write...
to paint,
fight in our prisons.
It was a bit of an attempt to bring together all these energies...
that time had dispersed.
It was to resurrect all this life that had been given to us,
make it a strength able to help his brothers,
and communicate to them hope and creation.
Arrests,
disillusionment,
all this wasted time to pay for all these crimes.
For what ?
For nothing?
What murderous madness thought I was corrupt?
Death was not my life!
Perhaps death would forget me?
No doubt.
The sun, since its origins, illuminated the cities,
beautified my life.
I was trying to remember.
Armed troops in the jungle of necropolises...
were making their way with loud honks.
The night seemed so empty...
without thought or faith.
I wandered the boulevards,
between the drugs and you.
I always went back from the abyss to the origins.
I finished between two soap operas,
sliding doors, guillotines,
my head was falling a bad day.
The luger frozen between the kidneys,
an evening of stress and depression,
between them and me,
hand on heart and heart in hand,
the door opened on a new world...
where you were no longer the same.
And yet in your eyes,
this missing call, this cry from the heart and dismay,
the campaign was pulling on his own joy,
dug our sweetest moments...
and made us forget the pains of war...
and the misery of certain days.
Infinity is not for tomorrow.
And yet,
in what I believe it is war,
a certain thought is suddenly discovered.
Marie, Marie-Laure,
what did you have in this spring to generate the best?
You were my first great love.
You, my queen,
who transmitted his grace to me On my very first day.
I was born at random, forgetting the seasons,
and then the reasons that make you forget...
the four acts age and this disadvantage...
to be and to die.
1987, year of Prohibition.
My right eye is blurry,
my left eye can no longer hear,
my check-up is certain.
I am sure that I won't die within the hour.
Old age and death is never the same everywhere.
Think of the two of us in the days of old.
I loved dying so much and live the perfect moment.
Revolt! Revolt!
Wake up!
Put back in my cell...
in the evening of this day,
I wrote:
tenderness,
calm,
the privilege of dreaming.
I met brothers at the end of the impasse...
where sorrow devours the day of the condemned.
I wandered through the principles,
I loved birth, love...
destiny, the room, the noise of the street.
The sea rose in the distance,
all overflowing with foam.
It's there, I know, what is the wonderful garden...
that we have sown.
I found the city,
still and alive.
I saw again everyday neon lights.
I started to write,
At the time when I was hanging out in the streets of Paris,
to discover life in another way,
another life.
I had given up to find a job.
I walked for a year in Saint-Germain-des-Prés,
his head leaning on the paving stones.
And from this loneliness in the heart of the city...
It's a real city ​​within the city.
Saint-Germain, with its populations, its classes,
its rites.
Arrivals and departures.
The sudden disappearance and definitive...
of men we had seen for months in the same place.
The emergence of other faces...
who became familiar of all in a few hours.
A great need to talk.
The violent desire for poetry is born.
Oh ! My. Oh! Mama!
When I see you again in meetings...
of our most beautiful memories, sometimes so outraged,
I have love for you and respect accordingly,
and sincerity.
Past memories no longer even hurt our shadows.
This land has fertilized our best years,
and if I surprised you, it was not by chance.
I trust...
for not being deceived.
I have lost and forgotten so much,
especially extraordinary things,
and which no longer confused us in the sense of life itself,
where I believe in us.
Me ?
Why give to your definition of living...
the meaning of being and loving?
The just and the best,
the beauty of life,
the meaning that corresponds to us,
the sense of consciousness?
After having loved your beyond, as well as our life.
Old age and death is never the same.
The earth, I love him and I don't care.
I am not a farmer who hides his radishes in a hole.
You who are on the borders of the impossible,
of the exact meaning of the semantics,
me, Peter,
I plant the exact indivisible of our infinity.
The metro,
the bistro, the alcoholic.
It's not always funny to wander with your sleeve rolled up,
the soaked gait,
with its stench and its gravity.
Stunned by the song of the candors who ask nothing of fame,
who is this fragile heart beyond languor?
I really wanted to get high...
Unable to align one thought behind the other.
You breathe, you start to breathe again soon.
And then your eyes attach to a point on the wall.
Why there?
There may be a scratch on the stone,
a crack,
a crevice,
the clumsy drawing of one of your predecessors.
You started thinking again.
And you, for how many years?
Two years?
Ten ? Twenty ?
But no, it's absurd.
You wake up from a brief nightmare,
you were in an air hole, in free fall.
It's over, it's happening,
we're not going to leave you there.
Reflexes take over,
your mind defends itself.
We must survive, hope.
You say to yourself:
these are the others who are dying here, not me.
And you begin to understand...
that you will have to fight also against yourself.
In the middle of the silent night,
we hear the screams climb long corridors...
of this underground city.
The guards massacre.
Representatives of all races,
of all classes of humanity,
embarked together for a long crossing.
You can't go out anymore.
The flood.
We wait for the doves to return carrying their message...
of forgiveness and peace.
It's not nothing a revolt,
war, fear in my stomach,
the closed mouth of order,
the screams and the scrap metal which shocks the slab,
slammed doors,
the shrillness of the whistles from one end of the nave to the other.
The routine is broken.
From the hold to the bridge nothing works anymore.
Outside,
the CRS, guns and batons in hands,
waiting for the order to intervene.
What to say? What to do,
in these recesses of time?
Nothing, nothing perhaps,
die with time,
the most beautiful memories will drown in time.
Eyes closed I dream, I think of you,
I think about these ideas that we once shared.
This morning when I found you lying against me,
the coffee was going on,
and our thoughts were diluted facing the news.
The day was beautiful,
eyes in the sky,
I looked at the sun.
And then,
when it's all like,
where waking up vitriols you,
I know that in thoughts,
There are more than just kisses.
The mirror had transformed my life.
I saw myself reading in the future and the past.
I saw myself hurt and yet miserable,
happy to live,
like a child in the stars of spring.
The eyes of my wife, of my children,
got me used to living with the times.
I kept a lot love for my friends,
my fathers-in-law and fathers...
and your nakedness taken,
without you knowing it,
and without any mess at the bottom of the bed...
where we were together.
The room screamed happy,
we had no surprises...
because we knew you were there.
You told me the right words,
who made me stand up...
to give you the pleasure so often desired.
This is, Pierre Clémenti,
death was beloved,
was perfect, to the point of excess.
And then what!
And then be!
Perfect your path...
and then exist again in the time given to us,
Me, believe and believe me,
it would be better to add that...
What ?
Me !
Engraved in you,
I looked at your eyes,
I have seen your face looking towards God.
I had children myself...
that I drove while smiling...
to the schools of the unique.
Hard world and yet...
what ecstasy!
what a pleasure! what happiness!
In the many days where I lived in Paris,
the mirror made me happy,
and the fact of having made me see again,
these entire hours of freedom,
the pleasure of living made me sing these found moments.
Sun ! sun ! who smiles at me,
what happiness to have you in my life.
Days of well-being,
where you are right against me,
love was born in the whiteness of the sheets.
I, Pierre, since these crucial moments,
I promise you before I fall asleep,
and if my decline exists,
if you believe it sometimes,
I Peter, of long endurance,
I have finished my game with you.
I fear that my pain interests you.
I will go to you with me.
The shadow of the passage has passed...
and in my furrow, a flame.
I observed,
a living sun,
with the same inhabitants...
who will not let themselves not do in the face of arrogance,
facing the end of a world...
not ending.
I remember the words that I sent to a shooting star.
Balance and imbalance break the harmony of hope.
I remain alone in the darkness,
waiting for tomorrow something new arises,
but the mind tires of desiring eternally the same thing,
and the cycle continues...
like a slow death.
Because I know that tomorrow, nothing will happen.
Justice is slow and grueling,
and even if innocence comes to be proven,
it's only hurt that she will get out of prison.
Madness opens its arms to you as soon as you start to know...
that months could pass,
or an eternity,
before we take care of your file.
It depends on luck,
of whoever wants, or not, hear your silent complaint.
It is ultimately for save me that I isolated myself,
as the swimmer does,
that unexpectedly a whirlwind carries,
and who does not have only one way out:
let yourself sink passively to the bottom,
and there, give a good kick of the heel...
to rise to the surface.
Things Seen - 2006