Do it right the first time.

Let us do it right the first time,
And less room for redemption, amendments,
For « I’ll make it better tomorrow ».
Less chance for revival, resilience,
For « let’s have another go ».
It makes you wonder sometimes if our wrongs and failings
Are not just drawn by a natural impulse
To clean forget the previous night,
Or what we did last week,
Or what happened last year…

You can screw it up all the more
When you know it never matters for long,
Not in this urban community
Where you make ten new friends a night,
Keep in touch by attending the same bars,
And where whom you offended weeks ago
Rarely seems to hold any grudge,
As they probably acted worse, said worse, behind your back.
Or whom you rely on their discretion
Already spread the news and betrayed your secret.
But they’ll make it up to you, so you don’t need to get upset.
There’s so much heart to be received
From someone who did it all wrong
In the tacit expectation of having still another shot.
What if there was no second shot ?
At least in an adult world
Where you’re supposed to bear the consequences
Of your deeds and opinions.

Let us do it right the first time.
And less room in heaven
For the one sinner who repents,
Than for the ninety-nine righteous.
How seriously flawed can it be
That you should give more credit and consideration
To a single hell-raiser in penitence,
Than to hundreds of decent people
Just doing their best every day
Without any special want for publicity… ?

If you think life deserves a more novelistic approach,
As a good story-telling prefers harm to justice,
Failure to achievement ;
There are so many further chapters left to be written
On the basis of human duality,
For an epic that started too well,
For true romance and cloudless skies.
You don’t need to blow your first shot,
You don’t need to take a piss in the fountain of youth,
You don’t need to spoil beauty,
You don’t need to fuck it up just to make it more real.

Let’s do it right.
Let us take the first shot.
Let us go clear at first sight.
And only then, if you should claim for one more chance,
Would it be fair, as it felt right in the first place.

To love yourself (is such a painful job).


To love yourself is such a painful job
How would anyone sane apply for this duty ?
When it takes little effort to self-loathe, self-destroy,
To ruin every best piece of your personality.

In a more realistic common sense,
It is a hard enough task to give yourself respect.
And I mean, it’s a full-time job as well,
Just to keep your dignity, your balance and values,
A true sense of who you are, and who you’re not.
But you don’t have to love yourself at least…
What a high commitment to impress on your daily behaviour,
On your conscious and unconscious way of living.

To love yourself, it’s someone else’s job.
And who’s that brave for such intense giving ?
Except your parents really, who would this burden self-impose ?
You might be lovable, sure, yet even so,
You’re only one in the many.

There’s a less hypothetical chance
That you’d be taken care by someone else
And this could mean a lifetime job as well.
So if you’re blest enough to find protection and concern,
Avoid resentment against whom that keeps you from self-pity,
From all your « nobody cares for me ».
Surely someone does, whoever they might be.
Then it’s your painful job not to resist, not to break free.

I want dedication (more than ever)


Any subject is worth considering
Any question deserves your addressing
And if I had a hundred lives to spend
On each and every small facet of the being,
I’d go after any precious detail,
Make sure I deepen the searching.

But I’m running out of lives to spend on politics, economics,
On science, infrastructures, or coexistence…
I may even run out of potential lives to spend on music and culture,
Taste and colours.

Still, every problem is worth being treated
Every topic implies you debate it

But I’m running out of lives.
And I want the hardcore of my spirit,
Of my ideals and beliefs,
Of my reasons to live through the next day.

I want the obsession,
I want the focus,
The greatest of all attention,
The longest of all passions.

I want dedication
More than ever
I want dedication
All the way stronger.

I need you all.

It’s a shiny July afternoon,
And I finally settle at my usual spot,
In the « Jardin de l’Abbaye »,
On that big stone ledge,
Over a generous row of flowers…

At a short distance, I witness that very simple scene
Of what I presume to be a grand-mother and her grand-son,
Gently savouring a pack of biscuits.
Surely what a tender view…
I might be mistaken though,
Could be a different type of relation ;
And the boy’s not so young,
More like a twelve-year-old.

I don’t give’em much of attention
Until I realize that I could play, or precisely couldn’t,
Both parts of their situation.
It’s not a question of gender, nor chocolate biscuits ;
This is about sharing a special link,
More than just a bloodline.

And now I’m musing on the uniqueness of their relationship,
And how important it must be, assuredly to this woman,
Even more to this boy,
That sweet looking clumsy boy…
Then I reflect on the subject of otherness, and how long,
How old for a child,
Does it take to conceive how many more humans live on earth
Than his relatives and friends.

I mean, not just on paper,
But fully realizing for the first shocking time
The multitudes of complete strangers out there,
When you only get to know so few of them.
That scaring fascinating sensation that anything is possible ;
Life is so vast,
But then you feel quite reassured
To be on summer holidays
Eating biscuits with your grandma.
_ well, perhaps his god-mother in fact.

It’s a shiny July afternoon,
Now the sunlight strikes a bit harder ;
And I am no schoolboy anyway,
Nor his grandma either,
And I’m hungry for love and otherness
Like I never was maybe…
But you don’t feed me on chocolate biscuits anymore.
I need the flesh,
I need the spirit
I need you

I need you all.

Derealization

Can’t recognise the season, the year,
Or which part of my life.
I know it’s Tuesday, I can feel it,
I know this bar, and it seems to know me.
But I’m not so sure of the timing anymore.
That must be called « derealization »,
I guess it happens :
You slip away from your own conscience
Of the past, present, and future,
Of what’s been lived,
What could’ve been,
Or what you think you should have lived.

Can’t say if we already met.
Is it just a while before, or long way after ?
Can’t say if you ever existed at all.
It turns like a post-trauma effect.
I just don’t remember when the car hit me,
Or was it a fall, a brain shake ?
Or was it just despair, in the last degree ?

Can’t recognize the season, the year,
Or which stage of my journey.
I only know the city,
And it’s neither hostile nor friendly,
It just won’t tell me if I’m alive or dead already.
And I’m not certain if any option really suits me.

Can’t recognise the season, the year,
Is it dawn or dusk, love or regret,
Longing or missing ?
Is it the mind willing to forecast,
When the soul’s waiting to forget ?

People walking solitary (on a springtime evening)

I believe in people walking solitary on a springtime evening,
Who’re not drunks, hoboes, or weirdos,
Who’re not junkies or pushers,
Hustlers and hookers,
None of them typical midnight freaks.
Who’re not even walking their dog,
Or joining a free party in the woods…
It might seem unlikely,
But they just need a little talking to themselves.
And whatever the season, I guess.
It only goes nicer in May.

Their face is an island of sanity
Amongst every gathering of loud, drunken and gross people
Overfilling the space even two hundred yards away ;
Those who make you change direction,
Not by security,
Yet for the sake of quietness.

Their silhouette is a shade of dignity
Amongst all predatory occupation of a street,
Or a simple byway.

They seem to walk their line,
And this lane of intimacy
I’d never mean to swerve.

I believe in you
Solitary girl, solitary boy.
Let the night be yours
And tomorrows be more sensible and reasoned.

You don’t behave like you want to hurt someone,
Or like you want to hurt yourself.
You don’t seem to believe that the earth is flat.
You just think better on your own.

And I believe in your thinking,
Whether I do agree or not with your thoughts.

I believe in your thinking,
And I believe in your walk.



(Drawing by Edward Hopper – « Night shadows »)

– Is it safe, is it sane ? –

Is it safe ?
Of course not
Is it deadly ?
Depends on the shot
Is it hurtful ?
Depends on your nerves

Every step is your potential fall,
Every leap of faith is when you recall
This is how you get over the wall

Is it sane ?
Of course not
Is it risky ?
By chance, quite a lot

Every break into the outside world
Can be the scariest experience ever,
But hell,
Is there a more unsafe area
Than the depths and width of your mind ?
Is there a more life-threatening moment
Than when you’re stuck into your brain wires,
And no one else talking to you
But your conscience of an absolute loss…

So let me be your otherness
If you ever sense you need one.
Let me fill the emptiness
When a soul mate you have none.

I mean you no harm,
I don’t bear any grudge
And I’ve taught my own arms
Not to unfold with urge

Is is safe, you wonder ?
Let us try
And if it hurts
We know why



(Painting by Edward Hopper – « Two comedians »)

L’immuable.

Lovers-Man-and-Woman-I-Egon-Schiele-oil-painting

Laisser agir l’anthropologie,
Venir d’elle-même, tirer profit.
Commander puis s’asseoir, attendre,
Voilà, elle se produit.

Le dispositif est simple,
L’expérience, libre :
Un verre, un feutre, un calepin,
Sinon un livre.
Ou même à nu peut-être,
Sans le moindre effet.
L’étrangeté suffit.
La présence induit.

Par œuvre de curiosité ou vœu de confession,
Besoin irrépressible de faire intrusion.
Le rapport humain décide
En qui reçoit et qui émet.
Qui prend sur soi, et qui tout près s’assied.

Rendre pouvoir à la nécessité.
Qu’elle nous livre au hasard,
À flux d’actes manqués.
Choisir un point aléatoire,
Sans rendez-vous précis ;
Une connaissance arrive, ou nous a précédé :
Quel est ce cheminement d’où surgit l’improviste,
Improbable enchaînement ou franc déterminisme ?

Il faut donc ce prétexte, insignifiant
_ courrier ou simple achat,
À sortir un bagage
Éprouvé bien plus lourd.
On ne s’attendait pas,
On se découvre, même.
Et le porteur importe peu,
Tout confident ferait l’affaire.
Ou s’il apporte davantage,
En être « élu », plie à sa tâche.
On ne fuit pas nécessité,
On en devient l’habitué.

Rendre son règne à l’ancestral.
Endosser contre-emploi
D’être un esprit moderne
En butte à d’autres lois.
Bien sûr on voudrait surpasser
Sa condition humaine, évoluer
Vers idéale espèce,
Autant muer.

Mais l’immuable opère,
Et se déjoue de tout progrès.
Sa preuve est quotidienne,
Au moindre vide il se recrée.

Instinct de rendre corps à l’animal.
Assumer d’être encore un peu tribal.

Se laisser désigner par intuition,
Vision de l’extérieur ou flair,
On se dévoile en intentions.

Nous laisser peindre en proie peut-être,
Hâter le sort qui nous désigne,
Quand chaque instant y prédestine.

À condition première en ce statut,
De n’être agi qu’envers plus dépourvu.
Que son besoin ne l’autorise à prédation,
À croire un sacrifice aimable incitation.

Peut-on se refuser victime et ne vivre en chasseur ;
Cueillir ainsi l’intime, exempt d’en être possesseur ?

Laisser régner l’ordre des choses,
À clairvoyance humanisée.

(Tableau : Egon Schiele – « Lovers  Man and Woman »)

 

That time of the century

It’s now, it’s that time of the century.
And all you can say is you’re ready.
The moment is yours, the future is born,
And it came a long way to capture your soul.
It dangles the cure by twisting a thorn,
Not for you to obey, yet to fix on your goal.
It scares and allures, invades any shore,
And you’re left as a prey, only few steps behind,
When you’re still unsure what phase you head for.
It knows you’re enslaved, like most in your kind,
Who’ll grow insecure at a free entry door,
At the suddenly paved avenue of their times.

And the moment is pure, and the light is reborn,
As it came a long way for to summon your prime ;
When life is obscured with all you had sworn
It clears enough days to freshen your mind.
Unless you adjourn a filtering dawn,
Abide in your haze and partly go blind,
This page you will turn, or soon will be torn,
You’re either in chase or easier to bind.

Oh, the strain you endure in your quest for more…
Every page has a lure, when not fully scored.
And the mourning is rude, yet no past you adorn,
Rewinding old views of the sculpture you’re from.
How brittle and crude, it was looking forlorn ;
If you played your own muse, well, embrace your freedom.

It’s now, it’s that time of a century.
And all you can swear is « I’m ready ».

(Tableau : André Devambez – « La Charge »)