A keresés eredménye

Providential Men

By myself I am nothing
I am but the desire of the people
in his two funerals.
I am the other, seeing through the magic of images
I am the one who knows among the commotion of the world
I am the one who carries you away
from the scandal of the seventh right1
and I protect you from the murderous unbinding2,
the superb teacher
keeping his distance with primal passions,
the simplicity of the supreme slogan.
 
I am the voice of the unified body,
the police-made distribution of a consensual era.
I am the voice of unity,
the art of composing with providential men.
 
I am the guardian who guards nothing
during the trial.
And how could I reach a place in which you already stand?
I am the other who understands,
the messenger and the interpreter.
I am the one who comes to share what can be perceived.
I am the absence of void,
a pre-recorded laughter,
the machine in your living room which talks in your stead
I am Timisoara,
the ass and tits of the star
who keeps repeating endlessly the supreme slogan.
 
I am the one who knows
for all those who don't know,
the one who understands
for all those who don't understand.
I am the one who talks
for all those who don't talk,
the proof of your ignorance,
the proof of inequality.
 

• 1. refers to conclusions drawn by a (in French, unfortunately) that might explain the idea in further details. Beware, this is a Marxist analysis, i.e. an odious stream of obscenity and stupidity, by any dominant standards
• 2. here again that's specialized vocabulary. Can mean the reaction to a trauma according to Freudian theory or the isolation of individuals in a sociological sense.

I'll be gone or I'll be going, both can be said or sayed

I used to bawl in the desert like a very bad tenor,
a big, stupid, obscene animal.
I used to jerk off loudly, throwing up like an ancient Roman
to help myself all alone to more and more food.
Again and again estranged to my pain,
I brilliantly ignore myself.
I'm perfectly fine, my body seen from the outside
I'm perfectly fine, quiet now, I'm sleeping.
 
I'll be gone or I'll be going,
both can be said or sayed1
 
I was emptying myself from the read end, my back to the world,
discharged from the reserve army of capitalism.
Brilliantly socially excluded, I was organizing the worst,
often seeking a radical wound
again and again and again.
We've been barely surviving on the brink of society for generations.
I'll leave you in peace and go back to my shipwreck.
Well, so long folks.
 
I'll be gone or I'll be going
I'm going, please forgive me, forget about me
I'll be gone or I'll be going
I'm quietly going into oblivion over there
 
End of history in my meagre present.
I'll stay over there, surrounded by nothingness,
a ghost ship, a glorious failure.
After my self scuttling I end up clutching death.
 

• 1. This is a cultural joke. French is a complicated language which requires some serious effort to be written in a syntactically correct way. It is customary among educated French people to dismiss and belittle those who can't write it flawlessly. This can be interpreted in a political way, but since politics have been voided of their meaning and social classes have become an obscenity, I won't even bother to try. According to the dominant ideology, these guys are just crazy fools who talk out of their asses. And the poor idiots can't even write proper French anyway.

The Wasteland Of Reality

Venerable Science smirks quietly
while great narratives are in a huff.
No more invisible hand to answer anguished calls.
Here comes Reality, an unpredictable sorceress.
Let yourself be seduced, and let the actresses play.
 
Welcome to the passion for reality
Welcome to the wasteland of reality
 
You can always put some meaning into it, you know,
or rather quietly indulge
in some genuine violence.
The century behind your back has no lack of examples.
The century behind your back, that's pure enjoyment.
 
Semblance smiles in its basement
while Modernity sulks upstairs.
No more light nor cross to secure you down the cliff.
Here comes the Truth, an uncertain answer.
Come and seduce us in the wasteland of reality.
 
You can always put some meaning into it, you know,
or rather quietly indulge
in some genuine violence.
The century behind your back has no lack of examples.
The century behind your back, that's pure enjoyment.
 
Will you always be able to put some meaning into it?
Will you always have to put some meaning into it?
Will you always be willing to put some meaning into it?
 

Justine

We always saw her passing by all hunched over
under the weight of a bundle of wood but more often of two.
We saw her spend the morning and the evening,
her hair pulled back, always dressed in black.
 
From the perspective of ten years old, I believed her to be older
than that trunk of the olive tree, those twigs on the trellis.
But I heard my mother from the back of the kitchen
cry out, cry out, cry out: 'Hello, hello, Justine.'
 
She lived down there in the very oldest house,
the one that is almost lost in the blue of the horizon.
Barricaded in her home as if in a castle,
she counted her days as one counts a treasure.
 
From the perspective of fifteen years old, I found her quite ugly
with her immense feet and her stiff gait.
But I heard my mother from the back of the kitchen
cry out, cry out, cry out: 'Hello, hello, Justine.'
 
One morning in the street, we did not hear her,
but a few days later, the death knell sounded.
She had died alone at the age of ninety years.
You die alone at that age even if surrounded by children.
 
From the perspective of thirty years old, that broke something,
much as you sober up when the sky turns pink in the morning.
I no longer had my mother at the back of the kitchen,
and it was I who cried out, 'Adieu, adieu, Justine.'