MES GUERRES / MY WARS

 
Ma vie fut un champ de batailles.
J’ai essaimé la guerre
Aux quatre coins de mon monde.
Propageant la révolte et le refus,
Pourchassant l’injustice et la bêtise.
Je fus hippy lorsque l’ordre bien pensant
M’aurait voulu sage étudiant,
Brandissant la contestation dans les rues des villes.
Je sais ce qu’est une charge de CRS
Et le gout des gaz lacrymogènes,
Et je sais les fuites dans les ruelles,
Pourchassé par ces pères de famille en armure.
Je fus objecteur par conscience
Lorsque l’armée voulu faire de moi de la chair à canon,
De la mitraille humaine pour quelques surchargés de testostérone.
Je sais l’espace entre deux barreaux d’une prison militaire,
Et leur ridicules sermons, « tu seras un homme mon fils »…
Et leur machines à tuer le temps, mes rêves de gamin,
Pour m’apprendre à être un gentil collabo.
Je fus rebelle chargé d’électricité,
Lorsque de la douce France, j’en chantais les vices
Sur des scènes au hasard, ma « Melody Maker »
Armée des vraies cartouches de la subversion.
Mes frères d’armes étaient Oberkampf et les Bérus.
Je sais les accords qui sonnent haut
Ce que beaucoup chante tout bas.
Je fus militant, lorsque l’anarchie sentait encore la liberté,
L’amour de son prochain et la joie de vivre ensemble.
« LIBEREZ L’ECOLE » et laissez nos enfants
Devenir les grands acteurs de demain.
Je sais depuis combien la manipulation du langage
Peut balayer toutes la bonne foi du monde.

Je fus écrivain, musicien, architecte, peintre et poète,
Je le fus le plus possible et toujours au service de mon idéal.
Mais je sais maintenant le pouvoir de l’argent
Contre quoi aucune conviction de peut rivaliser.
Et chacun de mes frères a rendu ses armes
Pour une poignée de BMW, ou une bonne école républicaine.


Mes guerres ne furent que du vent et n’ont soulevé que de la poussière.


Let me drown…

Mais laissez-moi donc me noyer.
Il n'y aura pas de branches, pas plus que de salut.
Laissez-moi donc épouser les funérailles
Comme un marin épouserait l'océan,
Les bras en croix, les larmes au cœur,
Et le regard au vide des abysses.

Laissez-moi pleurer sur l'inutile,
Et sur mes frères, que le vent portera plus loin que l'horizon,
Parce qu'ils n'auront pas su écouter la douleur en leur poitrine,
Parce qu'ils n'ont pas vu leurs pieds se dérober sous la poussière,
Et sous la glaise de leurs petites vies engourdies.
Ô mère, laissez-moi pleurer sur la vie qui s'égoutte…

Laissez-moi vomir les dégouts de mon âme,
Sur les égouts de certaines autres, poisons flottants
En bandes armées de leurres et de naufrages.
Laissez-moi gémir car je meurs doucement.
Le monde n'est plus peuplé que de voleurs et de menteurs,
De faux-frères assassins, et d'épouses adultères.

Laissez-moi dormir, pour je ne vois plus ce monde,
Qu'il faudrait reconstruire, mais dont on se dispute la couleur.
Laissez-moi, laissez-moi, je vous ai plus qu'assez vu.








But let me drown.
There will be no branches, no more salvation.
Let me embrace the funeral
As a sailor marry the ocean,
Arms outstretched, tears at the heart,
And look at the empty abyss.

Let me cry on the useless,
And my brothers, that the wind will bear beyond the horizon
Because they have failed to hear the pain in their chest,
Because they did not see their feet from under the dust,
And under the clay of their little numb lives.
O mother, let me cry on life dripping ...

Let me throw the disgust of my soul,
On the sewer some other, floating poisons
In gangs of lures and shipwrecks.
Let me moan because I die softly.
The world is not more peopled but by thieves and liars,
Murderer false brothers and adulterous wives.

Let me sleep, for I no longer see this world
That we should rebuild, but that we argue for the color.
Leave me, leave me, I've seen you more than enough.

L'Oiseau de Feu



J'étais oiseau de feu, qu'aucun ciel de guerre n'avait jusqu'alors abattu.


J'étais le fier fer de lance d'une envolé vouée à la justice,

Et mes ailes incandescentes semaient le feu sur les terres des voleurs de coeurs,

Comme elles semaient la brise douce des matins d'été sur le coeur des apeurés.

Nul ne me connaissait, mais tous me reconnaissaient lorsque mon cri perçant venait à surgir à l'aube des discordes,

Et les in-justiciers du désordre savaient craindre mes colères fulgurantes et acérées.

J'étais oiseau du feu, enfant de la révolte, justicier aux mains vides mais au coeur d'acier.

J'étais oiseau en feu, volcan divin, capable de cataclismes vengeurs et de séismes ravageurs.



J'étais l'oiseau - feu, l'une des main de Dieu, celle qui n'a aucune pitié pour le fourbe et le menteur.

Mais il ne vous aura fallu, vous le serpent de feu, la langue des vils, qu'un regard pour me coupé les ailes,

Eteindre mon feu, et dissoudre l'ordre des justices pour y instaurer le fiel de votre maléfice.



J'étais l'oiseau, mais vous étiez Satan.

Désillusion

Désillusion

 

La grande désillusion a empli mon ciel.

Les grandes trahisons sont comme des batailles épiques

Et leurs blessures ne se refermeront jamais.

L'ennemie est dans mon camp et sa voix perfide me murmure

Ses plans assassin tout en déclamant à haute voix sa flamme éternelle.

Cet amour qui a la couleur du miel mais l'action du venin mortel.

La grande désillusion frappe en permanence à ma porte,

Et me jure que c'est la dernière fois, que désormais sa fidélité sera sans faille,

Mais je vois bien dans le miroir, que la main dans son dos tient le couteau

Qui me frappera encore, et encore, et encore.

Cet amour qui laboure mon cœur pour y planter ses graines de fleurs vénéneuses,

Pour y répandre le jardin maléfique de sa propre damnation.

La grande désillusion a envahit ma vie, et les cendres de ses buchers

Tentent de m'y étouffer, de m'y enterrer pour l'enfer.

Cet amour qui ment et qui m'utilise, juste pour passer le temps.

Cet amour que je hais de m'avoir trahit autant.

 

 

Disillusion

The great disappointment has filled my sky.
The betrayals are as large epic battles
And their wounds will never heal.
The enemy is on my side and her treacherous voice whispers
His assassin plans while reciting aloud its eternal flame.
This love has the color of honey but the action of deadly poison.
The big disappointment knocks constantly at my door,
And swears it's the last time, that now it's loyalty is unwavering,
But I see in the mirror, the hand behind it's back holding the knife
That will strike me again and again and again.
This love plowing my heart to plant the seeds of poisonous flowers,
To spread the evil garden of his own damnation.
The big disappointment has invaded my life, and the ashes of his pyres
Trying to smother me in, bury me to hell.
This love lies and uses me, just to pass the time.
This love that I hate to betray me as much.

God's Anger

God's anger

Tu finiras toute seule

Tu as marché sur la lune
Vendu ton âme pour faire fortune
Les gens s' inclinent devant toi
Tu agis toujours de sang froid
Tu séduis tu enfumes
Tu bats des records pour faire la une
Des amis tu en as des tonnes
Des messages pleins ton téléphone

Mais tu finiras toute seule
Tu finiras toute seule
Tu finiras toute seule
Tu n'as jamais pris la peine

Tu as marché sur mon cœur
Vendu mon âme à un docteur
Je t'ai aimé tous les jours
J' attendais tellement en retour
Loin de toi tout ira bien
J' apprendrai à être heureux
Tu trouveras un autre pantin
Qui voudra bien jouer à ton jeu

Mais tu finiras toute seule
Tu finiras toute seule
Tu finiras toute seule
Tu n'as jamais pris la peine

Regarde autour, autour de toi
La vie ce n'est pas ce que tu crois
Regarde moi une dernière fois
Car demain, demain
Je ne serai plus là

Et tu finiras toute seule
Tu finiras toute seule
Tu finiras toute seule
Tu n'as jamais pris la peine




You'll end up all alone


You walked on the moon
Sold your soul to make fortune
People bow in front of you
You always acted of cold blood
You seduce you smoke out
You beat records to hit the headlines
Friends, you have tons
Your phone full of messages

But you'll end up all alone
You'll end up all alone
You'll end up all alone
You never made a try

You walked on my heart
Sold my soul to a doctor
I loved you every day
I waited so much in return
Far from you everything will be alright
I'll learn to be happy
You will find another marionette
Who wants to play your game

But you'll end up all alone
You'll end up all alone
You'll end up all alone
You never made a try

Look around, around you
Life is not what you think
Look at me one last time
Because tomorrow, tomorrow
I'm gone.

And you'll end up all alone
You'll end up all alone
You'll end up all alone
You never made a try

Song By Gerard De Palmas

KISS THE CARPET

Qu'est donc l'humanité ?
Une association de malfaiteurs ?
Un congloméra d'autistes volontaires ?
Une joyeuse bande d'égoïstes vertébrés ?
Une ribambelle de + et de – qui se vautrent les uns les autres ?

Certainement pas une bande de frères !

Je les entends, tous ces prêcheurs de bonne aventure,
Ces prophètes du dimanche en costume de velours,
Prêt à vous arnaquer votre vie, votre amour,
A sucer vos rêves pour nourrir leur réalité,
A se méfier de vous pour mieux vous désarmer.

Certainement pas un troupeau honnête !

Jésus a prêché l'Amour comme levier pour révéler notre éternité,
Mohamed a prêché l'équité et la tolérance comme bras des révélations,
Bouddha a enseigné l'harmonie comme révélateur de notre appartenance cosmique.
Et tous ces prophètes ont brassé de l'air,
Tant la tête de l'homme n'est qu'une carcasse vide de compassion,
Mais pleine d'envie.

Certainement pas des anges de l'éternel !

Car tous trahissent, volent, manipulent, profitent, spolient.
Tous calculent l'amour comme équation d'enrichissement,
Tous fabriquent des alliances comme monnaie d'échange.
Tous s'invitent à la table des négociations comme le loup dans une bergerie.
Car il n'y a qu'une réalité humaine :
Etre prédateur pour ne pas être proie.

Certainement pas l'idée que s'en faisait le créateur !


Alors, la prochaine fois, je regarderai mieux, avant d'embrasser le tapis…




So what's the humanity?
A conspiracy?
A conglomerate of autistic volunteers?
A merry band of selfish vertebrates?
A string of + and - who wallow each other?

Certainly not a band of brothers!

I hear all these preachers of fortunes,
These Sunday prophets in velvet suit,
Ready to rip you off your life, your love,
To suck your dreams to feed their reality,
To distrust for disarming you better.

Certainly not an honest herd!

Jesus preached love as a lever to reveal our eternity,
Mohammed preached fairness and tolerance as arms of revelations,
Buddha taught harmony as a sign of our cosmic membership.
And all these prophets stirred the air,
So much the man's head is an empty shell of compassion,
But full of envy.

Certainly not the angels of the eternal!

Because all betray, steal, manipulate, profit, infringed.
All calculate of love as the enrichment equation,
All manufacturing alliances as a bargaining chip.
All guests to the negotiating table as the wolf in a sheepfold.
Because there is a human reality:
Being a predator to avoid being a prey.

Certainly not the idea the creator had!




So the next time, I'll watch better, before I kiss the carpet ...

THE PITYFULL JOURNEY

It started in the middle of nowhere,
And this is where it's going to end.
The middle of nowhere is the middle
of a thousand torments,
a thousand of golden dreams
that do not survived
the first light.


And who took his ticket of gold letters,
The reason caught him and showed him the door
Written by the language of the disingenuous
The words of hell. And hell is rough
Hell has no rules
Or that of his own purpose ...
Pervert and feasting.


Do you hear, you who are not there yet,
The thuds of destinies dying
Wallowing in the meal
The great pretender,
From great pretender ...
From the villain who maliciously drew
In her honey trap?


The journey began by illuminate the sky,
By creating new stars.
Wildfire that has not withstood the light
Of the first morning on planet earth.
And it will end up in these ashes
That the rain turns into mud,
Stone vanity, for there be sacrificed.

The eternal journey was a miserable artifice.

 

 

 

 

 

Cela a commence au milieu de null part,

Et c'est là qu'il va finir.

Le milieu de null part est le milieu

De mille tourments,

Un millier de rêves en or

Qui n'auront pas survécus

la première clarté.

 

Et pour qui a pris son billet aux lettres d'or,

La raison le rattrape et lui montre la porte

Où s'inscrit de la langue du fourbe

Les mots de l'enfer. Et l'enfer est rude,

L'enfer n'a pas de règles,

Sinon celle de son propre dessein…

Pervertir et se repaitre.

 

Entendez-vous, vous qui n'y êtes pas encore,

Les coups sourds de ces destins mourant

Qui se vautrent dans le repas

Du grand simulateur,

Du grand prétendeur…

Du fourbe qui par malice les a attiré

Dans son piège de miel ?

 

Le voyage avait commencé par illuminer le ciel,

Par créer de nouvelles étoiles.

Feu de paille qui n'a pas résisté à la lueur

Du premier matin, sur la planète terre.

Et il finira dans ces cendres

Que la pluie transforme en boue,

En pierre de néant, pour s'y sacrifier.

 

Le voyage éternel n'était qu'un pitoyable artifice.

 

 

 

 

 

serpenteaba

Su veneno de la serpiente se extiende a lo largo de mi espina dorsal en una larga sombra sobre todas las horribles demoníaca que los otros, tus palabras que no dicen nada menos que todos los muertos del infierno en el que susurro, agitando los brazos señales pérfida a la languidez de ácido mañana negro, tus miradas que matan todo a su paso y la regla suprema sobre una tierra devastada de toda la inteligencia, tus pensamientos caóticos que sólo producen la destrucción o vacío, en función de si el sueño o le preocupe, sus creencias de basura que apenas oculta su adoración por todos los que Lucifer se puede soñar, su riqueza basada en el robo y el robo, la manipulación y la traición, la amistad que vende a cambio de las almas de aquellos que tienen la desgracia de caer bajo su hechizo no saludables, el cuerpo putrefacto y estéril, que afortunadamente no procrea, ruego a Dios, su escritura vacía de significado que le roban a que luego, sin una pizca de respeto por sus autores, su belleza y artificial de lo posible, que apenas esconde un sufrimiento indecible, y todos aquellos momentos en los que me hizo creer en su dios, pobre de mí que pensé que para una tiempo, y ahora vive en tu infierno ... Por todo esto, será condenado.

The Red Dress Was Empty Of Human

It's a long story which started in the maze of the line.

Some words dropped wild on a page of mine…
Some flattery disguised in the dress of the sincerity…
It was a promise, a commitment for some parcels of immortality,
A finger of light showing a red door for a paradise to be there…

But who knows where the obscure hides?

At the root of one day, the smiles were flourishing,
Smelling as fresh as a forest of jasmine.
The poetry was the only meaning
For a thousand years of delighted connection…

But who knows where the false leads?

Decorum, glittering of syrupy whispers
Wanted to build cattle with clouds,
Roads of mist, a sky of green,
For to erect a kingdom of tales.

But who knows where the lie starts?

In dreams, distances have no distance.
And so it has been easy to travel from the past to the promise.
In fantasy, reality changes to your mood's feeling.
The sky has the colors of your whispers.

But who knows where the reality ends?

The fairy castle founded on an old fen
Started to collapse of his misty walls,
The roof of stars was just an old sheet perforated by moths.
The illusion of the darkness dies in the dawn.

But who knows what darkness covers?

Coz at least, if one day you catch a glimpse of a red dress,
in one dark corner of a dream,
Don't be surprised if the next morning,
You find yourself talking to a stuffed dummy.

But who knows if puppets have thoughts?

Vous pouvez mourir tranquille, Madame Sakineh Mohammadi Ashtiani.

 

Qui êtes-vous, Madame Sakineh Mohammadi Ashtiani ?

Ho ! Vous êtes iranienne ?
Alors vous pouvez mourir tranquille, le monde se fout bien de ce qu'il vous arrive.
Par contre, le monde est en mal de sensation forte, de cause à consommer sur place, puis à vomir devant la télé…
Alors vous serez, pour quelques minutes, la reine de la programmation informative, la une de certains magazines…
Mais quoi ! Vous êtres condamnée à mort dans une de ses formes les plus barbares… ?
« Mon Dieu ! Mais qui sont ces gens ? » Se dit la ménagère de moins de 50 ans, en s'empiffrant de chips,
Produites par ces multinationales qui justement, sont responsables de votre misère, Madame Sakineh Mohammadi Ashtiani.
Car c'est de misère que vous mourrez ! Cette misère qui vous à conduite à accepter un tyran comme maitre pour vous défendre des autres tyrans de cette planète.
Vous voici donc la tête entre les marteaux et l'enclume. Petit bout de fer que les grands de ce monde forgent et reforgent à votre image : un bout de rien pour boucher les trous de nos souliers percés d'avoir trop cherché la liberté…
Mais ne regrettez rien, Madame Sakineh Mohammadi Ashtiani ! Si vous partez, vous ne laisserez qu'un troupeau beuglant qui vous aura aussitôt oubliée, dans les méandres de leur cerveau autiste, de leur mémoire sélective, de leur présent jetable.
Et surtout, ne pleurez pas votre vie passée, réincarnez-vous en déesse de lumière, et venez terrasser ces monstres haineux qui vont faire de vous une autre martyre sacrifiée sur l'autel des mesquineries insupportables de la race ( in ) - humaine…
Bien sûr, je vous souhaite d'échapper à cette mort promise en exemple de la lutte des pouvoirs. Mais pour autant, combien d'innocents sont tombés, tomberont, sous les coups insupportables des seigneurs de la guerre, des maitres de l'univers connu, dans un silence de plomb. Dans cette farouche volonté de ne pas savoir, de ne pas voir, de ne pas entendre vos ongles crisser sur le dallage des prisons du monde. Trop embarrassant sans doute ? Car nous sommes responsable et comptable des insanités commises au nom de notre ignorance feinte.
Oui, NOUS, qui sommes des milliards à ne rien dire, à ne rien faire, à ne rien tenter…
Alors je vous le dis, Madame Sakineh Mohammadi Ashtiani, donnez-moi votre place, là, tout de suite, car ce monde m'est insupportable de sa lâcheté…
Et je trouverai bien plus belle ma vie dans sa mort éclatante, que dans son interminable couloir des tortures quotidiennes du monde des vivants.

Mesdames et Messieurs de la race humaine, je ne vous salue pas !
Mais je sais que de toute façon, vous n'en avez rien à foutre…


You can die quiet, Mrs Madame Sakineh Mohammadi Ashtiani.

Who are you, Madam Sakineh Mohammadi Ashtiani?
Ho ! You Iranian people? Then you can die in peace, nobody cares much of what happens to you.
But, the world is looking for strong sensation, causes to be consumed on the spot, then to be vomit in front of the TV …
So you will be, for a few moment, the queen of informative programming, the front page of some magazines ...
But what, you sentenced to death in one of its most barbaric form ...?
"My God! But who are these people? "Said the less than 50 years' housewife, stuff with some crisps,
produced by these multinationals that are precisely responsible for your misery, Madame Sakineh Mohammadi Ashtiani.
Coz that's precisely of misery that you will die! That misery that led you to accept a tyrant as master to defend yourselves from other tyrants of this world.
Here you are, the head between hammers and the anvil. A small piece of iron that the great of this world forge and mould again to your picture: a piece of nothing to fill the holes in our shoes, leaky to have wandered too much for freedom ...
But no regrets, Ms. Mohammadi Sakineh Ashtiani! If you leave, you'll letbehind a bellowing herd that will soon forget you in the maze of their autistic brains, their selective memory, their disposable present…
And do not cry your past life, you'll reincarnate into a goddess of light, and come back to crash down these spiteful monsters that will make you another martyr, sacrificed on the altar of unbearable pettiness of the in-Human race...

Of course, I wish you to escape this promised death, an example of the power struggle. But so far, how many innocent people have fallen, will, under the blows of unbearable warlords, the masters of the known universe, in a deafening silence. In this fierce desire not to know, not to see, not hear your fingernails screeching on the pavement of the world's prisons. Probably too embarrassing? Because we are responsible and accountable for these insanities perpetrated in the name of our feigned ignorance.
Yes, WE, who are billions to say nothing, doing nothing, trying nothing ...

So I say to you, Madam Sakineh Mohammadi Ashtiani, give me your place, here, right now, because this world is unbearable for me in its cowardice ...
And I'll find my life more beautiful in dazzling death than in its endless corridor of daily torture of the living world.

Ladies and gentlemen of the human race, I do not salute you!
But I know that anyway, you do not care...

MODADDICTION

C'est un coma d'idées qui s'est emparé doucement de nous
Alors peu importe ce qu'on nous sert
Tant qu'on est bête à manger en vain
L'académie des tares, leur univers sale et top stars de rien !
Hélas, référence de la nouvelle France où l'on aspire tout.
On éteint pas, attirés, fous, accaparés, c'est ça que tu veux ?
Avoir l'air crétin, marcher au pas, te contenter toujours du peu.
Tellement de promesses et d'apparences...

Dans la panique, on consomme et c'est la dépendance
Dès qu'on passe en modaddiction
On nous donne le soleil de minuit
Quand tu rêves en modaddiction
On te montre la lune en plein midi
Mais tout n'est qu'une illusion, car
tout est faux tout est fiction

Et j'ai peine à voir de quoi la jeunesse se gave le soir
Un monde galvaudé qu'on superpose à son regard
Entre le zist ou le zest tout est bon à prendre surtout les fonds
Mais qu'on résiste ou qu'on lâche du lest
On finira tous addicts ou cons !
Car le mensonge et la bêtise sont un état d'esprit
C'est la télé qui t'a pris et elle décide de tes envies..
Le pire a toujours plus d'influence

Dans la panique on consomme et la dépendance
Dès qu'on passe en modaddiction
on nous donne le soleil de minuit
Quand tu rêves en modaddiction
On te montre la lune en plein midi
Mais tout n'est qu'une illusion, car
tout est faux tout est fiction

Dès qu'on passe en modaddiction
Quand tu rêves en modaddiction
Tout n'est qu'une illusion
Tout est faux tout est fiction
Si tu rêves en modaddiction
Si tu restes en modaddiction
Tout n'est qu'une illusion, tout est faux tout est fiction...




It is the coma of ideas that seized us slowly
Then no matter what we’re serve
As long as we are stupid to eat in vain
The academy of the defects, their dirty universe and top stars of nothing!
Regrettably, reference of the new France where we suck up everything.
We switch off not, attracted, crazy, monopolized, that's right what you want?
Look moron, walk to the step, get satisfy always with the few.
So promises and appearances...

In the panic, we consume and it is the dependence
Once we move into “addiction mode”
They give us the midnight sun
When you dream in “addiction mode”
They show you the moon at noon.
But everything is only an illusion, because
Everything is false, everything is fiction

And I can hardly see with what the youth stuffs itself at night
A tarnished world which we superimposed to our glance,
Between this or that everything is good to take, especially the funds
But whatever we resist or release
We will all end addicts or idiots!
Because the lies and stupidity are a state of mind
The TV took you and it decides on your desires. ..
The worst ever influence

In the panic, we consume and it is the dependence
Once we move into “addiction mode”
They give us the midnight sun
When you dream in “addiction mode”
They show you the moon at noon.
But everything is only an illusion, because
Everything is false, everything is fiction

Once we move into “addiction mode”
When you dream in addiction mode”
Everything is an illusion
Everything is false everything is fiction
If you dream in “addiction mode”
If you stay “addiction mode”
Everything is an illusion, everything is false everything is fiction ...

Why am I so B.O.R.E.D...???

PARIS HILTON:

« Tiens, si j’allais prendre un café à Paris, puis je dinerais bien à Londres, ou Zurich ?... Après ça, j’irai m’éclater à L.A. Demain, un p’tit tour en ADS parce que y a du people en ce moment avec le mondiale de soccer… Je me fous du soccer, mais pas des peoples… Haaaaaa, les peoples, ma court, mon terrain de jeux. Après tout ça, ben j’sais pas… J’vais demander à mon agent de me trouver quelque chose à faire pour la fin de semaine... »
Et la moitié de la planète admire cette femme oisive, inutile. Cette vie décrépie qui cherche dans quelle autre stupidité elle pourrait se fourrer tellement sa vie est un long collier de perles vides…
Et l’autre moitié de la planète de la détester, sans oublier de télécharger le feuilletons de ses nuits même pas vraiment « hot ». Je n’ai vu que le premier épisode, histoire de pas mourir idiot… Merde, je suis un peu plus idiot maintenant… La belle ne l’est même pas… Un sac d’os qui joue le même jeu que des milliards d’autres paumés du sexe. Que quelqu’un lui offre un Kâma-Sûtra, ça pourrait la rendre moins « planche »…
Mais quand est-ce que quelqu’un va lui coller une bonne fessée et la mettre au (vrai) travail ? Je sais pas, moi… Dans une mine au Brésil, dans les champs en ADS, dans une usine « N.I.K.E » à Bombay…
Histoire qu’elle voit que pour chacun de ses caprices, des centaines de gens souffrent de la misère par compensation…

Bon, je savais pas quoi faire… mais comme je n’ai pas d’avion privé pour aller prendre un café à Paris et diner à Londres, alors j’ai pensé à tous ces pauvres personnes qui peuvent le faire…

 

"Hey ! What if I take a coffee in Paris, and then I would dine in London or Zurich? ... After that, go have fun in LA
Tomorrow, a small trip to ADS coz there’s people there with the soccer world cup ... I am not crazy about soccer, but I looove People ... Haaaaaa ! Peoples! My court, my playground. After all of that, well I don’t know ... I'll ask my agent to find me something to do for the end of the week ... "

And half of the world admires this lazy, useless woman. This decrepit life which seeks for another stupid stuff she can get in, so much her life is a long string of empty pearls ...
And the other half of the planet to hate her, but do not forget to download the last episode of her nights not even really "hot". I only saw the first episode, to not die stupid… Shit, I'm a little more stupid now ... The beauty isn’t really ... A bag of bones who plays the same game that billions of other sex lost.
Please, somebody! Gives her a Kama Sutra, it could make her less "a board" ...
When someone gonna  spank her for real and put her to a (real) job? I don’t know... In a mine in Brazil, in the fields in ADS, in a "Nike" factory in Mumbai ...
So she could see that for each of her fancy, hundreds of people suffer from poverty by offsetting ...

Well, I was wandering what to do ... but I have no private jet to go get a coffee in Paris and dinner in London, so I thought of all those poor people who have one ...

Grande Cuisine

Il n'est pas un jour sans une « affaire »…
Il n'est pas un jour sans qu'une « affaire » cache une plus grosse « affaire ».
La politique, française ou d'ailleurs, n'est qu'une immense escroquerie,
Que dis-je c'est l'escroquerie du siècle non-stop, des poupées russes.
C'est des « Mac Do » affichant « RESTAURANT GASTRONOMIQUE ».
C'est des promesses d'un meilleur avenir en trompe-l'œil
Que seuls les imbéciles, les crétins, et les désespérés continuent de croire.
C'est de la GRANDE CUISINE concoctée dans une cuisine si sale
Que même les rats ne veulent s'y aventurer.
Ce sont des politiciens véreux portant cravates…
Ce sont des nantis qui jouent entre eux au poker-menteur
et les enjeux sont nos putains de vies.

« Amis ! La politique vous ment ! »
Vous le savez déjà ?
Alors pourquoi continuez-vous à élire ces soi-disant représentants du peuple ?
Parce qu'il n'y a aucune autre alternative ?
Mon Dieu ! Avec quelle partie de votre corps vous réfléchissez ???

Amis Français :
-VIe république.
-Consultation directe par référendum sur les grands sujets de société.
-Obligation de résultat des élus.
-…

Les solutions sont si nombreuses qu'il me faudrait des jours pour toutes les citer.



Mais à quoi bon. Il semble que vous aimez la « GRANDE CUISINE » de chez Mac Do.

It is not a day without a "case" ...
It is not a day without a "case" hides a bigger "deal".
Politics, French or otherwise, is a huge scam.
What do I say? This is a non-stop century' scam. Russian dolls.
This is "MacDonald "displaying "GOURMET RESTAURANT".
It's promises of a better future in trompe-l'oeil
That only the fools, morons, and hopeless still believe.
It's a "GRANDE CUISINE" concocted in a so dirty kitchen
that even the rats want not to venture there.
They are corrupt politicians on ties ...
They are rich who play poker-liar
and the stakes are our fucking lives.

"Friends! Politics lie to you! "
You already know?
So why do you continue to elect these so-called representatives of the people?
Because there is no other alternative?
My God! With what part of your body you think???

French friends:
-VIe republic.
-Consultation direct by referendum on major societal issues.
-Obligation of result for the elected.
- ...

The solutions are so numerous that it would take me days to list them all.

But what. It seems that you like the "GRANDE CUISINE" from MacDonald.

DREAM

J'ai fait un rêve… La France battait l' AFS 103- 0…
Le Mexique battait l'Uruguay 2-0…
La France se qualifiait et battait l'Argentine 95-0…
Puis les quarts, les demis… 25-1 et 43-0
Et puis la finale contre le Japon gagnée 128-3…

La France est championne du MONDE de soccer !!!!

… en rêve…
Mais c'était un beau rêve… Il y avait même Dugary sur le terrain !
En tout cas, plus beau que la réalité des nouvelles ce matin… la guerre, la corruption, les mensonges… le racisme, l'idiotie… Tout cela est dans les nouvelles ce matin…

Je préfère mon rêve à votre réalité, Madame l'humanité…

 

I made a dream ... France beat South Africa 103-0 ...
Mexico beat Uruguay 2-0 ...
France is qualified and beat Argentina 95-0 ...
Then the quarter, the half-final, 25-1 and 43-0 ...
And then the final against Japan, won 128-3 ...

France is WORLD champion of soccer!!

... In dreams ...
But it was a beautiful dream ... There was even Dugary on the field!

In any case, more beautiful than the reality of the news this morning ... the war, corruption, lies ... racism, idiocy ... All of this is in the news this morning ...

I prefer my dreams to your reality, Madam Humanity ...

VIVA MEXICO !!!

C'est un cauchemar !!! Domenech EST un cauchemar…
Mais connait-il quelque chose au foot ?
Où est la tactique de jeu ?
Faire évoluer ses joueurs à des postes qu'ils ne connaissent pas ?
Seulement 2 changements ? Henry, Cissé, ??? Ramasseurs de balles ?
Lorsqu'un entraineur constate que son équipe est dépassée dans TOUT les secteurs du jeu, N'est-il pas sensé faire des modifications tactiques ?
Pas Domenech… Tout juste remplace t-il deux joueurs, et c'est pire…

Hier soir, l'équipe de France était la pire de toutes les équipes… Et le Mexique une des très belles de ce mondial.

VIVA MEXICO !!!

PS : Raymond, t'as pas de mots pour qualifier cette défaite ? Moi j'en ai deux : TIRE-TOI !!!


Mais c'est trop tard…









It's a nightmare!
Domenech IS a nightmare ...
Does this guy knows something in football?
Where is the game plan?
Make his players in a role they do not know? "
Only 2 changes? Henry, Cisse,??? Ball boys?
When a coach finds out that his team is out of ALL areas of the game Is not it supposed to change tactics?
Not Domenech ... he Just replaces two players, and it's getting worse ...
Yesterday evening, the French team was the worst of all the teams ... And Mexico one of the very beautiful in this world cup.

VIVA MEXICO!

PS: Raymond, you've got no words to describe this loss?  I have two:  GET OUT !!!!


But it's too late…





Zidane watching the match: No comment!

X.000.000.000,00 $

Quel que soit la réalité de la valeur du "X", c'est le nombre de  « Zéro » qui fait froid dans le dos.

Et toute personne sensée ne peut que sentir une sourde colère monter dans ses veines.

Nous parlons de milliards.


 

M.I.L.L.I.A.R.D.S !!!

 

 
Mais aussi, les fortunes englouties pour renflouer une image de marque aussi noire que cette colère…

Et maintenant, notre pétrolier british crée une « Fondation pour la nature » !!!!!


 

DE QUI SE MOQUE T-ON ???

 
Hey ? Messieurs les petites têtes ! Je vous donne une idée post mortem :


 

FALLAIT LE FAIRE AVANT !!!

 

 
Mais à votre décharge, le monde est ainsi fait, et vous n'êtes pas une exception.

Combien de milliards sont investis dans les guerres, alors que ces milliards seraient amplement suffisants pour solutionner les raisons de ces guerres ?


 
Alors, Messieurs les Terriens, je vous pose cette question :


 

QUAND DEVIENDREZ-VOUS INTELLIGENTS ???

 

 

A suivre. Car nous sommes loin d'en avoir fini….


 

 

 

 

 
Whatever the reality of the "X" value, it's the number of "Zero" that scares.
And any reasonable person can feel a dull anger rising in his veins.
We are talking about billions.

B.I.L.L.I.O.N.S !!!

But also, the fortunes gobbled up to bail out a brand image as black as this anger …

And now, our British Oilmen creates a "Foundation for Nature" !!!!!

WHO MAKES FUN OF US ???

Hey? Gentlemen small heads! I give you an idea post mortem

HAD TO BE DONE BEFORE !!!

But to your credit, the world is like this and you are not an exception.
How many billions are invested in war, while those billions would be amply sufficient to solve the reasons for these wars?

So, gentlemen of the Earth, I am asking this question:

WHEN WILL YOU BECOME INTELLIGENT ???

Stay tuned. Because we are far to be done with that....

L'Europe

Les sangliers sont lâchés.
Je répète :
les sangliers sont lâchés.

Les petits patrons font les grandes rivières de diamant.
Deux fois.

Les roses de l'Europe sont le festin de Satan.
Je répète :
les roses de l'Europe sont le festin de Satan.

Nous travaillons actuellement pour l'Europe.
Nous travaillons actuellement pour l'Europe.
Nous travaillons actuellement pour l'Europe.
Nous travaillons actuellement pour l'Europe.
Voire pour le monde.

Chère vieille Europe, cher vieux continent, putain autoritaire, aristocrate et libertaire, bourgeoise et ouvrière, pomponnée des grands siècles et colosses titubants. Regarde tes épaules voûtées, pas moyen d'épousseter d'un seul geste, d'un seul, les vieilles pellicules, tes peaux mortes d'hier et tabula rasa… D'ici on pourrait croire à de la pourriture noble et en suspension. Il flotte encore dans l'air de cette odeur de soufre.

Sale vieille Europe, celle qui entre deux guerres et même encore pendant caressait pour son bien le ventre des pays de ses lointains ailleurs et la bite à la main arrosait de son sperme les sexes autochtones.

On se relève de ça ? On se relève de tout même des chutes sans fond.

Nous avons su monter nous avons su descendre, nous pouvons arrêter et nous pouvons reprendre…
Europe des lumières ou alors des ténèbres ; à peine des lucioles dans les théâtres d'ombre. A peine une étincelle dans la nuit qui s'installe et puis se ressaisit, et puis l'aube nouvelle, après les crimes d'enfance, les erreurs de jeunesse on n'arrache plus les ailes des libellules d'or.

Nous travaillons actuellement pour l'Europe.
Voire pour le monde.

Amnistie, amnistie ou alors amnésie, qu'est ce que vous voulez que ça foute, de toutes façons il faut bien avancer, pressons l'pas camarade et puis réalisons réalisons, il en restera toujours quelque chose allez ! Matérialiste alors ça fait qu'au moins on est sûr de n'pas se tromper, et du tangible alors jusqu'à l'indigestion, du rationnel alors et jusqu'à en crever, des logiques implacables mais toujours pas de sens… Eh princesse de l'Histoire dans sa marche forcée, on finit par se perdre en passant sous tes arches multiséculaires.

Nous travaillons actuellement pour l'Europe.
Voire pour le monde.

On est passé de tes arcanes passées, passé de tes arcanes passées, on est passé de tes arcanes passées, aux charmes technocrates…
Alors l'Europe alors l'Europe alors l'Europe alors. Bruxelles, Schengen, Strasbourg, Maastricht, PIB, PIB, CEE, Euratom, OCDE et GATT. Protégez-nous marché de cet AMI commun d'un monde si petit.

Euromonnaie unique, Nasdaq et CAC 40, orgiaque, idyllique, faîtes de la poésie, soutenez la culture, produisez du spectacle et de l'entertainment comme on dit chez nos frères d'Outre-Atlantique et toc anciens Européens, nouveaux maîtres du monde pendant que le dragon asiatique rêve, fait ses étirements, il est beau et puissant, crache du feu gentiment.

Pendant qu'Ernest Antoine Seillière fait son apparition et nous déclare sa flamme il nous aime et nous dit : « Nous ne sommes pas comme les politiques soumis à la pression de la rue »
Et on entend au loin résonner les clameurs de la foule, les beaux mouvements d'ensemble, les défilés glorieux et puis la lutte des classes.
Et maintenant c'est sérieux, eh bébé, c'est sérieux on ne croit plus en rien, nous montons de toutes pièces ce business et Basta, on chevauche pas Pégase ça c'était pour l'extase et l'extase c'est fini.
Extension, extension, expansion si possible, pas de rêve à porter seulement des dynamiques.
D'abord la thune bébé et le reste suivra et le reste viendra c'est ce qu'on dit je crois en cette époque là bénie des globophages.

Chère vieille Europe, ta tête connaît à peine tes jambes qui souvent ne comprennent pas tes bras comment ça marche un corps déjà. Comment ça marche un corps étranger à son corps on n'sait pas on s'en fout on s'embrasse quand même et puis on a raison.

Sale vieille Europe, te souviens-tu de la force brutale, occident mal luné, guerre brûlante, guerre froide, et enfin de guerre lasse et enfin de guerre lasse.

Nous travaillons actuellement pour l'Europe.

En veux-tu en voilà des écoles de la / performance et voilà des patrons créateurs du Global business dialogue ou Electronic commerce pour s'asseoir en gloussant sur toutes les exceptions à commencer par ce truc machin culturel.

Histoires de producteurs et de consommateurs, du producteur au consommateur, et des intermédiaires à plus savoir qu'en foutre, toute ton âme s'est usée sur ce chemin sans fin et ce va-et-vient, viens on y va, nous aussi, profiter, pas d'raison, après tout ça ira, on en aura pour tout le monde, y'en aura pour tout l'monde, on a dit pour tout l'monde, pour tout l'monde
et mon cul !

A quelle hauteur vas-tu ériger tes remparts ?
Où vas-tu repousser tes nouveaux murs d'enceinte ?
Quelque chose est resté en travers de la gorge et nous voulons cracher c'est la moindre des choses mais vous pouvez, madame, vous adressez à nous car tout n'est pas perdu non tout n'est pas perdu de vos mythes d'aurore ici le soleil brille pour tous et on y croit.

Nous travaillons actuellement pour l'Europe.
Voire pour le Monde

Quelque chose est resté en travers de la gorge et nous voulons cracher c'est la moindre des choses mais vous pouvez, madame, vous adressez à nous car tout n'est pas perdu non tout n'est pas perdu de vos mythes d'aurore ici le soleil brille pour tous et on y croit.

La vérole sur vos gueules.
Je répète :
la vérole sur vos gueules.
Les soupirs de la sainte et les cris de la fée ne sont plus entendus au banquet des banquiers.
Une fois.
La marmite de l'ermite est remplie de rubis.
Je répète :
la marmite de l'ermite est remplie de rubis.

La vieille Europe est la maquerelle des ballets roses.
Deux fois.
Quand les sirènes se taisent, les rapaces gueulent.
Je répète :
quand les sirènes se taisent, les rapaces gueulent.
Le rouge et le noir des tortures sont les fleurs du mal.
Je répète :
le rouge et le noir des tortures sont les fleurs du mal.
Le jour de l'Occident est la nuit de l'Orient.
Deux fois.
Le jour de l'Occident est la nuit de l'Orient.
Je ne suis pas chauvine
mais la France est quand même la reine des fromages.
Tryphon Tournesol est un zouave.
Six fois.

Le sang versé est la tasse de thé des géants de la foire.
Deux fois.
Il pleut des cordes sur la Concorde.
Il pleut des cordes sur la Concorde.
Les petites filles modèles sont les élues de l'Europe.
Je répète :
les petites filles modèles sont les élues de l'Europe.
Merde à la sûreté.
Deux fois.
La folie des grandeurs tue les merles moqueurs.
Je répète :
la folie des grandeurs tue les merles moqueurs.
Si vous ne trouvez plus rien cherchez autre chose.

Paix en Suisse.
Je répète :
paix en Suisse.
Les noces de sang incendient l'horizon.
Deux fois.
Le rimel de l'Europe coule sur les plastrons.
Deux fois.

La vie commence maintenant,
et maintenant, et maintenant.

L'Europe est une petite déesse mortelle.
Deux fois.

L'enfance de l'art est un lever de soleil.
Je répète :
l'enfance de l'art est un lever de soleil.

Nous travaillons actuellement pour l'Europe

Paroles Bertrand Cantat et Brigitte Fontaine
Musique Noir Désir / Akosh Szelevényi

Thank You, Mother f.ckers…

Oil Spill – Photo Credit Reuter/cfnews13.com

A month after BP's Deepwater Horizon well exploded, oil continues gushing from the well and is coating beaches and marshland along the southern Louisiana coast. (Photo - John Moore/Getty Images)

Merci, Môssieur BPAmoco, alias Môssieur British Petroleum, cher membre de cette illustre confréries des sociétés de « l'or noir », de nous offrir ce merveilleux spectacle d'une nature une fois de plus ravagée par vos incompétences et votre avidité.
Et que l'on ne vienne pas me dire que c'est grâce à vous que je peux me déplacer en engin motorisé… Il existe depuis longtemps des solutions énergétiques bien moins polluantes et certainement moins coûteuses pour le consommateur si elles étaient mises en œuvre à grande échelle… mais certainement moins « rentables » pour vous et la cohorte de vos « actionnaires du deuil ».

Thank you, Mister BPAmoco, aka Mister British Petroleum, dear member of these illustrious brotherhood' societies of the "black gold", for giving us to see this wonderful show of a nature once again ravaged by your incompetence and your greed.
And do not tell me thanks to you I can drive my car... There is since long energy's solutions much cleaner and certainly less costly for consumers if they were produce in large scale ... but certainly less "profitable" for you and your "stockholders' cohort of mourning".

Gulf of Mexico oil spill: 'I let people down', admits BP chief Tony Hayward – www.telegraph.co.uk

Satellite view – Photo Credit – Nasa

The Tonka Report Editor's Note: Let's make this clear: It's not 5,000 barrels a day gushing into the Gulf of Mexico as was originally reported. It's 70,000 barrels a day of toxic crude gushing out of this hole from hell… - SJH

Gulf Oil Leaks Could Gush for Years "We don't have any idea how to stop this," expert says. – National Geographic

Merci Môssieur Bush et Môssieur Cheney, pour avoir usé de votre rôle de gouvernants afin de satisfaire aux desideratas des pétroliers, vos amis, et couper court aux exigences de sécurité et supprimer des textes de loi l'obligation des systèmes acoustiques de sécurité, car trop onéreux… (Source : Mondialisation.ca)

L'installation de cet « interrupteur acoustique » coûte environ $ 500,000.

Coût, à ce jour » de l'opération "Top Kill" : tempête dans le golfe du Mexique: $ 930.000.000,00 (source Reuter)

C'est ce qui s'appelle « se tirer une balle dans le pied »…

Vos actionnaires ne vont pas être content… !

Sauf que vous, Môssieur Bush et Môssieur Cheney, et vos copains de l'ordre de « l'or noir », vous ne mourraient pas de cela.

Des centaines, des milliers d'êtres vivants, animaux et humains, eux, oui. Et pour longtemps.

Thank you Mister Bush and Mister Cheney, for exercising your role as leaders to meet the wishes of the oil company, your friends, members of the "black gold brotherhood", and cut short the security requirements and remove pieces of legislation the obligation of acoustic systems of security, because too expensive ... (Source: Mondialisation.ca)
The installation of this "acoustic switch" costs about $ 500,000.
Cost to date of the campaign "Top Kill" storm in the Gulf of Mexico: $ 930.000.000,00 (Source Reuter)
This is called "shooting itself in the foot" ...
Your stoskholders will rejoice ...!
Except you, Mister Bush and Mister Cheney, and your buddies from the order of the "black gold", you do not die of it. Hundreds, thousands of living beings, animals and humans, them, will. And for a long time.

A pod of Bottlenose dolphins swim under the oily water of Chandeleur Sound, La. Oil giant BP PLC's oil rig exploded April 20, in the Gulf of Mexico and oil is still pouring into the gulf. (AP Photo/Alex Brandon)

A boat passes through heavily oiled marsh near Pass a Loutre, Louisiana.

This is the future for all species of Mexico's golf

Merci pour eux, les pêcheurs désormais sans travail. Merci pour eux, les enfants désormais pataugeant dans la boue de pétrole brut. Merci pour eux, tous ceux qui mourront d'une manière ou d'une autre, d'avoir été en contact avec ce poison mortel. Merci pour eux, les employés de BP qui vont nettoyer les saloperies de leurs patrons. Merci pour la faune et la flore qui va disparaitre.

Merci pour nos enfants qui hériteront de cette pauvre planète mortellement mutilée…
Merci, merci, merci à vous, fils de p…

Thank you for them, the fishermen now unemployed. Thank you for them, children now floundering in the mud of oil. Thank you for them, everyone who will die one way or another, to have been in contact with this deadly poison. Thank you for them, BP employees who will clean the filth from their bosses. Thank you for the fauna and flora that will disappear.
Thank you for our children who will inherit this poor planet fatally mutilated ...
Thank you, thank you, thank you, son of a b ...

Petite documentation / Small documentation:



L'origine de la dynastie Rockefeller

Aux environs de 1860, « Old Bill » Rockefeller, marchand forain de spécialités pharmaceutiques, vendait des flacons de pétrole brut aux paysans naïfs, leur faisant croire que c'était un traitement contre le cancer. Il appelait son pétrole brut en flacon : « Nujol (New Oil : nouvelle huile) ».

L'affaire était prospère, il achetait une fiole de pétrole brut de 30 grammes à la Standard Oil pour 21 cents et la revendait 2 dollars.

Très peu cultivé, peu scrupuleux, sans connaissance ou formation médicale, avec quelques notions de comptabilité et une avidité féroce, il sut s'imposer. Le Nujol fut baptisé « cure contre la constipation » et fut largement commercialisé.

Cependant, des médecins découvrirent que le Nujol était nocif et provoquait des maladies graves, éliminant les vitamines liposolubles du corps.

La Standard Oil lutta contre la chute des ventes en ajoutant du carotène au pétrole brut pour parer à toute carence. Le sénateur Royal S. Coperland de New York était payé 75 000 dollars par an pour promouvoir le Nujol.

L'empire Rockefeller s'est construit grâce à cette formidable supercherie qui consiste à faire ingérer un dérivé de pétrole brut, enrichi au carotène, aux populations. C'est ainsi que les fondations de l'industrie pharmaco-chimique furent posées. Nous sommes bien loin des fondements des médecines chinoises, tibétaines ou perses...

Le succès commercial du Nujol permit de diversifier la production pharmaco-chimique et d'atteindre des sommets en terme de bénéfices. En 1948, le chiffre d'affaire annuel de la Rockefeller s'élevait à 10 millions de dollars. Le médicament Nujol existe toujours sous forme de paraffine pure, classé comme laxatif doux : il est recommandé pour la constipation chronique rebelle. Il est fabriqué par le laboratoire Fumouze. Hélas, il capitonne l'intestin et entraîne rapidement des carences graves.

The origin of the Rockefeller dynasty

Around 1860, "Old Bill" Rockefeller got tired of farming and decided to hang up a shingle and practice medicine. Well, somewhere between an office visit and a house call, the Rockefellers discovered oil. Bill was quite saddened that the automobile had yet to be invented, so he bottled up the crude oil, gave it a pretty name: Nujol (in fact a contraction of "New Oil" - SG], and sold it as a cancer cure. [Beal, The Drug Story]
Years later when the empirical sciences started blossoming (empiricism was quackery to the stodgy old school of medicine in most of the 19th century; empiricism meant "testing" one's theories [and therapies] and one just did not test because good science was good science and that is that) someone informed the Rockefellers that they really shouldn't call their Nujol a cancer cure since it wasn't curing any cancer and all it did was give you a good case of diarrhea. So Nujol became a laxative.
Next a group of scientists contacted the Rockefellers and warned them that their Nujol was actually doing damage. It seems that it pulled fat-soluble vitamins from those using it. The Rockefellers responded by fortifying Nujol with some vitamin A and released the new improved version of Nujol, which still leached vitamins and most likely caused cancer, but by the time scientists were about to confirm that Nujol, or mineral oil (it had been cleaned up a bit), was not a substance humans should be ingesting, the Rockefellers had taken control of the pharmaceutical industry and they quietly dropped Nujol from their pharmacopoeia while promoting other remedies that would eventually fall by the wayside, but in the meanwhile, these drugs (all obsolete today) helped these people of humble roots to become the richest people on earth [not: in fact the Rockefellers continued to sell "Nujol" until fairly recenty, but not with crude oil, as in the original version, but with paraffin oil, whihc also a substance that can not be processed by the human body.
Never once was a Rockefeller treatment labeled quackery, and as an aside, there is no museum of quackery in which a bottle of Nujol can be found.

Quelques liens: some links:



http://forum.fondation-nicolas-hulot.org/viewtopic.php?pid=9557

http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2010/05/100527-energy-nation-gulf-oil-spill-top-kill-obama/

http://www.sciencecorps.org/crudeoilhazards.htm

http://toxtown.nlm.nih.gov/text_version/chemicals.php?id=73



Etc…

Favorite Movies: Valhalla Rising

Favorite Movies: UNTHINKABLE

 

 Serious warning: some parts are really hard.

WELL COME IN HELL

Et les amants ne sont que des seringues injectant le venin du mensonge permanent.

Jungle de sentiments simulés pour mieux avaler qui malencontreusement n'a pris garde.

Et les mots ne sont que de vicieux leviers à distorsion déformant tout sur leur passage hideux.
Et les caresses ne sont que de vulgaires salissures de l'âme noyée au gré de trompes-l'œil savant.
Qui est réel ? Qui ne l'est pas ? Personne ne peut répondre car personne ne sait.
Juste la nuit adoucit un peu la laideur de l'autre et ses tromperies incessantes.
Qui ment ? Qui ne le fait pas ? La vérité toute nue gît à taire, violée par les esprits tordus,
Ceux qui confondent la lumière avec leurs propres déjections qu'ils couvrent de parfum bon marché.
Ça sent la rose pourrie, la fraise synthétique, çà sent la nausée.
Qui vomit ? Surement moi, car mon âme ne digère plus ta félonie.
Qui est ? Surement pas toi, car tu n'es qu'un néant sans fin, un puits de cendres acides,
De souffre et de crachats cancéreux. Un puits sinistre sans aucune lumière…
Qui es-tu ? Juste une illusion dégoutante et visqueuse, un rêve qu'un cupide démon
A lâché sur terre pour semer le malheur dans le cœur des autres…
Et finalement, tu es bien arrivée en enfer.





And the lovers are only syringes injecting the poison of the permanent lie.
Jungle of simulated feelings to better swallow who inconveniently was careless.
And the words are only of vicious distortion levers deforming everything on their hideous path.
And hugs are only of vulgar spots of the flooded soul according to trunks the learned eye.
Who is real? Who is not? Nobody can answer because nobody knows.
Just the night eases a little the ugliness of the other one and its constant cheating.
Who is lying? Who does not? The naked truth lies in silence, raped by the twisted minds,
Those who confuse the light with their own excrement they cover with cheap perfume.
It smells like rotten roses, synthetic strawberry, it smells like nausea.
Who vomits? Surely me, because my soul doesn't digest anymore your felony.
Who is? Surely not you, because you're a nothingness without end, a shaft of acid ashes,
Sulfur and sputum cancer. A well without any incident light ...
Who are you? Just a disgusting and slimy illusion, a dream that a greedy devil
Dropped on earth to sow misery in the heart of others ...
And finally, you well came in hell.

VINI

Vini is my dog, the most beautiful and sweet female boxer I ever knew. Before, her mother Luna was the same way, sweet, intelligent, so close to me.

But Vini gonna pass away tomorrow.

Too old, too sick. She cannot stand up anymore.

Too much suffering.

So Vini gonna end her life tomorrow…

Goodbye, my little princess. You've been the sun of my life. Being with you have been a great moment, and a great lesson of unconditional love.

Favorite Movie - THE LOVELY BONES

Original, good acting, wonderfull picture, soundtrack by Brian Eno...

Last movie that suprised me so was "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind"

THE INVISIBLE IMPIRE

Il n'est pas nécessaire d'être convaincu, ni de croire inconditionnellement... Mais il peut être vitale de se poser certaines questions, quoi qu'elles fussent "gênantes et inconfortable". Et surtout, de ne pas avaler comme "pain béni" les "vérités officielles".
Tout au long de l'histoire, conspirations et mensonges furent un outil favori pour les gouvernances pour contrôler l'opinion publique et l'amener à accepter l'inacceptable...

It is not necessary to be convinced, nor to unconditionally believe ... But it may be vital to ask some questions, whatever they might be "inconvenient and uncomfortable. Above all, do not swallow as "a godsend" the "official truths".
Throughout history, conspiracies and lies were a favorite tool for governance to control public opinion and lead it to accept the unacceptable...

A Lapse Of Life

Momentanément égaré dans un cercle vertigineux,
A genoux pour ne pas tomber,
Je regarde stupéfié par-dessus l'épaule de géants
Mes pensées abstraites.

Et les instants se confondent, présent bientôt passé,
La chaine du temps n'est pas,
Mais le continuum d'où jaillit la puissance créatrice
Du vent et de l'obscurité.

Mon esprit flotte tandis que le jour s'allonge vers les étoiles.
Mes pensées se confondent
Avec les milliers de grains de pluies argentées
Surgissant de la nuit silencieuse.

Comme un fœtus au cœur ardent et imprudemment penché
Sur l'échelle du temps,
Je vole et survole, je nage et me noie, innocent,
Sous l'aile du seigneur solitaire…

For a moment misled in a vertiginous circle,

On the knees not to fall,

I consider amazed over giants' shoulder

My abstract thoughts.

And the moments become confused, present soon past,

The chain of time is not,

But the continuum where from springs the creative power

Of the wind and the darkness.

My spirit floats whereas the day stretches out towards stars.

My thoughts become confused

With thousands of grains of silvery rains

Appearing from the silent night.

As a fetus in the burning heart and carelessly tilted

On the scale of time,

I fly and glance through, I swim and drown myself, innocent,

Under the wing of the solitary Lord …

Some Kind Of Lesson

An audience with Brian Eno

Brian Eno in his studio. Photograph: Harry Borden

When influential music website Pitchfork listed its 100 greatest albums of the 1970s – which in certain other lists is calculated to be the greatest decade for rock music – the modestly immodest, driven, musical non-musician Brian Eno was directly and indirectly involved in at least a quarter of them, including the number one, Low, on which he collaborated with a nomadic, post-"Fame" David Bowie and the producer Tony Visconti. As an intellectually mobile loner, scene-setter, systems lover, obstinate rebel, techno-prophet, sensual philosopher, courteous progressive, close listener, gentle heretic, sound planner, adviser explorer, pedant and slick conceptual salesman, and devoted fan of the new, undrab and surprising, wherever it fell between John Cage and Little Richard, or Duchamp and doo wop, or Mondrian and Moog, Eno busily and bossily remodelled pop music during the 70s. He looked at what the Velvet Underground, Can, Steve Reich and the Who had done, went forth and multiplied. Eno created an atmosphere, and helped determine what the history of electronic music was between the avant garde 1950s and the pop 21st century.


He demonstrated – as an abstract part of the early and surreal Roxy Music, the evocative Bowie Berlin trilogy Heroes/Low/Lodger, the nervy NY Talking Heads, as a floating collaborator with Nico, John Cale, Robert Wyatt, Cluster, Robert Fripp, Kevin Ayers, Jon Hassell and Harold Budd, as stern futurist mentor to Devo and Ultravox, as discerning curator of the beautifully conceived contemporary music label Obscure, as careful discoverer of the pulseless, wordless, eventless, timeless music he lovingly called "ambient" – that pop music was where you could be the kind of artist he wanted to be. In 1981, he designed the influential sound and content of My Life in the Bush of Ghosts with David Byrne – the prestigious culmination of his solo and group work in the 1970s, the studio combining of inner space, other worlds, random impressions, scrupulous visions, found sound, taped memories, cut-up text, stolen rhythms, daring edits, painted space, original borrowing, inquisitive permutations, mutant gospel and electronic interference.Then there was U2 and recently, as if relishing the snobbish horror of those who dismiss U2 as pompous irritants, he's attended to another ambitious four-piece male rock group with delusions of splendour, Coldplay, producing their last multi-million selling album and now, at the age of 61, finishing their next. A mischievous ghost of the glammed up art pop star Eno that was first noticed as part of the theatre of Roxy Music now haunts the sound and image of the two biggest rock bands in the world who would claim to be, in fact, post-Eno as much as post-punk. Coldplay didn't really belong anywhere before Eno apart from inside their own success. Now they have attached themselves via Eno to a very particular history of avant pop practice. Eno himself is prone to chuckle good naturedly when faced with bemusement at his connection to Coldplay.


He stays behind the scenes, more likely to curate an art festival or present a public lecture on something to do with pleasure, beauty, atheism, perfume or nuclear disarmament than appear to have anything to do with rock or pop music. If Roxy Music are ever spotted together on stage, he will be somewhere else, searching for something new to astound him. Much, naturally, has changed since the volatile, fussy, sublime Eno of For Your Pleasure, Here Come The Warm Jets, Discreet Music, Heroes and Once in a Lifetime, but he's still talking about what he does, and why, working out his place, the place of art, the history of progress, the enigma of meaning, the mechanics of creativity, the mystery of aesthetics, reluctant to think too much about his past in case, as he says, he starts to feel "useless awe towards his former self" but politely prepared to look back at his work if he thinks someone might find it useful. When you meet him to discuss something or other to do with his always perfectly organised research and development thoughts about something or other, you arrive as he is finishing one conversation with someone about, say, how technology changes the way our brains work, and as you leave someone else is arriving for a conversation about, say, the shrinking divisions between art and science. Or how Jeremy Clarkson almost moved into the house next to his office which was previously owned by Jason Donovan.


I talked with him as part of a series of conversations that were filmed for a BBC Arena documentary.


On talking: 1


"I heard a recording that had been made of me 35 years ago chatting with some friends and I thought the tape must have sped up because I sounded so fast. When others spoke, they were at a normal speed. It was me, I was speaking so fast. What I find both disappointing and reassuring is that I was saying exactly those things I will be saying today. I don't know what to make of that. A few different references, but the basic ideas haven't changed at all. No difference whatsoever! I suppose it's good to see I've been consistent as sometimes over the years it seems as though it's all been a bit incoherent, a bit of this, a bit of that, a while doing this, then one of those, followed by three of those. It seems all over the place when I'm doing it. Listening to me now talking then suggests there has been a pattern."


On the intensity of ideas


"If you grow up in a very strong religion like Catholicism you certainly cultivate in yourself a certain taste for the intensity of ideas. You expect to be engaged with ideas strongly whether you are for or against them. If you are part of a religion that very strongly insists that you believe then to decide not to do that is quite a big hurdle to jump over. You never forget the thought process you went through. It becomes part of your whole intellectual picture."


On listening


"If you think of the mid- to late-50swhen all of this started to happen for me, the experience of listening to sound was so different from now. Stereo didn't exist. If you listened to music outside of church, apart from live music, which was very rare, it was through tiny speakers. It was a nice experience but a very small experience. So to go into a church, which is a specially designed and echoey space, and it has an organ, and my grandfather built the organ in the church where we went, suddenly to hear music and singing was amazing. It was like hearing someone's album on a tiny transistor radio and then you go and see them in a 60,000-seater. It's huge by comparison. That had a lot to do with my feeling about sound and space, which became a big theme for me. How does space make a difference to sound, what's the difference between hearing something in this room and then another room. Can you imagine other rooms where you can hear music? It also made a difference to how I feel about the communality of music in that the music I liked the most, singing in church, was done by a group of people who were not skilled – they were just a group of people, I knew them in the rest of the week as the coal man and the baker."


On destiny


"It was a dilemma for me at the end of my time at school. Am I going into music or painting ? The Who were important to me when I was working out whether I would go into fine art or popular art. I felt they had found an important position between the two. Then the Velvet Underground came along and also made it clear how you could straddle the two somehow. It helped make my mind up to go into music."


On recording


"I came out of this funny place where I was interested in the experimental ideas of Cornelius Cardew, John Cage and Gavin Bryars, but also in pop music. Pop was all about the results and the feedback. The experimental side was interested in process more than the actual result – the results just happened and there was often very little control over them, and very little feedback. Take Steve Reich. He was an important composer for me with his early tape pieces and his way of having musicians play a piece each at different speeds so that they slipped out of synch.


"But then when he comes to record a piece of his like, say, Drumming, he uses orchestral drums stiffly played and badly recorded. He's learnt nothing from the history of recorded music. Why not look at what the pop world is doing with recording, which is making incredible sounds with great musicians who really feel what they play. It's because in Reich's world there was no real feedback. What was interesting to them in that world was merely the diagram of the piece, the music merely existed as an indicator of a type of process. I can see the point of it in one way, that you just want to show the skeleton, you don't want a lot of fluff around it, you just want to show how you did what you did.As a listener who grew up listening to pop music I am interested in results. Pop is totally results-oriented and there is a very strong feedback loop. Did it work? No. We'll do it differently then. Did it sell? No. We'll do it differently then. So I wanted to bring the two sides together. I liked the processes and systems in the experimental world and the attitude to effect that there was in the pop, I wanted the ideas to be seductive but also the results."


On being like nothing else


"In my house in Oxfordshire, we have this big, beautiful Andrew Logan sculpture of a lovely Pegasus with blue glass wings. When I get a taxi from the station, a driver will always comment on it because it is so striking. What they often say is, 'What does that stand for then?' Or, 'What does that mean?', based on the idea that something exists because it has to tell you something, or it refers to something else, and I realise that this notion is foreign to me. The earliest paintings I loved were always the most non-referential paintings you can imagine, by painters such as Mondrian. I was thrilled by them because they didn't refer to anything else. They stood alone and they were just charged magic objects that did not get their strength from being connected to anything else."


On singing


"I belong to a gospel choir. They know I am an atheist but they are very tolerant. Ultimately, the message of gospel music is that everything's going to be all right. If you listen to millions of gospel records – and I have – and try to distil what they all have in common it's a sense that somehow we can triumph. There could be many thousands of things. But the message… well , there are two messages… one is a kind of optimism for the future rather than a pessimism. Gospel music is never pessimistic, it's never 'oh my god, its all going down the tubes', like the blues often is. Gospel music is always about the possibility of transcendence, of things getting better. It's also about the loss of ego, that you will win through or get over things by losing yourself, becoming part of something better. Both those messages are completely universal and are nothing to do with religion or a particular religion. They're to do with basic human attitudes and you can have that attitude and therefore sing gospel even if you are not religious."


On the synthesiser: 1


"One of the important things about the synthesiser was that it came without any baggage. A piano comes with a whole history of music. There are all sorts of cultural conventions built into traditional instruments that tell you where and when that instrument comes from. When you play an instrument that does not have any such historical background you are designing sound basically. You're designing a new instrument. That's what a synthesiser is essentially. It's a constantly unfinished instrument. You finish it when you tweak it, and play around with it, and decide how to use it. You can combine a number of cultural references into one new thing."


On the synthesiser: 2


"Instruments sound interesting not because of their sound but because of the relationship a player has with them. Instrumentalists build a rapport with their instruments which is what you like and respond to. If you were sitting down now to design an instrument you would not dream of coming up with something as ridiculous as an acoustic guitar. It's a strange instrument, it's very limited and it doesn't sound good. You would come up with something much better. But what we like about acoustic guitars is players who have had long relationships with them and know how to do something beautiful with them. You don't have that with synthesisers yet. They are a very new instrument. They are constantly renewing so people do not have time to build long relationships with them. So you tend to hear more of the technology and less of the rapport. It can sound less human. However ! That is changing. And there is a prediction that I made a few years ago that I'm very pleased to see is coming true – synthesisers that have inconsistency built into them. I have always wanted them to be less consistent. I like it that one note can be louder than the note next to it."


On the naming of things


"A way to make new music is to imagine looking back at the past from a future and imagine music that could have existed but didn't. Like East African free jazz, which as far as I know does not exist. To some extent, this was how ambient music emerged. My interest in making music has been to create something that does not exist that I would like to listen to, not because I wanted a job as a musician. I wanted to hear music that had not yet happened, by putting together things that suggested a new thing which did not yet exist. It's like having a ready-made formula if you are able to read it. One of the innovations of ambient music was leaving out the idea that there should be melody or words or a beat… so in a way that was music designed by leaving things out – that can be a form of innovation, knowing what to leave out. All the signs were in the air all around with ambient music in the mid 1970s, and other people were doing a similar thing. I just gave it a name. Which is exactly what it needed. A name. A name. Giving something a name can be just the same as inventing it. By naming something you create a difference. You say that this is now real. Names are very important."


On talking: 2


"I like to talk about all sorts of things. I've never seen the downside of it. I've never minded the egghead tag. It makes sense with my physiognomy anyway. I've fought for years the idea that rock and popular art is only about passion and fashion and nothing to do with thinking and examining and if you do think there is something suspicious about you."


On hindsight


"Instead of shooting arrows at someone else's target, which I've never been very good at, I make my own target around wherever my arrow happens to have landed. You shoot your arrow and then you paint your bulls eye around it, and therefore you have hit the target dead centre."


On a celebration of human frailty


"The other day I heard a band who had the worst singer, the most out of time drummer and most out of tune guitarist I've ever heard on a professional record, and I thought, at last, the reaction against pro-tools perfection has set in. A pro-tools engineer would have sorted it all out, but this band was an actual celebration of human frailty. It was so rough it was really encouraging."


On Abba


"In the 70s, no one would admit that they liked Abba. Now it's fine. It's so kitsch. Kitsch is an excuse to defend the fact that they feel a common emotion. If it is kitsch. you put a sort of frame around something – to suggest you are being ironic. Actually, you aren't. You are really enjoying it. I like Abba. I did then and I didn't admit it. The snobbery of the time wouldn't allow it. I did admit it when I heard 'Fernando'; I could not bear to keep the secret to myself anymore and also because I think there is a difference between Swedish sentimentality and LA sentimentality because the Swedish are so restrained emotionally. When they get sentimental it's rather sweet and charming. What we really got me with "Fernando" was what the lower singer was doing, I don't know her name. I spent months trying to learn that. It's so obscure what she's doing and very hard to sing. And then from being a sceptic I went over the top in the other direction. I really fell for them."


On Frank Zappa


"Zappa was important to me because I realised I didn't have to make music like he did. I might have made a lot of music like he did if he had not done it first and made me realise that I did not want to go there. I did not like his music but I am grateful that he did it. Sometimes you learn as much from the things you don't like as from the things you do like. The rejection side is as important as the endorsement part. You define who you are and where you are by the things that you know you are not. Sometimes that's all the information you have to go on. I'm not that kind of person. You don't quite know where you are but you find yourself in the space left behind by the things you've rejected."


On working with U2 and Coldplay at the same time


"It was fine. A few jokes. I felt like a philanderer who was with another woman and might make a slip and call her by the wrong name in bed. I had one computer that had all of the Coldplay stuff and all the U2 stuff. I had to very carefully label each folder because I was paranoid that I might end up with the same basic track for each group and I wouldn't notice until it was too late. There was a chance the same track might have appeared on both albums."


On ego


"Bono commits the crime of rising above your station. To the British, it's the worst thing you can do. Bono is hated for doing something considered unbecoming for a pop star – meddling in things that apparently have nothing to do with him. He has a huge ego, no doubt about it. On the other hand, he has a huge brain and a huge heart. He's just a big kind of person. That's not easy for some to deal with. They don't mind in Italy. They like larger-than-life people there. In most places in the world they don't mind him. Here, they think he must be conning them."


On reporting in the 1990s that there was too much music being released and he was not going to add to it any more


"I didn't think it through to be honest."


On the end of an era


"I think records were just a little bubble through time and those who made a living from them for a while were lucky. There is no reason why anyone should have made so much money from selling records except that everything was right for this period of time. I always knew it would run out sooner or later. It couldn't last, and now it's running out. I don't particularly care that it is and like the way things are going. The record age was just a blip. It was a bit like if you had a source of whale blubber in the 1840s and it could be used as fuel. Before gas came along, if you traded in whale blubber, you were the richest man on Earth. Then gas came along and you'd be stuck with your whale blubber. Sorry mate – history's moving along. Recorded music equals whale blubber. Eventually, something else will replace it."

Original Paper : The Gardian.Co.uk