Thirteen years of controversial luck…

(a very short essay about lasting in a nothern city)

It was written down somewhere that I’d moved in on the 13th of October.
As it turned out, it was the 14th. Which didn’t make any difference to me.
Still, that would’ve been a catchy announcement :
Thirteen years ago the 13th,
I dropped in this town.

But here we are,
Another year, another round,
Another « how did I get here ? » meditation.
The doors of my own remembrance open in a random way,
They cannot be forced on any special day.

I think I have to go to the agency.
I think I have to take a walk, eventually.
Good fortune,
It always seems like a rainless afternoon.

Maybe grab a cup of coffee, write a few lines,
Shake yesterday off from my instant mind.

The barkeep’s put on a few Birthday party tracks,
Which is pretty bold, perhaps a bit vicious too.
After all, it’s not even tea time.

And he tells me something about a following sport event,
Looking very upset.
There will be tension in the evening,
Trouble on the queue list..
Or maybe none of that,
You never know what to expect.

Like I ever had a quiet night in here…

It’s monday’s twilight approaching,
Filled with the smell of the week-end’s muck.
And I really don’t feel like taking out the trash,
Don’t feel like the story can be summing up.

Thirteen years of controversial luck, I’d say.
Thirteen years of being stuck this way.
Well, It’s not like I really give a f*** today.

We will never stand it.


We will never stand it,
The passing of time over grace and goodness,
Over everything truly worth living for.
We will never understand it,
How what was then, can’t be just now,
What once we pledged, we fail to vow.
So we appeal for reason,
When that’s only a treason.

We will never accept it,
But that’s a secret deal we sign,
For the sake of getting by.
It says if you lose memory,
Then you can repel mortality.
At least for a while.
So we lose our memory,
But never gain eternity.

How dare we stand it,
How dare we accept the deal ?
We should mourn every minute,
Every hour, every day,
Every past age,
Every century,
Every dead person,
From the dawn of humankind
To the post-modern society.

Life should be an endless mourning.
We love because of regret,
We expect because of loss,
And because of death, we live.

There must be some kind of justice in nostalgia.
Whereas melancholy, or any bad mood,
Cannot be trusted from an hour to the next.
Nostalgia is cruel, though rewarding in its way.
It’s just that we can’t get over it,
Unless we forget,
Unless we heal,
Unless we behave like this is the first time.

We shoud never stand it,
But we do, or die.

Kiss the moment.



Kiss the moment.
Kiss it real,
Kiss it true.
Like this one is the best,
Not just one you break through.
As you honour the quest
Of an early you.

Kiss the second.
Kiss it all,
Kiss it twice.
Make it one of the best,
Not just maybe the last.

And the more surreal, the less feigned.
The more unexpexted, the less trained.

Kiss the evidence.
At a crossroads, on a grim night,
Shadowed by the elevated railway.
In the most unromantic set
Where you thought you might stay.
Where none is safe but the pusher,
Yet it feels like a shelter.

Kiss the moment.
Her eyes suddenly darker,
Her eyes seeing you deeper,
Her eyes are getting closer.
Now you’re the focus of the Spirit,
You have no choice but to exist.

Rekiss the moment,
Only further,
Wider, heavier.

Love the instant,
Cherish the detail.
Given that the big picture
Ignores you on its trail.

Then let it go, let it pass.
We, travelers, know it cannot last.

Go kiss the moment.
Just kiss it true,
Kiss it real.

Oh yes we do,
We did,
And sure again,
We will.


Now this is what they get,
This is what this city gets.

Something warm and cosy for the winter.
Maybe if it wasn’t so windy and rainy,
They’d look for a greater reason to drink, gather, and cling onto music.
Some even make love and babies on that kind of record…
Such a pretty convenient fitted music.
Some even praise that kind of local celebrity,
Musician, comedian, TV presenter…
Just because they broke national.

This is the worst hype a city can get.
And that’s the one they accept.

But when you think they could have gotten you,
Don’t you feel any little shame sometimes ?
Not for your self-indulgence,
But the fact you let down a whole city,
To end up another gloomy outsider,
Gone for the wild, and the barfly stories.

You let down the devouts,
Cause you thought you know it all better.
And now you know it all alone, mostly.

It’s a shame indeed,
Not the shame of one who’s vain or pathetic,
Who’s flying higher than his wings.
It’s a shame not to be a prophet,
Some corner prophet at least,
When you’re bound to become one.

It’s a shame not to succeed,
When you know someone must and will in the end.
Don’t let the cool bastard run the game,
Don’t let the bad guy take the shy dreamy girl,
Don’t ever let « nice » be mistaken for « great ».
Don’t let the ones who could believe,
Be satisfied with passivity.