Tracks

01. Dismay
02. No One By My Side
03. The Fecal Rebellion
04. Ganglion
05. Une Existence Dont Plus Personne Ne Jouit
06. So Frail



01. Dismay

Once a man built a large and grotesque wall
Of cracked stones, dead hopes and bruised limbs.
He wanted it to protect himself against a deep growl
Of a storm carrying remorse and memories of sins.
Below the faded sun, he spent his entire lifetime
In hiding from any truth, in masking his crime
In an attempt to castrate his already sexless flesh,
Blindly fleeing from any recollection of thresh.

Thus this pathetic living corpse was joined
By other insipid souls in this work for them purloined.
And generations massively adopted the habit
Instituted by this mad man drowning in his vomit.
Gathered they were, each saying no to life
With such ignorance, overabundant and rife,
But still firmly meaning what they could only ignore
Chained themselves under a sky to love and implore.

But what can he, who has not pierced eyes, do
When he discovers such a wretched view:
Impotent armies of degenerated and naked warriors
Brandishing a banner where it is with gold thread knitted "ERROR".

There were so many of them at the bottom of the wall
That even in one hundred years you couldn't count them all
Though weak, their number was doing that one man alone
Couldn't make them fall and destroy their throne.

Giving up all phantasms of grandeur, there is no boiling war to be declared;
Just frozen and wild fancies, orgasmic visions of excruciated traitors immolated.
Glaring at nothing but my own rage, feeding from my overwhelming hate
Without melancholy but fury, I collapse in my engrieved fate.
Of the two available roads one leads to starvation, and the other one to prostitution.
The first one embraced me, as I choose death and self-abnegation.
Now the memories of their distorted faces is slowly fading away,
Even refusing to follow me as I sink into merciless dismay.


02. No One By My Side

Now arrived at the dusk of my aeonic existence
But yet, too short
My hands are bound in my back with a thorny rope
And yet, so tight

Raising my prophetic gaze one last time
The only things I meet are blight
And contempt, vomited by all those mouths
United by the dogmatic boundaries of so-called human decency

Unanimously condemned by a mislead humanity
And yet, too quickly
For daring to bother the established with cosmic words
And yet, so true

Thus destined to such vile death
A revengeful spectacle for the shocked memory
I look at the fire burning higher and higher around me
Already suffocated by the smoke's hypnotic breath

I suddenly feel a freezing warmth
Like boiling acid rolling on my body
From my feet to my chest
The flames are devouring me

Vile mass exalting christlike fantasies
I will not wash your sins
For of all the scourges your sick mind creates, my body i s free
As it has ever been and will always be

The pseudo heroic act of self-castration
Reanimated their old morbid satisfaction
Again, repeating time and abandon
They missed their target and reached perversion.
Deafened by the morbid pulse
Roaring in their ears and spreading its curse
All their mouths were sinisterly open
For their blaming how to straighten

No sacrifice hidden behind this murder
You deserve nothing but a contemptuous laughter
Your cause is senseless, so is my agony
Staining your hands forever with blood of perfidy

Forget all your neurotic constructions
And face the source of your dissatisfaction
One last time
One last time...
Or have all my attempts always been vain
Disregarded, lost under disdain?
Could all my scars and wasted blood
Only be remembered by the silent mud?
Sucked away from each infected memory
Vanishing under each gaze, inexorably?

During this everlasting agony
A smile distorted my cracked lips
One last time
For even though my time had gone
Somewhere a seed had been sown

One last time my thoughts wandered free
Beholding future hatching potentialities

I hate you world
I wasn't made for you...

Alas...


03. The Fecal Rebellion

What is this strange blaze in the Western sky
Confusingly recalling an endless cry,
Echoing weakly throughout the horizon,
Flying blindly to an hazardous destination?

Night and day it stands fiercely there
In such a pernicious and piercing glare,
Holding its terrible secret for itself
And ignoring the pitiful, plaintive prayers.

Few are those who seem to see it
And yet the reflection in their eyes
Wakes in the beholder such disgrace to commit
Unavowable tragedies, mother of any demise.

What is this gangrene cankering above our heads
Slowly waking in us all the denied dreads
Buried and chained deeply within our breasts
Sworn to be forgotten, but alas in vain manifests?

Is this just a human extension,
A part of ourselves thrown in the outside
Or is it, implying great tension,
An exterior object we can only try to abide?

Should our dreaded nightmares have become flesh
And suffocate us in their rotting stench?

Could it be that the filth dishes we kept leaving behind us, for our children to finish because human feces weren't to our taste but probably to theirs, because yes they must love our shit and swallow it with delight; could those denied full plates of wet muddy crap one day decide to rebel against their left and forgotten state and throw themselves within our tyrannically bourgeois mouths?

Well yes, this is what is happening
Like the newborn child the mother gives birth to:
The extension of her flesh suddenly becoming
A free identity; no more one but two.
And when the child loses ingenuousness,
And in the womb and sting sees no more love,
Not vanished, but never enclosed! Disdainfulness!
Iron spikes grow from the just fallen doves.

Falling on the knees,
Infected with a sudden disease;
Those foreign hands around their neck
Leaving the body lifeless, a sunken wreck.
Falling on the knees,
Infected with a sudden disease:
The fecal rebellion.
The roarstorm of the lion.


04. Ganglion

Tristesse en devenir, si pénible à subir
Infectait par milliers les pauvres cœurs ingrats
Dévoilant l'éclosion, la désoccultation
Ainsi au loin, sans que l'on ne comprenne pourquoi
Un obscur ganglion fit son apparition...

Noirâtre et écumeux, il atteignait les cieux
Que seul, il défiait, déclenchant vents furieux
Déluges punitifs, et autres ires divines.
Car tout au loin, sans que l'on ne comprenne pourquoi
Un ganglion avait fait son apparition...

Pareil à un volcan, il se mit soudain à vomir rocailles et flots de lave
Emplissant le ciel d'une poussière noire, isolant les hommes sur terre loin de leurs astres
N'ayant de la sorte plus accès au dogme et à sa précieuse aide, ceux-ci durent dès lors affronter seuls
Le bouillonnement jaillissant issu des profondeurs de leur chair

Tous immobilisés par la déchirure
Entre le créateur et la créature
Leurs yeux écarquillés, et leur regard hagard
Reflétaient en leurs pupilles noires et dilatées
Un ganglion ayant fait son apparition...

Mais alors que leurs lèvres se desserraient
Pour laisser s'échapper un râle déchiré
S'éleva une plainte intangible et glacée
Leur susurrant à l'oreille que quoi qu'ils projettent
Un ganglion avait fait son apparition...

La terre sacrée, profanée par l'excroissance haïe
Exacerbant mille pensées refoulées, et autant de peurs honnies
Un monde enfoui refaisant soudain surface
Au grand dam de ceux qui à présent se révélaient à eux-mêmes en tant que maudits

C'est alors que la lave se mua
En un liquide purulent et âpre
Répandant sur son passage
Les traces d'un mauvais présage

Il était inscrit dans ces troubles eaux
Que la chute serait pour bientôt
Que leur damnation n'était autre qu'eux-mêmes
Et leurs doctrines suprêmes


05. Une Existence Dont Plus Personne Ne Jouit

Enivré par les vapeurs du vide,
Noyé dans ses noirs et visqueux fluides,
L'esprit s'encouble, titube, puis bascule,
Vers cet inconnu qui à chaque pas recule.
Vacillant émotionnellement
Mais hélas, toujours présent.
La conscience vaincue n'aspire qu'à une fin :
La précipitation de son destin.

L'immersion entière dans un abîme de silence
Où aucun son ne viendrait troubler la lente danse
Du corps et son processus de décomposition
Déserté de toute trace de raison.

Le repos tant convoité
Après mille guerres livrées
Contre un ennemi invisible
Et son armée intangible.
Tout ce sang souillé, sacrifié
Au profit d'une cause aliénée
Perdue d'avance et pourtant
Défendue jusqu'à l'épuisement.

Mais là, si seul face au tout puissant effroi
S'effondrent les derniers vestiges de la foi
En la quête que rien n'avait jamais auparavant
Été en mesure de briser et de plonger dans le néant.
Et pourtant, voilà le dernier bastion qui soudain s'embrase
Projetant brutalement et irrémédiablement hors phase
L'ultime espoir de guérison, de purification,
Et son porteur, englouti dans la perdition.

Le sang fut autrefois gâché au dehors
Ruisselant sur la chair et ses infectes pores
Mais le voilà à présent gaspillé de l'intérieur
Dans ce dédale de veines de malheur,
Injectant à chaque battement de l'organe honni
Une existence dont plus personne ne jouit.
Dès lors obsolète et sur le point d'être sacrifiée
Au profit d'une quiétude plus jamais troublée.

Alors que l'on était sur le point de hurler à l'utopie
Voilà que ce phantasme que l'on prenait pour pure folie
Se révèle, alors que sa silhouette pointe dans le lointain,
Être plus sensé que ce qu'auraient pu penser certains.
Lorsque l'arme dont on use pour combattre l'adversaire
Se trouve inapte à les faire tous choir face contre terre
Il reste en n ous un dernier sursaut d'énergie
Pour la retourner contre soi et s'ôter la vie.


06. So Frail

While the reflection of past scars
Still faintly shines, still weekly whines,
A new flame dawns, calm and pale
Surrounded by a white glow, but so frail.

It enlightened my deafened scream,
Where hatred was reigning supreme,
Thus switching ways, inverting nights and days
And breaking the walls of my rational maze.

Of my past, there remained only a heavy ruin,
Finally allowing my cold self to breath in.
Of my plans of a slow succumbing,
Silent smokes were now escaping, from their ashes dying.

Down below, deep under my skin
A cold hole, not meant to be filled in
A secret place, where no light had ever made its way
And where each color would have turned to grey

Right next to that cavity, a dead battering in a lonely grave
Carrying life as a moribund soul for continuity would crave
But its slow pulse one day you troubled
As its shameful cadence you entered

I am the monstrous soul, The one that never drifts but always crawls.
Lend me your wings so we can fly
And reach the welkin high.