pulls a little, barely, softly, fluffy, it exists.

Take it easy, Jean-Paul. Your nausea is not contagious. Engage your inner healer. Your beaver is dead. You’ll pass. Simone will stay.



We will sleep together

Louis Aragon


Whether Sunday or Monday
Evening or morning midnight noon
In hell or heaven
Loves to loves look like
It was yesterday that I told you
We will sleep together

It was yesterday and it’s tomorrow
All I have is you
I put my heart in your hands
With yours as it goes amble
All he has of human time
We will sleep together

My love what was will be
The sky is upon us like a sheet
I closed my arms on you
And so I love you that I tremble
As long as you want
We will sleep together.

(source)“Révélations sensationnelles”, in Littérature 13


Absolute love

Contemplate what you will with your heart open, and you will find there the absolute love, which attracts, which mates and which unites the smallest particles of matter and light in a vibrating orgasm of energy. Everything depends on your gaze, what you look at does not count. You can see horror or absolute, devil or god, evil or good. You can see the mutilated body or the smile of the wounded person. It’s your choice.

We either make ourselves miserable, or we make ourselves strong. The amount of work is the same. (Carlos Castaneda)


But that look, however piercing, will only see what is shown. Learn to dismantle the lure-mongers. The fear-mongers who play for butter. The death-mongers, you can counter them. The showmen shown. Death is nothing, nothing is death. Live, yes. As long as you want! 

We descend, it is said, from the lemurs. I rather descend from the impassive rivers, it is my poet side.



The Drunken Boat

Arthur Rimbaud

As I was going down impassive Rivers,
I no longer felt myself guided by haulers:
Yelping redskins had taken them as targets
And had nailed them naked to colored stakes.
I was indifferent to all crews,
The bearer of Flemish wheat or English cottons
When with my haulers this uproar stopped
The Rivers let me go where I wanted.
Into the furious lashing of the tides
More heedless than children’s brains the other winter
I ran! And loosened Peninsulas
Have not undergone a more triumphant hubbub
The storm blessed my sea vigils
Lighter than a cork I danced on the waves
That are called eternal rollers of victims,
Ten nights, without missing the stupid eye of the lighthouses!
(read more)


The void howls to death

Emptiness. Absence. Who live old grows old alone. One sees the threshold where one will step. One does not see it.

Dying is nothing. It’s getting old that kills. (Lao Surlam)


We fear it no matter what. We praise it, we miss it again. Weak will of the human face to the worlds. The song is not new. We will have to remember that in this future where nothing can be guessed.

Guess who’s coming to dinner? Death in her pajamas sat at my table. She looks at me. It darts at me with its narrow gaze, and three of us: my death, my double and I. In space, they say, no one hears you scream. Not on earth either.

In space, a crowd of people are rushing. Your eyes are blinded. You would like to look at them, to see them. Everything remains black. They are many, yet you hear them. You want to scream, go ahead. They will also hear you. In space, we believe, the crowd hears you scream. On earth too.

Emptiness howls to death. Absence is in your body. They are dead and you still love them. They’ll live in your hands, right down to your fingertips. They’ll live as long as you live.


To you my Devic, faithful friend, brother of pain, tireless adventurer and discoverer of wonders, you will live in me until I die. Here is JC Devic in Puma Punku in the Andes, tracking credible traces of very ancient technology.


While dreaming

As long as they read
Dear old pals of mine
They all will be fine
I will share my bread

Dear friend Devictor
Opera singer
They will play longer
To the last error

I cannot conceal
To the cursed potter
What he did not tell
I opened the seal

The warmth of your hearts
In these fine moments 
Calmed the resentment
Put the void apart

I wanted to die
I dare to confess
There’s no point to press
I ‘m a passer-by

Swimming of the hand
I saw the beauty 
When she knitted me
A coat made of sand

In the Sun I gaze
With the former gods
The earrings of blood
One picks in a haze


Naked in fur

Make a test. Look at a lemur in your eyes, you will see what awakening means. Constantly in motion, it remains motionless. Worried, serene. It’s peaceful, it boils, it moves. Snuggles, it stretches. See the lemur naked in its fur. It needs nothing. Nothing cloths him, nothing nourishes him, he drinks little, he does not smoke, and Solomon was never more just than him. Yes, but the just lies. It does her a disservice. See what we have lost since we left the trees of Madagascar. See how we are k.o. standing. How to heal the wounds we make? How to relieve the pain we inflict on ourselves? How to give up the lies we force ourselves to believe? You have no worse enemy than you. That’s the way it is. Are you feeling sorry for yourself? Say to yourself that you are not different, neither more miserable nor more indigent, you have two legs and two arms, do not take yourself for the fox without legs.

Why do the nice lemurs have this astonished look, even more, amazed? To see them, it seems that they do not return. And that’s the truth. What amazes them so much is us, the people. They remember very well when we were friends. From the bygone days when our games, our lives and our loves were with them, in the branches, over jumps and somersaults. When they see us in our schools, in our cars, in our pans, do you think they laugh? No, they are sawn out that we could have gone wrong like that. Lemurs are all we have lost. Innocence. Joy of life. And the sense of balance.

In a future life, you have a very small chance to escape the call of emptiness: try to be a lemur. 



Beyond the intermittences of the heart, he reigns. With ardour, full of enthusiasm, he expands his empire. What is sweeter than his wild heart? Crazier than the greatest of the wise? He leads you after him and forces you to run. When he steals from you, he forces you to die.

He, absolute love. Fortunately, he exists, even if you don’t believe him. I know he will wait for you as long as you need.


Soul Avatars


Absolute Love To You


Two men looked through the bars of their prison. One saw mud, the other stars.
Idries Shah