Republic of Lassitude
We, of another cloth and a singular ecstasy.
We, of the epic and the lack of reason.
We, of the false years, we, of the city.
We, of the other side of the world and of the seasons.
We, of the margins, we, of roads, we, of high treason.
Oh serene republic, we are your children!
The cobbles turn over and let us in.
I have a democratic impression that gives me rashes.
On the extreme side of the heart and of its ashes.
I can hear through my entrails the fashion of May!
I COMMAND YOU TO BE BRIEF AND DAUNTLESS.
I have some ideas of who will die.
And I never die, unless... unless...
There are assassins on the title page.
Who cut in line to see blood on stage.
Where the script is written on the spot.
Above all, do not cry.
Tears are the wine of sadists!
Me? I cry no more!
And I say it aloud! And gently as well, and at ease.
I know assassins who are ready to gloat.
And they look as good as imbeciles who vote.
Assassinated assassins and their manners.
Who wear discomfort sown under their banners.
The bourgeoisie that allows itself to elate. In excess.
I COMMAND YOU TO BE BRIEF AND TO THE POINT.
I know brown charmers with clotted blood.
Who scratch themselves as one scratches a wound.
It enlivens, a little red, it's in fashion!
Of an honorary legion that we would forgive.
Oh serene republic, your children self-analyze!
And from our neighbors arrives a perfume.
Of blood, and the locals who contemplate.
In the rivers of blood dripping as cream.
The cream of a past Revolution.
Oh serene republic, Oh serene lassitude!
Oh young and beautiful, stuck in your talks.
You must make love as one peacocks.
Eyes toward the garden where weapons blossom.
Weapons, as an aesthetic of solitude.
Weapons, as a sinister conspiracy.
I feel we are coming!
Boats full of muskets, pistols, and black flowers.
And the florists prepare bloodbaths.
For the morning gazette.
Blood, it beautifies all that is well.
I have flowers of love that pollinate wheat.
And that create bread that we eat on our knees.
A bread of living flesh that we would love.
As we would love a child that hides its talents.
And that explores them meekly, like we caress a gun.
A finger on the trigger and to hell with the rest.
Weapons, as an aesthetic accessible to the common man.
Weapons of white, as a dawn in the city.
This dawn like the care of absence.
WE ARE ABSENT, MESSIEURS.
Love, always love, ah! This diseased love.
As a drug from which we cannot relent.
Like a drug before which I submit.
I am a trafficker of love.
Weapons like a smile behind the head.
As a way to disarm oneself.
Of the dogs who love you.
Weapons that lick you, that oust you, that lull you.
Weapons to worry the anxious.
And the Constitution of fear to distribute.
To all those who live with fear or in whom fear lives.
Article I: I am afraid!
Article II: I am afraid!
Article III: I am afraid!
Article IV: Where is this written?
Weapons, as an aesthetic of solitude.
When we are alone and armed, we are not alone.
When we are alone and disarmed, we ask to unionize under a Captain.
Love, always love, ah! This serene love.
This love that rises out of your mouth as a bomb.
That we would like to fire in a few passing bellies.
In a few curious stomachs, idle, love sick.
Weapons, as a plan to bring back the Divine.
And as for blades, we could taint them red!
Of a particular tone and within reach of all range.
We, of another cloth and a singular ecstasy.
We, of the epic and the lack of reason.
We, of the other side of the world and of the seasons.
Oh serene republic, Oh republic of reason!
Comrade accursed, comrade misery.
If ever you realize that your revolt stalls.
And becomes a state of habitual revolt.
Then go out.
March. Die.
Finally love the trees, the beasts.
Turn away from conform and non-conform.
Release these notions, if they are notions.
Nothing is worth nothing.