Cursed be bipeds, we must rise and walk.
The toxic bowel poisons and drags me away;
Then spits me out, half-digested.

A sad and hostile castle stands.
They dream of crowns, covet the throne,
but weary, lonely, my hope is not to reign.

Back in the bosom by Green Magic,
the mirage only hides from pain and misfortune.
So let's go to sleep... and do it again.

Would you take the red pill?
I was born to swallow the other one.
(But consciousness is stronger.)

Disguise or show off ! Time to choose ...

The pain is still around and one must go on with it.
Keep it close and keep feeling it.
The condition of the inside not to be forgotten.

The hallways are empty but the veil still glides.
Pilgrims abounding of new causes convince me.

The stifling bosom is not safe anymore,
And Green Magic now is flooding me
with courage and confidence.

The moat is widening more and more.

Dash and propagate! Time to fight ...


The rest is spreading out.
The light is vanishing.
The last ones may die drown by their creation,
or will they see the end of gravity?
The clock had already started to run
when there were no stories to tell.
The distance between whirls had not waited for water and smoke
and they won't get sick from digesting crumbs.

Death of a whisper
The drab fate of ashes
Nothing will remember
And all is as it used to be

Under the dead cold layer,
Silence has not said its last word.
The dry crack of lands eventually set it free.
Breaking through the sky,
the whisper is now blowing hard.
Its light sound is rushing through emptiness.
Searching for a new light, a piece of Something
and some acceptable logics.


Kingdom-Blue. Don't think but that way.
Makes evil. Subdues anybody.

Anger-Red. Dead from birth.
Getting lost. Going all the same way.

Fire, it's drinking water.
Lightnings, they're crushing blood.
Flames are blue at the bottom.
From up there, veins seem brooks.

A black sun is melting,
and its tears are getting wasted.

While queens and workers are too busy,
no one wants to walk in the dark.

No help, no change.
Black is not a colour.


Version 1 (below) appeared in the Seattle Sunday Star on Oct. 29, 1887, in a column by Dr. Henry A. Smith.

"CHIEF SEATTLE'S 1854 ORATION" - ver . 1


"Yonder sky that has wept tears of compassion upon my people for centuries untold, and which to us appears changeless and eternal, may change. Today is fair. Tomorrow it may be overcast with clouds. My words are like the stars that never change. Whatever Seattle says, the great chief at Washington can rely upon with as much certainty as he can upon the return of the sun or the seasons. The white chief says that Big Chief at Washington sends us greetings of friendship and goodwill. This is kind of him for we know he has little need of our friendship in return. His people are many. They are like the grass that covers vast prairies. My people are few. They resemble the scattering trees of a storm-swept plain. The great, and I presume -- good, White Chief sends us word that he wishes to buy our land but is willing to allow us enough to live comfortably. This indeed appears just, even generous, for the Red Man no longer has rights that he need respect, and the offer may be wise, also, as we are no longer in need of an extensive country.
There was a time when our people covered the land as the waves of a wind-ruffled sea cover its shell-paved floor, but that time long since passed away with the greatness of tribes that are now but a mournful memory. I will not dwell on, nor mourn over, our untimely decay, nor reproach my paleface brothers with hastening it, as we too may have been somewhat to blame.
Youth is impulsive. When our young men grow angry at some real or imaginary wrong, and disfigure their faces with black paint, it denotes that their hearts are black, and that they are often cruel and relentless, and our old men and old women are unable to restrain them. Thus it has ever been. Thus it was when the white man began to push our forefathers ever westward. But let us hope that the hostilities between us may never return. We would have everything to lose and nothing to gain. Revenge by young men is considered gain, even at the cost of their own lives, but old men who stay at home in times of war, and mothers who have sons to lose, know better.
Our good father in Washington--for I presume he is now our father as well as yours, since King George has moved his boundaries further north--our great and good father, I say, sends us word that if we do as he desires he will protect us. His brave warriors will be to us a bristling wall of strength, and his wonderful ships of war will fill our harbors, so that our ancient enemies far to the northward -- the Haidas and Tsimshians -- will cease to frighten our women, children, and old men. Then in reality he will be our father and we his children. But can that ever be? Your God is not our God! Your God loves your people and hates mine! He folds his strong protecting arms lovingly about the paleface and leads him by the hand as a father leads an infant son. But, He has forsaken His Red children, if they really are His. Our God, the Great Spirit, seems also to have forsaken us. Your God makes your people wax stronger every day. Soon they will fill all the land. Our people are ebbing away like a rapidly receding tide that will never return. The white man's God cannot love our people or He would protect them. They seem to be orphans who can look nowhere for help. How then can we be brothers? How can your God become our God and renew our prosperity and awaken in us dreams of returning greatness? If we have a common Heavenly Father He must be partial, for He came to His paleface children. We never saw Him. He gave you laws but had no word for His red children whose teeming multitudes once filled this vast continent as stars fill the firmament. No; we are two distinct races with separate origins and separate destinies. There is little in common between us.
To us the ashes of our ancestors are sacred and their resting place is hallowed ground. You wander far from the graves of your ancestors and seemingly without regret. Your religion was written upon tablets of stone by the iron finger of your God so that you could not forget. The Red Man could never comprehend or remember it. Our religion is the traditions of our ancestors -- the dreams of our old men, given them in solemn hours of the night by the Great Spirit; and the visions of our sachems, and is written in the hearts of our people.
Your dead cease to love you and the land of their nativity as soon as they pass the portals of the tomb and wander away beyond the stars. They are soon forgotten and never return. Our dead never forget this beautiful world that gave them being. They still love its verdant valleys, its murmuring rivers, its magnificent mountains, sequestered vales and verdant lined lakes and bays, and ever yearn in tender fond affection over the lonely hearted living, and often return from the happy hunting ground to visit, guide, console, and comfort them.
Day and night cannot dwell together. The Red Man has ever fled the approach of the White Man, as the morning mist flees before the morning sun. However, your proposition seems fair and I think that my people will accept it and will retire to the reservation you offer them. Then we will dwell apart in peace, for the words of the Great White Chief seem to be the words of nature speaking to my people out of dense darkness.
It matters little where we pass the remnant of our days. They will not be many. The Indian's night promises to be dark. Not a single star of hope hovers above his horizon. Sad-voiced winds moan in the distance. Grim fate seems to be on the Red Man's trail, and wherever he will hear the approaching footsteps of his fell destroyer and prepare stolidly to meet his doom, as does the wounded doe that hears the approaching footsteps of the hunter.
A few more moons, a few more winters, and not one of the descendants of the mighty hosts that once moved over this broad land or lived in happy homes, protected by the Great Spirit, will remain to mourn over the graves of a people once more powerful and hopeful than yours. But why should I mourn at the untimely fate of my people? Tribe follows tribe, and nation follows nation, like the waves of the sea. It is the order of nature, and regret is useless. Your time of decay may be distant, but it will surely come, for even the White Man whose God walked and talked with him as friend to friend, cannot be exempt from the common destiny. We may be brothers after all. We will see.
We will ponder your proposition and when we decide we will let you know. But should we accept it, I here and now make this condition that we will not be denied the privilege without molestation of visiting at any time the tombs of our ancestors, friends, and children. Every part of this soil is sacred in the estimation of my people. Every hillside, every valley, every plain and grove, has been hallowed by some sad or happy event in days long vanished. Even the rocks, which seem to be dumb and dead as the swelter in the sun along the silent shore, thrill with memories of stirring events connected with the lives of my people, and the very dust upon which you now stand responds more lovingly to their footsteps than yours, because it is rich with the blood of our ancestors, and our bare feet are conscious of the sympathetic touch. Our departed braves, fond mothers, glad, happy hearted maidens, and even the little children who lived here and rejoiced here for a brief season, will love these somber solitudes and at eventide they greet shadowy returning spirits. And when the last Red Man shall have perished, and the memory of my tribe shall have become a myth among the White Men, these shores will swarm with the invisible dead of my tribe, and when your children's children think themselves alone in the field, the store, the shop, upon the highway, or in the silence of the pathless woods, they will not be alone. In all the earth there is no place dedicated to solitude. At night when the streets of your cities and villages are silent and you think them deserted, they will throng with the returning hosts that once filled them and still love this beautiful land. The White Man will never be alone.
Let him be just and deal kindly with my people, for the dead are not powerless. Dead, did I say? There is no death, only a change of worlds.


« I have no home;
in the depths of my being I make my home. »
Lost and wandering in a drifting wooden prison,
the streams that rock the seas are now where he belongs.

« I have no parents;
I make the earth and sky my parents. »
The darkness of his skin disappeared as soon as they noticed
the top of his skull could kiss the moon
and his fingers break the hills in pieces.

« I have neither life nor death;
I make the Eternal my life and death. »


Their stupid mice. Are we ?
We are their cute little pigs.
It's all the same.
But they said they will change...

And so we break all your windows,
that show you who's the most beautiful.
And so we repaint your glorious monuments,
that don't mean anything to us.
They are the shadows of some old outdated worlds.

And sometimes we kill ourselves.
Since it remains the only efficient act of revolt.

What are we doing ? Nothing that useful. But lovely as hell !
Where are we going ? Nowhere. But faster than ever !


Here she comes !

The mermaid with her sparkling eyes,
is flying too fast from star to star.
The wax plugs are set,
but my ears call her voice.

I would sacrifice
Life and Death
to fall into the space.
Get trapped into her space.

I want to hear her song.
But while she comes around,
my calls and screams remain silent.
And now I just see a meteor,
leaving for another victim.

Here it comes !
The black hole swallows everything ...


It's been days you've been walking.
The kid that you've trusted will trap you from inside.

They are coming. Three hours. The yellow leaf has fallen.
You'd better hide in the basements, because Trevor and his friends won't leave anything.
They are going to whirl around, to pull the soul out from the nerves, from the feet.

Just relax. Four days. Your skin is pale.
Digestive enzymes are released through the body and smelly gases escaping from cavities.
And they are back to work, taking the light up from the chest, then the throat.
This time there won't have any lorry-driver to get you out of the rubble.

Would you mary moisture?
Would you ever kiss crawling worms?
Would you ever ride maggots?

A wet well-cut grass, all around, is shivering under each one of your footsteps.
The dying star has never shone so bright through the white clouds before.

Will you be the bark, to heal from the disease?
Will you be the ice, keeping the meat alive?
What will you want to be, next?

Don't worry, Old Misery.
From your scars, new roots will grow.
The stones are now your new house they can destroy again and again.


There was a time when no one talked.
There was a time when the clouds were not creatures in our heads.
They were just clouds.

Back then, I met the ancient seed.
And she told me to be careful.
She told me to keep an eye on the dunes;
because a monster will soon come out of the sand,
and destroy everything we've built.

Perfect lines, artificial edges.
Plastic birds, fake water around us.

They are watching over the two small fences.
"Don't you ever come back !", they warned.

The giant shell is on its way.
Let the beast crawl over the great seawalls, and swallow them all.

Now celebrate ! 


Too many knots into my head,
combining and pulling hard.

Too many desires and directions,
striking one another to implode.

I must find a way to free the prisoner.
I must travel through the space with the mermaid.

She's a wise source of knowledge and discoveries.
A light extravagant wind of beauty.

My wings will spread beyond the borders.
I will taste and I will be the viperfish.

  Too many knots making too many nets.
I must get a piece of everything but they've trapped the action.

Kira save us from ourselves.
 Come on please, write my name.

I should let the prisoner die alone.
And slaughter the mermaid, cut off her fishtail.

I see whores in the streets
and traitors where they should help.

No way ! I stare at myself.
No way ! I was already one of them.

Monsters we've created, will ruin all of our dreams.
They'll bury my brain deep under the ice.

They've built grey fortresses
in which they're making plans,
either to erase or to convert.


Drops whip the dusty ground by squalls.
Down the volcano, the acidity of the opaque liquid
defaces the land now muddy and smoking.
This rain, that strikes a drove of dead trees,
comes from an anger once blue and fertile.
When the storm disappears, the lava will flow
because the naked branches have already sacrified their fineries,
and the tortuous roots have found a shelter in the heart of the flames.
The forest, the army that is now rising, will soon give its last fight.
A boiling soup surrounds the island.
The melting rocks hold back the deadline as much as they can.
As a shield built of clay, a proud but powerless curtain of steam
encircles this last dying bubble.
There we go ! The raging streams are ready for their revenge,
waiting for harpooning hope, smothering any attempt of rebirth.
The only vast ocean, long ago made of water,
is sending its huge soldiers to flood the golden geyser,
to uproot the wood that's creaking with terror,
that's imploring a faceless punishment.
Waves are doing themselves justice, working hard to swallow
the last track of the epidemic which has worn them down so much.
A final spit of blood seals the dried dusts's death.
Those ones which have played too much with the poisoned flowers,
and challenged the peaceful depths.
What's wrong ? Finally all is flat ...
What's wrong ? Finally all is straight ...
All is quiet. All is in order.
What's wrong ?