среда, февраля 22, 2006

вторник, февраля 21, 2006

A l'air frais

Au beau milieu d’un champ, un radio-cassette accroché au bout d’un poteau hurle du Johnny Hallyday a des poules de Bresse d’appellation d’origine contrôlée. L’atmosphère est très inquiétante surtout qu’un ciel grisâtre enrobe les environs d’une lumière campagnarde très crue qui fige sur l’herbe un ennui sans grâce. Remarquez bien qu’on flatte les gallinacés avec un langage qu’elles comprennent. Donc les poules captent bien ce que chante Johnny et deviennent très agressives quand celui-ci porte sa voix sur les notes gueulées de son répertoire, ainsi au paroxysme de ses prouesses vocales, elles vont dans des attaques gloussantes griffer les cous de leurs congénères.
Pourtant, le dispositif est sensé éloigner les oiseaux migrateurs porteurs de la grippe aviaire, mais comme le fait remarquer l ‘éleveur au bon sens Bourg-En-Bressois :
« Ca éloigne même les renards ! » Seules fans dans cette campagne française, les poules s’agglutineront comme au beau temps des yé-yé autour de ce poteau tapageur jusqu’à 18H00 où elles rentreront, au chaud, pour regarder questions pour un champion sur des écrans géants suspendus aux murs en tôle du poulailler.

понедельник, февраля 13, 2006

среда, февраля 08, 2006

Cockney Accent recquired to read this

(Where is me fuckin' hat ?)

Just stop breathin'

not completely though

you might still need some air

in the middle of a sentence.

Let me say one thing about 'Politic' because I am gonna talk more about that soon, with more energy, more passion, more envy than this special fat cunt over there. When it comes to art, I , me , modern thinker, and I won't apologize for my lack of modesty, I'm a nature masterpiece afterall, My body works fine, look, I can breathe, This man, is political, I chose not to depend on obvious understanding, I mean, If you're not able to put your mind among this shit and look at it as if you were me, so then, back off villain, you'll never understand alterity and that's why you'll die as a super-slave, listening to people talking for you, instead of you, like you're a ghost on the airwaves, your thoughts just as meaningless, don't even look at it, don't even assemble the words in your borrowed mind, you shouldn't even read that darn blog, you, die, my politic, in one word, is going on crusades against you fuckers, bottomless wheels !

вторник, февраля 07, 2006

Round 1 to the mouse

Beaten by a fricken mouse.

Of course, I forgive myself for the encounter - when a man's hungry, he needs bread. What he doesn't need - indeed, never even begins to suspect - is the possibility that when a mouse is hungry, it also needs bread.

So there I was, happily fishing around in a plastic bag for a suitable chunk, when I felt two itchy little pinpricks in my finger. There was a black thing in the bag - a fricken black thing, moving so fast I could only see it was black and it was a thing.

The body kicked in long before the brain: I began dancing round the kitchen, shrieking and furiously flapping the bag around, desperate to get my hand back in one piece. Clearly some primal instinct, some remnant of my cave-sniffing past, had recalled that fast fricken black things were mortally dangerous. It scrabbled up my arm, bonzaid it's way to the floor, and wriggled under the stove.

I've recently begun considering meself something of a burlily unfuckwithable dude, so it was a bit of a blow to find meself clutching at my heart and squealing like a decidedly unburlily fuckwithable wretch.

Round 1 to the mouse: The traps are primed; the cheese is rich and stanky; there's a reputation at stake here.

воскресенье, февраля 05, 2006

Ma politique, tic tac, c'est l'attaque

La politique, en gros, en tres GROS, c'est la guerre.

пятница, февраля 03, 2006


after waking up this morning, i dashed straight into the bathroom - maybe there was someone in there. but there wasnt. so then i scrambled and dashed into the kitchen - maybe id catch them in there. but i didnt. so i dashed back into the room, and since no one was in there, got dressed and dashed out the door. on my way out the door i started to think about politics - about how everything is political, and how the only reason i was dashing here and there was because of the indoctrination id received - wed all received - as children and as adults, and i dashed down the stairs, hearing a door opening and trying to catch the bastard before he got out.

четверг, февраля 02, 2006

bonjour buddy

Cet endroit ne devrait exister plus, J'ai été dit, il n'y a aucun endroit autour pour des tigres avec des visages de gorille.
Avant qu'il ait été parfaitement accepté et toléré par des marcheurs, juste comme lui est toléré pour manger les tomates géantes sur un champ de voyage, personne ne s'inquiète.
Je pense qu'il est juste comme ceci maintenant, la chaise, mine, bascule toujours, dans les deux sens, comme l'un conte de fées votre grand'ma ne vous a jamais indiqué.
Vous pourriez ne jamais savoir, juste acceptez cela, nous 'au sujet d'ici, à la fin du temps.
Vous pourriez ne jamais savoir quand il va finir.
Puisque nous ne sommes pas vrais, nous sommes justes comme des tigres avec des visages de singe.

The Importance of Politics

'All writers are vain, selfish and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives there lies a mystery. Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some deomon whom one can neither resist nor understand. For all one knows that demon is simply the same instinct that makes a baby squall for attention. And yet it is also true that one can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to efface one's own personality. Good prose is like a window pane. I cannot say with certainty which of my motives are the strongest, but I know which of them deserve to be followed. And looking back through my work, I see that it is invariably where I lacked a political purpose that I wrote lifeless books and was betrayed into purple passages, sentences without meaning, decorative adjectives and humbug generally.'

George Orwell, 'Why I Write', 1946

Les chateaux en Espagne a la Babel Fish (or 'Why I Think Max is Mad')

Currently, in hibernation controlee, acroche after a fashion has the illusion which it still occurs quelquechose here or finally my two eyes to the eyelids terribly weighed down by the incontrolable heat which emane of these large blocks of cast iron, by intermitence, with some giclettes of white frost, corrosive without repis, these large hands degantees, open on tiny plains, those of my territory, my niche. Then for you, I look right in front of, such which is allowed to me to do it, directs, like a horse in his box, simple expressions vehiculees by the trouble of a field of vision retreci and I retranscribe, my vision, single who echappe more like front, worms of the unknown prospects, those which I liked to contemplate when one left me time of them, at the edge of a large road, or of a radiant distance, when I saw myself advancing in the unknown, carrying beautiful a costume in flax, has the shelter of the luminous rays of a star which never disappeared.

I lost my gloves in a viree of more than 72 hours, between stores of sounds and small echoppes has beer, while passing by the stirring up cellars of Red Way, or the international DJ will reconsider gloser musicalement the importance of Kick and of Snare in time reel, while supervising, well evidemment, the some giscettes has the important cosmetic beauty, a farandole of nails chatoyants will come same to type on the plane surface of my understanding. Tic tic tic, to mark of another rate/rhythm surperpose, the minutes which are egrenent in this sand glass or the sand is white, without another color, nor taste, like vodka which me brule bone, which me empeche to capture sleep and of me of to make friend, that I will take between my two large arms as you which sleep on another proeminence, certainly, well emmitoufles, with the heat, ouais, I think that you sleep like me, as I do not think, as I am unable to remain eveille, it is the night and it will never be eteindra either.

среда, февраля 01, 2006

Les chateaux en Espagne.

Actuellement, en hibernation controlee, acroche tant bien que mal a l'illusion qu'il se passe encore quelquechose ici ou finalement mes deux yeux aux paupieres terriblement alourdies par l'incontrolable chaleur qui emane de ces gros blocs de fonte, par intermitence, avec quelques giclettes de givre, mordant sans repis, ces grosses mains degantees, s'ouvrent sur des plaines minuscules, celles de mon territoire, de ma niche. Alors pour vous, je regarde droit devant, tel qui m'est permis de le faire, dirige, comme un cheval dans son box, simples expressions vehiculees par l'ennui d'un champ de vision retreci et je retranscris, ma vision, unique qui ne s'echappe plus comme avant, vers des perspectives inconnues, celles que j'aimais contempler quand on m'en laissait le temps, au bord d'une grosse route, ou d'un lointain radieux, quand je me voyais avancer dans l'inconnu, portant beau un costume en lin, a l'abri des rayons lumineux d'un astre qui ne disparaissait jamais.

J'ai perdu mes gants dans une viree de plus de 72 heures, entre magasins de sons et petites echoppes a biere, en passant par les caves remuantes du Red Way, ou l'internationale DJ reviendra gloser musicalement sur l'importance du Kick et du Snare en temps reel, en surveillant, bien evidemment, les quelques giscettes a l'importante beaute cosmetique, une farandole d'ongles chatoyants viendront meme taper sur la surface plane de mon entendement. Tic tic tic, marquer d'un autre rythme surperpose, les minutes qui s'egrenent dans ce sablier ou le sable est blanc, sans autre couleur, ni gout, comme la vodka qui me brule les os, qui m'empeche de capturer le sommeil et de m'en faire une amie, que je prendrai entre mes deux grands bras comme vous qui dormez sur une autre proeminence, certainement, bien emmitoufles, au chaud, ouais, je pense que vous dormez comme moi, comme je ne pense pas, comme je suis incapable de rester eveille, c'est la nuit et elle ne s'eteindra jamais non plus.

Mister G. on a special location, He made it

This place should not exist anymore, I've been told, there's no place around for tigers with gorilla faces.

Before it was perfectly accepted and tolerated by walkers, just like it's tolerated to eat giant tomatoes on a trip field, nobody cares.

I Think it's just like this now, the chair, mine, is still rocking, back and forth, like the one fairy tale your grand'ma never told you.

You might never know, just accept that, we 're here, to the end of time.

You might never know when it's gonna end.

Because we're not real, we're just like tigers with monkey faces.