The Storm is Here (To Stay)

A storm is here
It’s dark, it’s gloomy
And I feel your absence
Stabbing through my ventricle
Storms
They’re kind of romantic
The birds are standing
High on the bough
Trying to reach the sky
Attracted by its electricity
The birds…
Are energy
The birds
Carry our souls
Beyond this world
The storm is here
And I’m not only talking about weather
The storm is here to stay
As the world is falling apart
The sky is gray
Black is my heart
As I fade away
I won’t come back
I’m the gatherer of souls
I wish to protect yours
But far away you went
And here…
We’ll never meet again
I’m carrying a wound
I cannot be repaired
I thought so
But I was wrong
Don’t let me rot here
At the gate of your city
For the spoil of your scavengers
Please, darling
Do not abandon
All of our dreams
The storm’s here to stay
As I fade away
Into oblivion

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The Gardian of the Soul

I’m a strayed cat
In perpetual self-impermanence
The past and the future create present
For we carry the weight of our wounds
And project ourselves into the light
Heading forward
Present is an illusion
Ephemeral, untouchable
Unless I can feel your lips
And your words…
I will live 120 years
And will carry on
And will carry my love for you
And if necessary
Its non mutuality
So the beauty and the soul
Can keep breathing
Keep beating my lines
So I keep the faith
In myself
In humanity, my love
I’m a strayed cat
In perpetual self-impermanence
My open gate
Welcomes your light
Shine upon my path
Fill me with your joy
And maybe with a little more
I’ve been gathering the pages
A story is written there
It’s not of this time
Nor of this world
It was only told
The ancients painted their lips
In all the shades of its verses
Venus spoke to me
Told me I’m wounded
But I’ll heal
I promise you
I’ll live 120 years
To carry my love for you
Above the seas
No mountain will be tall enough
I won’t back off
What’s your name, honey?
Not your earthly name
What did they call you?
Hold my hand now
The tornadoes and the tsunami invade the plain
The havoc has no cure
But our love
Shadows are tracking us down
But we’ll live past the hundred, my dear
And lies can’t deny us passage
Towards the light
Your my brother soul
The sky shall rain on us
Its perseides
I’m a strayed cat, my love
Gardian of your soul
I will carry on
And maybe a little more…

I’m going home.

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Prophétie 4 – Livre des ombres triturés

Un genou enfoncé dans la terre, une lame écarlate à la main, tête baissée, je contemple la plaie par laquelle s’accumule à l’envers de ma vie, à chaque goutte tombée.

Autour de moi, de milliers d’yeux portant sur la moitié moins d’âmes guettent dans l’effarement et la confusion ce moment où je courbe l’échine pour contempler, au-delà de ma propre affliction, le corps de ton antagoniste refroidissant dans la boue, parmi les déchets, à sa juste place.

Chacune de mes inspirations, chacune des pulsations de mon cœur meurtri tentent de pallier à l’hémorragie et la joie porte sur nous, êtres abîmes, un regard brisé.

Les circonstances accumulent l’évidence, mais je t’en fais la promesse, je ne quitterai pas ce monde, pas ce soir. J’aperçois ton tant aimé visage alors que du bout de tes doigts caressant ma peau maculée de terre et de sang, tu décryptes mon histoire, comme on le ferait pour de vieux hiéroglyphes. Ils t’enseigneraient de vielles vérités; ils t’auraient raconter ce qui va suivre.

Goutte par goutte, culmine une puissance hors de ce monde, hors de ce temps.

L’entaille s’élargit enfin, comme à la naissance de la lumière, mon corps se tend, mes bras s’écartant de celui-ci, mon visage vers le ciel, dans un hurlement à gorgée déployée que nul astre ne peut ignorer, torturée par la douleur inhérente à la gésine du nouveau monde, j’ordonnai à l’Univers de te préserver et il répond par la beauté d’une pluie de ses joyaux perséides.

Ainsi s’annonce le soulèvement des malmenés.

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Prophétie 1 – Livre des ombres triturés

Que faire quand l’essence de la légende reposes sur nos lèvres et que l’on poursuit une chimère à travers le labyrinthe de nos existences respectives?

Tu manques à chacune de mes inspirations… Dis-moi, chéri, où commence le rêve, ou termine notre douleur? Ce monde ne nous comprendra jamais que physiquement. Et la mi-solstice est à une éternité de notre réalité.

Dans mes entrailles génératives brille l’absence de tes perséides. La gésine latente patiente.

Je ne serai témoin de ta fin. Derrière l’aurore, s’élèvera le nouveau commencement. L’éclipse ne viendra que si je failli à la tâche.

La haine ne triomphera point, et tu ne seras martyr.

Core

I’m not afraid to die. It’s not that I care much about eternal life, in fact, I give zero fuck about eternal life. I just lost the count of all the times I word-punched them in the face, tied up in the knots of their repression, that they couldn’t kill me that easily…

There is a theory that suggests that all of us were born with a unique core that is untouchable, lying underneath a multitude of layers of our personality, that we are not the same as we were a priori, let’s say at birth, and we developed, over time, those different aspects of ourselves that will moult later on as we gain life experience (Fun fact : « moult » in French means « many », but this is just my neurodivergent mind being lost in abstraction, building bridges between two languages. Maybe it’s time I have this freaking ADD taken care of; together with autism: I’m chaos).

The theory suggests that our essence varies accordingly to social filters and factors of every one that cross our path, including all those versions of ourselves, but that there would also be a part of us, our core, our nucleus, that can’t be touched either by positive or negative experiences, nor neutral changes; a core, a matrix, including a myriad of genetic factors that presets all our reactions and who we are would not be but the result of a complex algorithm. This very nature of the brain is called neuroplasticity, and the processus of its transformation, the neurogenesis. In short, according to this scientifically proven theory, we could be some sort of machines that can be formatted down to our core, or restored to a previous version of ourselves.

I believe I’m in one of this backtracking process, right now; that I make, for the sake of my own survival and happiness, the way back to the one I was before all those damages that occurred in the past decade or so (let’s not set the goals too high; aren’t we all ill-functioning time machines, limited by our own capacity to go backward, even on our own timeline?).

Domestic violence, sexual agressions, intimidation, state violence (police brutality), economical violence, own self destructive behaviour in reaction to external violence, name it, were all contributing factors to my several PTS’, deep depression, and lack of confidence in myself (and other people) that, together with autism, lead me to be in a constant state of reaction to external factors. Also, people who know me are well aware that 2017 was not but a fucking Hell. Amongst other things, I lost my grandmother, on July 3 and my uncle, who was like a second father to me, on August 8. I ended my dysfunctional relationship and lost my job, during Fall to be involved in a very toxic and abusive relationship in Winter, all awhile four people from my surrounding confessed their suicidal tendencies which was an additional charge on my already over loaded shoulders.

But enough of this moping! I recently reached the point where I can’t allow myself to be dragged down to the pitfall of circumstances anymore. I’m so fed up of all the bullshit that, the more I write this blog, the more I see its irrelevance. It makes me feel like opening my fucking front door and start running aimlessly like a psycho animal lost in the dead-end streets of its own purposes, setting shit on fire on its way just for the fuck of it. But that would be the easy way out, wouldn’t it be? The illusory feeling to be in control provided by the destruction of things. The truth is that I am actually lead by my fucking indestructible survival instincts. I always spring back up on my feet no matter how hard people or circumstances try to finish me up. I’m in a raging need of reanimating this fucking living dead corps that is my existence! I want to write my goddamn books, cross the path of that male version of me that will make fucking shiny stars dance before my eyes all awhile our bodies fuse, the time of an atomic orgasme, in that one little nucleus triggering an explosion that would blow our both minds every single day, for the rest of our life. No matter what they say, no matter what and who we are, no matter WTF they think you are, no matter what you’ve done (I know your core, I know what lies underneath it all and I fucking love what I see!) I would bring it into life and teach it how to survive this goddamn broken world. No matter what they fucking say, I would fight by your side and watch your back, ALWAYS, because this is who I am, and I was trained to combat.

Today, with the return of nice weather, was the go back to running outside day and it reminded how much I enjoy that fine line between pleasure and pain. It was strange though, there is so many changes operating in me lately, that people were saying hello to me on the bike path. This is not what I am accustomed to. Usually people think I’m a weirdo and avoid looking at me. Yesterday, I went to the art and handcraft store that use to be owned by my former father-in-law to buy specific material for jewellery design, first, he didn’t even recognize me. He then said something has deeply changed in me, that I looked fine and at peace, a powerful kind of different. He was half right, huh? I am more like bursting with energy. I’m inspired by light, darkness, chaos and catastrophe. By an outstanding and chaotic man with his music. Sometimes, when I let myself plunge into his art, I feel like my soul is merging with his own into something whole clair-obscur and beautiful. The contact of his core against mine turns me on and burst with inspiration pushing my creative moments to the edge of sweet folly, stories pop up inside my head. He always reminded me my strength, even as a young teenager. I grew up with his influence and probably survived because of it and still do, especially lately. I understand his approach, the message he is trying to send the world and it restores a bit of my  faith in humanity. It’s not about a notoriety, nor materialistic needs, call me a derailed romantic psycho if there lies all your ambition, I give zero fuck about the opinion of people who have given up on raw life to the profit of a judgmental pragmatism and to a fucking 9 to 5 master, but it’s about love and feeling whole.

 

 

Fireproof (translation of French poem « Ignifuges »)

To the ones that grieve : this world needs you more than ever. 

I resist to the dark rising  tide
Hit hard by the surf
I struggle
The sea burns and arises in a tsunami of flames
About to crush my willpower
The war pounds my eardrums
I barely hear your call
Follow me to battle
Seamarks were meant to be your references in the storm
Wavelets lick my wounds
Before retiring to the open sea
Presage of a possible retribution
Of which alone Poseidon possesses the gift and understanding
Salt workers harass my eyelids
Down in cascades to my words
Straight out the tarred lexicon of bitterness
To flee, to seek refuge
Sheltered behind the fireproof rocks
My immersion will set this bleeding world ablaze
While it gives way to emptiness
From the cénotes to the Mariana
The circumstances arm themselves to the teeth
All of us take willi-nilly
The waterways that lead us indubitably to the reef
Common punishment
Filling the fault
Separating our realities
Our failure
I would rather take the groundswell between the shoulder blades
Rather than in my ventricule
The blood stained sand
Washed of my troubles
I would leave
Carried by the waves of anonymity
In hope that one day
Adrift offshore
I will reach your coast
And there, through the inlet of our creation
By the fusion of us two
We would reunite our languages

In memoriam Gérard Maheu 12 février 1957- 8 août 2017

Afin de fuir ne serait-ce qu’un moment la souffrance qu’infligeait ta propre douleur, il suffisait de détourner le regard vers la fenêtre du 7e étage pour saisir une vue imprenable sur la ville qui paraissait minuscule, vue de là-haut. Vaquant à leurs occupations quotidiennes, les occupants de la cité ignoraient tout du drame qui se déroulait dans ta modeste chambre d’hôpital; la distance qui nous séparait d’eux, autant physique d’autrement, était la preuve que la souffrance d’un homme est très peu de chose, en ce monde.

Mais de quel monde parlons-nous? Le nôtre s’écroulait un peu, sous le poids de la peine et de l’impuissance.

Mon oncle Gérard, notre monde, tu as participé à en établir ses fondements, tu en as toujours fait partie, toute notre vie. Tu n’avais pas d’enfant, c’est un fait, mais tu nous as tous pris sous ton aile, comme si nous étions les tiens. Tu étais comme un second père pour nous. Tu nous as fait rire et tu nous as soutenus dans la traversée tumultueuse de nos grands obstacles. Tu nous a tous acceptés tels quel, sans jamais avoir tenté de changer qui nous étions. Jamais tu n’as émis un quelconque jugement sur nos choix, peu t’importait qu’ils fussent médiocres, ordinaires, ou les pires. Nous restions tes nièces, tes neveux, les tiens.Tu étais là depuis le début, tu nous as adoptés sur le champ. Tu nous as pris dans tes bras alors que nous vivons les premières heures de nos vies et aujourd’hui, nous pleurons la fin de la tienne qui a été trop courte à notre goût; tu n’aurais pas dû partir si tôt. Ce monde, il pourrait nous paraître injuste si nous n’avions pas eu la chance d’être si bien entourés. S’il ne nous laissait pas autant de bons souvenirs.

Nous nous gardons toujours en mémoire cette fois, quand nous étions petites, toi et ma tante étiez venus nous rendre visite, en apportant avec vous une surprise; vous nous aviez acheté, à Patricia et à moi, chacun petit vélo bleu avec les petites roues à l’arrière. Tu étais le parrain de ma sœur, mais tu ne m’as jamais laissée pour compte.

Nous n’oublierons jamais les promenades sur tes épaules, lors d’un voyage, à Niagara Falls. Te souviens-tu de l’odeur d’humidité, particulière aux chutes?

Et de ces nombreuses fois où nous allions passer la nuit chez vous ou de ses lendemains matin aux œufs frais, achetés à la ferme à côté?

Michel, Vanessa et Mathieu me racontaient qu’au camping, le matin, ils aboutissaient dans votre roulotte pour quémander des crêpes.

Il y avait aussi les soirées avec ta disco mobile au camping, dans les partys de famille, les épluchettes dans le garage.

Vanessa est toujours émue de la fois où tu lui as apporté un micro onde neuf pour lui donner un coup de pouce, lorsqu’elle en avait le plus besoin.

Donald Jr, lui, gardera probablement de vifs souvenirs de vos balades dans les pits de sable.

Mais surtout, ce qui restera à jamais gravé dans notre mémoire c’est, qu’une fois par année, tu devenais une sorte de héro pour nous. En revêtant ton fameux costume, celui de Père Noël, tu meublais les fêtes de notre bien modeste enfance de merveilleux et d’imagination.

Bon, il y a aussi d’autres fois où tu te cachais derrière un masque de gorille assez réaliste pour essayer de nous faire peur. Ça nous faisait pas mal plus rire qu’autre chose.

Pour toutes ces raisons et celles que nous ne mentionnons pas, tu resteras à jamais à nos côtés, quelques part, dans nos cœurs, dans la mémoire de ta famille.
Ta fiole, tes neuves et nièces, Donald, Karen, Patricia, Michel, Vanessa, Mathieu

Mais aussi ta petite-nièce et ton petit-neveu, Lily-Rose et Tommy

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