C’est la banlieue, Assalti Frontali

They talk about Italy like it’s of the saints and the poets, but where’s the poetic instinct now? Upon a graffiti wall, or maybe at those secret stations where dreams get left behind. Then someone shuffled their feet over the line; I gathered up the nets of the heartless reality. My buddy Pierrot presented me with those candles of yours. I’ve got to write my own story. The night-time is black, as the dark of the road renews poetic sense, but under glaring of the moon, we fail to witness that we should have to be put to the fire, to speak on our own part. Let us take our chances; and what shall be discovered, that we’re knocking at the door and don’t know who would open it here. I’m sure we could combine our cries of woe, so as not to burn them alive like forced labor kids. I hung up the threads, with a clitoral shudder, in a world where poetry kills it off inside of the crib, in a lake of oil, & I’m readying the power and people for the treetops, furrowing my sails. . . Look at this garden, that poor sorry bench. If you look at it too well, it’s a ship on its way to sea. And down the line, I alone see the secret police, and view a company for hunting down brand new spoils. Here are the poets that form resistance for us. They write poetic forms of life, but who could make sense of it all?

It’s just the suburbs (just the suburbs),
and so provincial (This is the ghetto.);
it’s just the suburbs, mister…
so hand me the mic (This is the ghetto.),
just hand the mic to me.

It’s just the suburbs (just the suburbs),
and so provincial (This is the ghetto.);
it’s just the suburbs, mister…
so hand me the mic (This is the ghetto.),
just hand the mic to me.

Better to live off of piracy than go with bad company, better to be alone in this sea than to get stuck up in the mud: I’ll have one of whatever they serve here — the risk is being a friend of ours. Boarding at the Jolly Rodger, get the sail in order: here are some people who don’t know who they are any more; I’m totally slacking off in doubt, over urban piracy. These are the ones who don’t know where they’re off to, any more — this moon looks on us by the batch of hundreds, and shines upon the links down below, though its light is awful dim. I miss when we would chew on coca leaves: we’d go out every night and try a witty sortie, knocking at the door to go play at our game; we’d be here all cloak and dagger under cover. There’s no equipment in this sea, except for shouting over children. If we dance across the bridge, there’s no blame for being on a roll, since every single day is a celebration in the stars, & I forget it. I’m certain that we could finish really badly, not to suffocate in the hold of a ship, though for now, a sufficient store is acquired at the coffee bar. In the market place, my little ship was almost deterred for a second, & what a dick, not to give a shit about who is driving the Porsche? He would be the son of a notorious director from La Roche. To us, it’s much better to listen to Peter Tosh, offering you a beer out of pocket-change so posh. . . .

It’s just the suburbs (just the suburbs),
and so provincial (This is the ghetto.);
it’s just the suburbs, mister…
so hand me the mic (This is the ghetto.),
just hand the mic to me.

It’s just the suburbs (just the suburbs),
and so provincial (This is the ghetto.);
it’s just the suburbs, mister…
so hand me the mic (This is the ghetto.),
just hand the mic to me.

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BRIQUE À MONOTONE – by Paramore

Car conte de fées habite elle
d’où plus lointain que nous trouvions ;
goût l’oublié et l’odorat,
à la monde qu’elle abandonne :
tout c’est d’exposition — angle de vue, je l’ai dis

Les aspects touts s’ont faux,
elle des papillons sépare ailes
tiens pieds sur la terre,
têt’en étant dans la lune…

Eh saisi la pelle,
bêch’rons creux un profond
pour l’enfuir le palais, enfoui le palais
eh saisi la pelle,
bêch’rons creux un profond
pour l’enfuir le palais, enfoui le palais

En pleurant il la trouva un jour
une spire sur la sale terre,
prince enfin venu l’à sauver
et du reste tu résoudrais:
mais ce s’était un tour
et sonna l’heure douze

Veille sûr à faire maison brique à monotone
ou le loup aura l’abattu :
tiens pieds sur la terre,
têt’en étant dans nuages.

Eh saisi la pelle,
bêch’rons creux un profond
pour l’enfuir le palais, enfoui le palais
eh saisi la pelle,
bêch’rons creux un profond
nous enfoussions palais, enfouir le palais…

Si de magie tu a fait le monde,
parce que ta vie eut tragique
oui, tu fit un monde magique

Si non réelle,
tu ne pas puisses à main,
ne que sentes dans ta coeur:
je pas le croirai.

Mais si s’est vrai
tu peux au revoir des yeux
ou même dans le noir,
et ce que là j’ai voulu, ouais !

Eh saisi la pelle,
bêch’rons creux un profond
pour l’enfuir le palais, enfoui le palais
eh saisi la pelle,
bêch’rons creux un profond
pour l’enfuir le palais, enfoui le palais.

Soma, by Smashing Pumpkins

Pas du chose à dire et tout que j’ai fait de faire
c’est le s’enfuir de vous, mais elle eut me provoqué
en bas aux secrets de garder rien: Fermez
tes yeux et dormi, ne m’attendez pas, en silence
ne parler à moi—coeur enveloppé en vous
et je me refugiais chez blessure; l’opium
de reproches fut ton coeur abattu, coeur maintenant :
Corpus… J’en suis tout seul que j’ai toujours senti
et je trahirai mes larmes à n’importe qui fermé
à jouer de malchance—dernière bise pour moi et
un baiser, bon soir—je n’ai voulu vous perdre
autre fois, ne voulant pas qu’ami ; accompli
faite de larmes promesse et j’ai rampé à toi :
Je déjà suis tout seul, ferme yeux et dormi ;
comme j’ai toujours senti, n’attendez pas pour moi
et je m’en trahirai (silence: Ne dormi.) à
n’importe qui, perdu, à quelqu’un corps pas vous !
Laissez ainsi la tristesse encore veni, sur
quoi on faut dépendre de moi, ouais, jusqu’à
amère à la fin amère du monde, oui—quand le
bon dieu dormis—j’ai seul tout que me comme j’ai
toujours senti et je me trahirai mon péché
à n’importe qui…(et il tenta que vous attachiez
sa chose, résistez au diable pour qu’il a venisse. . . .)

Vowels, Arthur Rimbaud

A black, white E, red I, green U, O blue: Vowels,
one day I will tell you of secret birthings; A,
black underclothes bristle with flies’ sheen in
lovely patches which hum about savage smells,

Chasms of shadow; E, candid mists & canvas canopies,
haughty ice spears, pale kings — shiver of flow-
erings; I, blacksweet blood mouthfuls, laughing
of lovely lips in rage or regretful drunkeness;

U – swirling, holy vibrations of green-livid seas,
fields at peace with scattered creatures, peace
of wrinkles which sorcery impresses with brows

So studiously wide; O, great trumpet filled with
alien cries, a silence traversed by worlds and
angels, O the End: A violet ray of your eyes!

(untitled), Mellarmé

Because some meat was as at the point of roast
Because the journal detail’d an act of rape
Because on her vile and malformed throat
The servant forgot her collar to tie up

By cause of a bed large as the holiest place
He sees upon the ticking clock an ancient,
Foolish pair and sleeps not & without shame
As leg beneath the sheet glides like a brush

His chill, desiccated woman’s beneath him, idiot
Against her pale breton rubbing his helmet’s
Hairs & labors huffing beyond all sense

And in this, a night without storm of rage,
Are these two beings coupled in sleep; oh
Shakespeare, Dante ’u too! He c’d a born poet.

Delphica, Gerard Nerval

Daphne, you know that old affair under the
Sycamore leaves, or at th’ashy laurel’s foot;
Vnder olive & myrtle trees, willows’ tremb-
Ling, this love-song that keeps starting over

Again? Do you recognise the temple’s tow-
Ering steps, citrus fruit you sunk your teeth in?
Or grotto so dangerous to unwelcome guests,
Where ancient dragon’s seed lies vanquished?

Those gods you’re always crying to will be back,
Time’ll bring the order of our former days back a-
Gain and ground be wracked with air of Prophecy.

But while gods fateful prophetess lies Roman sleep-
Ing faced under the Arch of Constantine, there
Is nothing to disturb the crushing stair.

The Dead One Ecstatic, Charles Baudelaire

In a grass of filled, all land with snails
I wanted to dig a massive ditch where
I leisurely could spread my old bones
And, forgetful, sleep as a shark in wave.

I hate last testament and despise tombs;
Instead of begging the world for a tear,
Living, I would rather invite the crows
To bleed all the ends of my great corpse:

Lines worm, black companions with no eyes’ sight,
See how your free and joyful death arrives;
Breathing philosophers, paintings’ sons,

Cross my destruction now with no regrets
And tell me if it’s still an act of torture
For old frame souless & dead amongst the dead.