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 ?

Beat the odds.

Beat the crap
Beat the mellow stuff
Beat the odds
Beat the evidence
Beat the mainstream
Beat the flood
Beat the word on the street
Beat the noise of defeat

Beat the times
Beat the city
Beat the so-called winner
Beat the self-grown loser
Beat your fate
Beat the current rate
Beat the average
Beat the common type
Beat the hype
Beat the village
Beat the happy few
Beat the well-born
Beat the bourgeoisie
Beat the labour’s view

Beat the line that’s too easy
Beat the song rhyming cheesy
Beat the fashion
Beat the standards
Beat the grade they gave you
Beat the past you went through
Beat all expectations
Beat all and anyone’s expectation
Beat the wind against you
Beat the heights you once knew

Beat the odds
Beat the flood
Beat the insiders and outsiders
Beat your idea of yourself
And beat your idea of the world

It’s gonna take a lifetime
It’s gonna take a life’s work
Now beat the pavement
Beat your soul down to the pavement

Beat your soul deep down to the pavement



(Tableau : Gustave Courbet – « The man made mad with fear »)