Sunday, December 7, 2008

Caged words

"Jean-Marc Rouillan has just seen his partial freedom [1] revoked by the parole board. The French state has locked him back up for commenting on the conditions of his release – a ban on speaking about why he had been serving life [2] – but this is really about refusing him the freedom of speech. An appeal has just been launched so it is time to take action.

Petition for the release of Jean-Marc Rouillan


Since 2001, Jean-Marc Rouillan has published nine works (novels and short stories) which are those of an individual belonging to the oppressed class and a political writer of proletarian fiction about which Henry Poulaille remarked « We only have to look back through our memories to show, without any alteration, reality as it was when we came into this world, to do revolutionary writing. » Rouillan’s renewed detention is typical of how those in power, as they have demonstrated throughout history, seek to silence the free speech of the people. And the intellectual world cannot risk any violation of the right to freedom of expression. How long can it afford to ignore the writing of Stig Dagermann, relentlessly quoted by the Nobel Prize winner, J.M.G. Le Cl├ęzio ?

« One particular reproach makes more sense than all others : the one leveled at the lack of writers’ involvement in the social struggle. The poet ought to understand that saying it belongs to another world is not enough for literature. It will be pointless to announce, voice trembling, that he wants to remain free because nobody can be « free » enough to be excused from becoming involved in the struggle of the oppressed against the oppressors who, despite everything that is said about them, will be a sad fact of the current social system as long as it lasts. Talking about freedom in this context is like being either lazy, despicable or not caring. [...] All the social reforms and utopias seem futile in a world-wide system where collapse is the only dead cert. Yet it is all about self-defense against that same order, even if you are sadly aware of the fact [...] that although purely symbolic, defense and attack are an absolute necessity to avoid dying of shame. »

We call upon writers, philosophers, editors, film makers, performers, journalists, all those facing censure, to take a stand against this ban on a French writer’s freedom of expression by signing and passing on the appeal. You may show your support in a short text to be published on-line alongside the appeal."

Wednesday, November 19, 2008


Botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore envy have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you had. These limits you reached when you were bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom have no limits, but you have. These limits you reach when you are bothered, therefore botherdom

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

Fuck me, I'm Maurice Papon

A fucking incompetent, and febrile un-fevered from the depth of a bunker-come-take-me all in wood. I don't drink anymore. I don't dream either and I have no envy, I'm not alive. As occupied as a toilet. I don't use drugs anymore. Not substantial ones. Occupied by the invading, I have devastating antibiotics. It is like that, doing a little of everything, it gives much of anything. It stinks incapacity, disability dressed as an ace on his forehead.
It lays eggs in truth-gilded shells painted as skulls. Making ourselves Aztec priests, the jaws stuck in a ridiculously large mask. Disproportionate. Yet we refrain good dream, you invent a contempt for the ostensible utopia to provide a reasonable air, concentrated, intelligent or intelligible. To better puncture the dental caries of resignation, we invented pragmatism, and thinks borrowing dignity despite our pants down on our ankles, buttocks and our grasses are calls for rape. Cut on golden ages that no one has known. We are sellers, workers and psychologists, we are a profession, we like to be defined by the way we are exploited / fucked. Proud as a child who is in his pot for the first time. I never forget this grotesque smile, I see on all sides. we still offer each other gifts, huh. We love each other, we meet with our charge of indifference, there fussing like flies on the shit of a world-corpse we will eventually exploit. I open a mine in your flesh, I am a contractor if I want.
I have a concept, gonna eat market share defilement as a puppy. In the meantime appropriations I do, I go files and I find out about debt relief measures, we know the world is cruel with genius. On the size of lords in this world of cockroaches. I reigns on beetles-sir. Ties or wings, it's being the right side of the class struggle. Because the fight is class. As much as a T-Shirt Stalin in a congress of the MEDEF. Class as a badge "Fuck me I'm Maurice Papon" in a congressional of the Revolutionary Communist League. It is a concept, dropped I say, you're really not equipped to talk with me. I'll get my face beaten just to receive justice charges. We survive as we can, most malign are repeating the teeth to resell their jaws price of gold, even eat soup of caviar until the end of the world. We will call it insecurity, I will have a bureau with my name in the offices of SkyNews, I'll be familiar with the receptionist, and I will sell here the name of the winner of the next real TV show before you have time to see the commentator's face. Whore of a martyr is going to bleed to the brain to redeem your sins, on the steps of temples to break the audience "with teeth". Deeply war, the real, in the meantime, how bugged we are. This is the crisis.

The dark story of Patrick G.

He has eaten his heart, and he rote. Brightly cooked, the meat - it was nicely marinated in a lifetime all kinds of moods, and even love, it seems. So he has eaten. He drank his liver and smoked his lungs, then. Just like condemned to his last feast, his last drink. The next day, all the "guttery" in bulk, of course. Hangover not good in the mirror, strange white skin, just like old newspaper, or the nests of wasps. Hangover friable, he left in tatters the bottom of the basin, while shavin'. On the biggest flaps, there was an article printed, a fact that various talks about a granny raped in a suburb of Rome. It's fun, because in the ashtray, when it came to burn, this piece of paper gray and dry swinging a pretty pink smoke with a sweet smell of cotton candy, certainly the perfume used by the granny to cover her smell old, this smell of urine, ammonia and old leather. This is probably the fragrance that attracted rapists lack of affection.

The perfumer was interviewed by the carabinieri. He says it couldn't be the fault of the perfume, because any celebrations smell cotton candy, and that there are no more rapes - well, not more than elsewhere. Or in retirement homes, at least. It's funny saying that. But everyone knows this is not true. Celebrations is something to get young girl's legs broken, and also for young boys not hairy yet. Serious studies tend to show that being filthy - well, being physically outside, or the opposite of the canons of physical beauty of his time - to be ugly, whatever, does not guarantee not to be violated. Especially in the celebrations. On the contrary, faced with a beautiful woman, the rapist may be afraid not to make the fit, sexually. While an ugly girl, it get laid like an old comfortable sweater, he can even pretend this is a service, a strategy that can play at trial.

After, it was the same. He had finished digesting its heart, he laid down a little piece of coal, and then, the various facts, he could play eyelids without fighting. When a little old lady got raped, he could even polish his cock, with the newspaper, without feeling guilty, without saying that he was not dreaming of an old lady raped. He would have been able to do it himself, because he had not eaten his sex, yet. He would not delay, its old dead dick, while wondering what good taste it could have. She had marinated in love, too, but in love for money. Note, this love he can buy, and operate like a consumer. He requires, he chose the little hole, and a few shouts, please ma'am. Only whores eighty four years, this course not sidewalks.

He dreamed of nylon on varicose veins, he was never hidden, but nobody had ever asked him what he really preferred. Nobody wanted to know. Even more cops interrogators. So he has eaten his heart, bit by bit, by chewing well not to vomit, because the meat of his heart, it was so hard.

a LuSiD night #4 : Najhian Meathology

This is my color-die, my tamed snake wild and almost ! One night, again and yet another toast to the next ones, like on a chain. Lay your leg on every coin, do what you have to, happen what's rotten. Morituri te salutant. Here on the counter, it's the cold color of my illegal drunkness. I'm subversive as a last copy of the Pravda in the New York Museum. My life, the pins it and you know that this butterfly there, with its wings colored psyche half rotten, it's Oscar Najh, I got his address and number of non-social security. Instead of searching the bottom of my DNA and retrieve my carbon footprints, fuck it, get only a can of beans over and give it my name.

Now you will share the warmth of my non-intimate morning, as a doc 'animal on discovery channel when you're falling asleep in front of your TV. Some of these wild beasts shaking and stretching without addressing their dicks hard as steel, of their damn body of tawny refreshed. We don a clean boxer on our own morning erection, we spit some of our nightly breath in the toilet - your face you rinse it off in beer that remains, and will embrace the latest cigarette butt you've been loving in the ashtray. Love always overflow the ashtray. Calcined, gray, stinking, but love. Hearing the stupidity of this word refers specifically to the bullshit of it's associate state, this fucking "not want this and not gonna piss in the jar of honey. The attack of the first sandwich, Murphy's laws to support it.

I'll never make you this trick of the stained tie when I'm late and pressed. This thing can occur only in a life carefully scripted, orchestrated, timed in a set of causes and consequences smooth and logical. I get my lunch naked and I it's my skin I stain. I'm not late, as this day was not specially expecting me. They got discouraged with me, just we welcome in the morning, only when we pass. I takes the time to wash me, here, with my tub and my straps, while lookin' cars passing with their load of late stained ties, and trucks full of workers disgusted by Mondays. I derided the arrogant luxury of my bowl of steaming coffee chipped, and debauchery of my free time layabout. I dry on the stones and the guardrails, smoking in the hay with my air cattle. I'm just the first of a crowd of onlookers who gather, talking about how the world will collapse. Sometimes we fuck, and other times - more rarely, we take a certain pleasure. But more often, lack pleasure.

I'm gonna mystify your life in no time, in not a flounder. Lay a complete pantheon, all-inclusive-option-its-race, all in soft plastic. A god of the supermarket, heroes that drive caddies and demigods who straighten purchasing power. With triumphant back home in the village and tutti-quanti, it is not prudish. If nobody takes the time to write the legend of our existence, it is truly a century of shit. There is a lack of dragons and monsters, initiative quests and symbolic enigma. You can break your fear, but I must draw it a face first.

My dragons are the guards of the supermarket. Gold will be fat and sugar. The trial, it is theft: the quest, your release. I would put as rotten oracle some TV, and you will have the vision of your destiny with "Temptation Island" or "Bullshit of the year". There will be epic wars and we will ride the desert of streets for years. Curses and martyrs. Prophecies on our faces, fucking destinies, real destinies, just better than a consumer credit, a pact with the devil or a gift for research.

We are the antiquity of the future, and we have nothing valid to offer, to submit. This is truly a goddamn crisis, our time will be a blank page in a history book, a sort of tribute to our humanity-that-is-just-nearly-perpetuated. It is not enough to lay fetus, we need damn true miracles to open the mouth of the time. Our posterity is not our austerity, or our posters of Che. May everyone find a quest to accomplish. It's enough to unearth the Holy Grail like cryogenic cells. Only the miseries that we stinks are eternal.

Son of Heineken, god of drunkness, and of Banks, goddess of freedom in 4 times without expenses (excluding fees folder). Daughter of Peanut Butter the happy god of Fat, and of Interim the god of Work. I ride the legendary Metro in the infested caves of Paris's undergrounds. The prayers of the syndicalist preachers of the God Electricity plunge our town in darkness, as if shadows were raining - kings will only have secondary roles. And we will burn your cars, fucking nice offering to my-freedom-right-in-your-face.

Jason steals a golden-fleece-sweater, killing a security guard. David the student crushed by bare hands Goliath-the-Cop. Ulysse the illegal immigrant punctured the eye of customs-Cyclops and will join his Penelope with the family reunification. Hercules in his jail come to the end of its 12 general-interest works. Odin the agitator will pick the runes from 9 nights in the Yggdrasil commissariat. Women would deliver of animated meat, all of them would be promised to a greater destiny ever.

3 sweet treats

ErehwoN
One day, all these things will have no more importance. I Breathe, so breathe me, I smell your sticky future. My breath will die of anguish, my guts twists alone now, flexible shit, resilient, beautiful and shiny. I don't spit anymore, and now my sweat is icy, there on the front, and behind my neck. I sell my nights, nights smelling like knife, tar and lamppost, dirty mucous membranes, sick glands. I sell my nocturnal miscarriages, abortions of my meal, my fingers like knitting needles. I play to make angels, naughty little sidewalk angels. Head in the placenta. I am a class by myself, the liters of passion, and on the walls, sticky in hieroglyphics: "Drunkenness, I write your name."
I experienced the same semblance of love than anyone. And I know that no one cares. Starting with "her" and then it continues with me. I experienced hatred, much more attractive. Hatreds body to body, the hatred cheating, the screwdriver hideout in the race. The arms as chopped meat. The jet red when you have been drinking white wine is it a stigmata ? Or do you think that it's the transfiguration? A lot of time listening to samples of flushing, washing machines, samples of nails into the machine, the crackle of radio: Luigi Russolo.
Here it is. One night with me.

Meat on a No-Postcard
Sleep standing at work, like sleeping in meat, with meat sleeping inside of me. And the break, there's a post there to navigate, should transfer the moron seeking an apartment, I have some urgency to spit. I have to write that my imaginary friends on my blog concrete. News from my vacation, here it is sunny, the neon shine their bleached rays on the moist mouth of my colleagues holidaymakers working in meat. Get a sunbath in the synthetic coldness of the cool room, the heat makes us do neither cold nor hot. My hands are beautiful, peeled by gloves with protective chain mail. They, too, they shine with neon lights and white walls. The meat and I smoke heavily.
This is not a postcard. Here, workers who cross in the corridors are mutually fear, with their dirty white combinations with tiny stains of blood, knife in hand and mask on the face. We are the bleached Army serving stomachs. We deliver battle against the animal kingdom, against the beef plenty, against the fat and the skin. Soldiers from hunger, the mask is not just for hygiene, I am certain.
I slip my blade between offered ratings. The animal have no reaction. Neither do I. I'm gonna sleep on the carcass. My sex as a knife planted in his flesh, such an intimate relationship, and my mask, it's just for hygiene. I'm not certain.

I am a Cosmonaut
Or a astronaut, well, a drunkonaut, a painonaut, a I'm-going-to-break-my-brains-again-o-naut, honestly, not very clear - a "not to be" prepared and optimized for exploration of things that are the most insignificant. Swimming in gravity. Physical and mental preparation. A combination cleaner and, at least in thought, and the blond hair on the side. I greet my family and jump in my capsule.
Rations carefully aligned of freeze-dried soups, quick done quick drink, easy to vomit, sorted the parts not to make pieces. Exit the Minestrone who finished caked thick on the bottom of bowl. I have mushroom, the velvety field, and that shamanic confined to the bizarre mushroom powder as an infusion and ready to travel. That's all dried, while dry and powdered in any futuristic shiny bags inside, carefully filmed with a film food. High technology. I'm a fucking hi-tech shaman.
Optimize its anxieties and its drunkenness, and wonder what lesson can be drawn - what such a behavior can mean today.

Sally laughed a last time, I kept the slump

"Romantic" mean nothing. It's the pettiness and lies that are overcrowding and that we ignore, from one side to another. Romantic as a torch, romantic as a grenade on which is written "For Ever", or "4 Ever", as inlaid hearts on sleeves shells. Romantic like a Tweety tattooed on the crumpled skin of balls. Like a perfume, scents of bullshit flowers, like the shit poem written after drinking the very first beer. Like whores candles rotten, while we should desire with the flame of a furnace. Romantic as a drunk star who "want to fuck you".

I have not finished with me ! I have no more desire, no more envy, no more willingness of nothing, unwilling to have any envy of desire. I'm not really. It should be a matter of gland, thyroid glands rotten disturbed, too soaked with this and that, too dry, atrophied. I cheat by usual, just a matter of education. Pavlovian seduction, and sometimes I wonder if we are not all rendered at this point. Instincts, here and there. And large cardboard structures all around, movie sets that we walk like pathetic burdens to live the most beautiful missed sex story. One day you realize that the package-decoration is shredded, and that we put nothing more than our dirty socks, infinitely and by the wrong holes yet. The socks are like love, their meshes expand over time.

There are those who miss you until it rip your soul. Those that prevent you saying it is basically nothing, borked illusions, lies missed or poorly made. A wrong dose of testosterone. We never really get how or why. I am a lost princess. She went away with my sex, and I cry in her room of nice sleeping-beauty-wolf-are-you-there. My raped princess dress, it is a book by Queneau that bears her name. I want to be pathetic, just for me. To reassure me about my condition. Provided that there is something to reassure. I'm a bit ashamed to cry out this mud-tears, mud stinking of man with dried glands, mud thick like my poor head of badly broken pin-up. I aged quickly to get back the time lost. Fuck all my life's VHS tape in a dusty VCR. Burning the reminders, must be soaked in oil-vodka. This damned shit don't wanna dry. Wet reminders for dry glands.

I must not realize, fuck it, must not realize that she exists, or not, that she breathe and still think somewhere, she thinks of all these things I can't even understand. I'm a faker, this race caress between my teeth, it's my stigma of mine. It's the cocaine turned in a compact insoluble illusions, nor in time or in alcohol or in the "what a bitch". It erodes your molars, a square in desires, when it will finish with my enamel, I will make myself a great parody of desires with lead. And the more I complain, the more I find it all so pathetic.
 
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The Kabaret Malaria by Oskarr Najh is under Creative Commons License.