samedi 20 juin 2009

Art doesn’t exist…

With his brush,
The artist paints our dreams.
Art doesn’t exist...
Art is the world.
Art is not in the galleries,
Nor in the show...
Only the artist does exist.
He is the dreamer
Of our dismal life...
A society which jails its artists,
Puts them apart as useless,
Confines them into a barren role,
Is a sick society.
Insanity is close...
Without our artist,
We have no other future
Than the ruins of our hope.
Artists are the safe keeper
Of our destiny.
A society which spits on them
Become its own cancer,
Self sapping its own blood...
Art doesn’t exist.
Art is the vital air
Our imaginary needs to breath.
Without fantasies,
We are dead alive,
Sucking each other to obtain
Fragments of our own eternity.
And we get poisoned
By each other mediocrity.
Art doesn’t exists.
Art is pure anarchy,
Following no rule nor tendencies
Than the one that is universal...
A society which reduce
The infinite complexity
Of our universe in a
As it is all contained in a
Is a stupid system.

Who sees the 1?
Who dreams the 1?
Who creates again and again
This symbol?
The creator?
Artist is God’s hand...
Humble but proud to be.
Miserable but so reach...

Art doesn’t exist.
Art is to be created
Again and again.

Celebrate your artists!

Salut ma soeur !!!!

vendredi 19 juin 2009


There was a time a little boy
Who always felt being
A stranger to what was surrounding him.
All around, people spoke
About things he did not paid attention on.
Only in his dreams, was the real life..

He became an artist.
So he could give birth
To the fantasy of his imagination.

And he grew up,
Half in this world,
And half in his head.
But most of the time
The first half was
Not really active...

He became a
Social Misfit Artist.
A real anarchist.
No God, nor master.
He was his own God
And his own master.

And he got older.
His perception
Into the things became clearer,
His passionate temper
Became more subtle,
More patient.

He became an
Artist secretly wise.
Living apart most of the time.
Preferring the beach at night,
Eating with no rules,
Breathing freely.

And he felt inside
A meaning arising.
A kind of revelation.
Something that did gave to his life
The dimension of his kid’s dreams.
Nothing imperious.
More bent into the light.

He became a
Peaceful artist.
Living and watching life.
Full of compassion,
But also some mockeries
For the troops of all of those
Who were laughing at him

Life have the dimension
Of the dream we make on it...

he became a
"Goutte d'eau"
An artist...


This is not
A song of rage
That runs through
My sleepy veins,
A flood of lies
I do receive.
When life’s walls
Shelter not one sided life,
Not even two,
But several contradictory ones,
That all tell different stories,
For every set of ears.
How could I remember
Who I am talking too?
As I know it wasn’t me
Who started to talk.

This is not
A song of despair
That ruins my brain,
Citing golden words
On a track of ruts.
On the bank of the creek,
Listening to the water song,
We evoked the truth
As a banner for to shine.
How can it remembers
Who is talking too,
Coz I know it ain’t me,
And I wish it was not you.

This is just
a song of hope
I want to cover my lips,
For tomorrow never fade,
A golden wish
Of coloured pictures
Laying all along
A sleek track.
So we will remember
Who is talking to,
Of me and you together,
Sitting at the creek’s ribbon.
I wish it will be you,
And it can be me...


mardi 16 juin 2009

Beauty, Focus and Distance

What if the blue you were wrapped in turns to water of the ocean...?
What if the blue you were wrapped in turns to a deep above sky...?
What if the blue you were wrapped in turns into the haze of a morning light...?
What if the blue you were wrapped in becomes the bottom of your dream...?
What if the blue you were wrapped in is a reflection of your face in a lake...?
What if the blue you were wrapped in turns into light cotton sheets...?
What if the blue you were wrapped in was just a breath of incertitude...?
What if the blue you were wrapped in was the shadow of a bright light...?
What if the blue you were wrapped in was not...?

All is green and submarine,
All is orange and golden,
All is white and transparent...

Beauty is a question of focus and distance, as for photography.
To use a common distance and a common focus lets behind the beauty...
Man comes to birth as a unique God...
Then he learns how to be “normal”, “humdrum”...
And so he sees the world like this...

But if he comes closer, very close, and focus on the infinitely small, he will see this...

And if he ascents his vision of the world, he will see this...

And finally, if he holds his spirit to the highest consciousness, he will see the reality of the universe,
And so he will see his OWN real dimension: