Betty Coltrane

-I think I would enjoy to die.
-Why do you say that ?
-Because I never try.

Dear D.

The smell of the coffee, plastic and meringue, on the platform, swiiizzz from the rails & an old man with a cap closes his eyes.Sunny noon.Waiters commuting like every bloody Saturday.Cloud. Lazy bones.Catwalk of deserted wharehouses on the way to greenwich to fuck with the clock, I hear your click and rewind.Happy witch.Serious wish.Forest and roughness, I give you a ton of metal in the form of a crashed Ford for 10 kg of leeves and wood.Xxx L.
12:04:2008 12.49.45

fast train

I never can get rid of the long barriers mades of wires, the acid taste of the copper ‘s line and the incessant movement of electricty which feed the train’s rails. The aggression of the doors and the rustling of the metal wheels leaving the platform. The iron breaking the wind and crashed onto the city’s fingers…I still can feel the bloddy tatter of my silenciously screaming heart winding up and gyring onto the rusted pylones of the old town…my hair lock by lock bolt by the window’s cracks and when the last billboards are banished with the arrival of the countryside, I knew it was better to be the ghost in the concrete castle than the salted wound in the horizon. The wind from the sea swinging in my skull throwing the sulphuric grip of an empty coast where the last boat wait for the words to be sent : What will happened to the bones ?

When it started.

The bridge was on fire, a rainbow fire, you could see the flames from downtown, green, red, chewed pink, blue, an electric blue.It was the 31st december 1999. The Whole town, the whole country, Europe, THE world was ready to celebrate the new millenium. For the occasion, lights everywhere, power station on full capacity, boiling wires and then every single villages was on fire. And on fear. For some the fear was the new millenium with its mystic procession of ghosts crawling from the sepia depiction of the Apocalypse , in the capital cities mystic and prophets in coat howling the repentance, preaching the End of the world , the arrival of diverses ET and all kind of fucked up animals species the sciences and the nature could never think of. All kind of bloody and medieval visions were predicted for that night. For others, the pragmatic 9-5 family the great fear was an electronic one: THE BUG. The specialist predicted that our dear computers would not be able to display the year 2000. It made the title of the news for weeks and weeks, all the datas kept in our cherished and vital binary systems would probably be fucked because of "0" numbers. It's going to be the great catastrophe, the worst, the whole economical market could be shut. But everyhting went fineand our dear digital system at 00:00:01 showed the right : 01:01:2000. HA. So now everybody can get drunk and high, we were saved our credit cards will burn in debts for the big occasion. However that night, France experienced one of its biggest storm, the windy waves put on the ground electric pylones, switch off power stations, cut the phone lines. The storm get on and on for few days and France was paralysed. People have to remember the old ways to get lights at night, to get hot water, the grand ma becames the new stars. We were all waiting for the millenium dicgital catastrophe and we were fucked by a wild wind. I never forget that first week of january 2000. Get fucked by a storm.

In a fuckin Love.

Nerves on silverw

Sky is down iso are up, You took the place of the coffee shake,
Scratching windows and praying luck, I damned and cherished my tummys ache
Punching balls of energy and blood running between my legs
I m standing up masking the flood of the feeling which makes me beg

Baby babe baby
No shape no form are good enough
Baby babe baby
I won t stand to make you mine

On the road when the sun goes down, i have a man head on my knees
It s just a help to throw you down on the chapel of destiny
Identities and names dissolve as soon as the next morning comes
The only taste my tongue will solve will be your cum I did not taste

Baby babe baby
No shape no form are good enough
Baby babe baby
In our world I ll make you mine

You stabbed me with a silver knife, bad luck for a vampire
I have to fight now everynight or hire a nap from a monster
The sparrows on my hips are singing for the closest spring
I still can feel and bits your lips in the middle of the life ring.

On the silver frame , i catch your smile
My nerves are shaking on silver print
I ate all the pictures to make you mine
i feel the poison running wild and dint

I took a downhill to make you ghost but i had you in 3D shape
Words are fine and sensible but the shivering destroyed the cape
But still Baby babe baby
No shape no form are good enough
Baby babe baby
I ll keep your ghost along my spine.

Desert ham-hunting

Fasten seatbelt whilst seated, life jacket under seat…
In the middle of the Sahara Desert, I asked for a chair to prepare for the interview, the guy looked deep into my eyes and told me « There are no chairs here, just carpet and cushions », I wondered where i could find my life jacket?

A devil made a sandwich with my sorrow,
he took it away from me in a toasted bagel
Hidden between the rolling and confusing pages of jetlag,
The movement of the metal wings drawing a Tower of babel
Under clouds and stars which are seen as roadsigns for some
Making the desert an ocre overground with an invisible pencil
The white man charging the battery of his digital eye
Scans the clouds and stars like a romantic flannel
When the eyes are in the sky, the hands holds a bottle
The difference with water and beer is a question of culture and fuel
Kids alone running and try to sell a few fags
with their eyes shining like organic jewels
The old man with a white beard and gangrene
begging in silence for his daily waffle
While tourists in shorts and flip flops bargain
with another old man for a pair of sandals
Yes A devil made a sandwich with my sorrow .

Des peaux brunes entourés de perpétuels uniformes bleus , les enfants courant sont devenus blonds aux yeux bleus, canaille hurlés par des mères a peaux rouges, brûlés par un soleil qui n'est pas le leur.Les robes chevilles et les longues manches ont drastiquement raccourcis pour offrir a l'œil blanc des amours de chairs offertes.Le métal a poussé sur les visages, des formes abstraites a traits épais bleus suintent des pores, la nourriture devient plastique et le thé s'est diaboliquement alcoolisé.Les kilomètres se raccourcissent , le temps s'accélère et la radio de l'aéroport distille un morceau des Velvet Underground.