punk

We are the pride of the country

This land has as many children as spongers swarming in a filthy clump of hair
We line up and scream in unison: we are the pride of the country
This land has been sold for a handful of silver coins
By a group of patriots in a summer evening
Since then, the country dances in exquisite, western clubs
It is bet on slot machines every night
Or used as pledge for poker games
Whoever wins is her pimp
It’s an old country a decrepit one that has no shame to dance naked
To make pirouettes in front of those strangers

She doesn’t care about the sponger-son
About what the hell is going on in his soul
She doesn’t care about the rage he falls asleep and gets up with
Cursing the misfortune of not having had another mother

Damned bitch
She could have been a countess
She could have become a science woman, an engineer
Or, at least, a housekeeper
Or something better: a muse

But she preferred to let herself straddled by patriots
Until they ate her up completely

Not even the bones were left behind
As heritage for the next generation

As an inspiration source
For patriotic songs and so on.

 

Professional suicide

John writes in the first person: “I’m sick and tired”
As if he exists more than any other
John is a professional of suicide
He has tried no less than 30 times so far

Some people imagine themselves to be more alive than others
Some people think they are closer to death, in better terms with it

In fact I’m sick and tired too
You’re definitely sick and tired
We are sick and tired, of course
They are very sick and very tired
But only John is saved by the paramedics
At the last moment
Again and again…

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