Tangible tension, saturating the heavy cosmic atmosphere of Ochre
Ancient finger mark affixed on a tainted rocky glass, where planets used to stare, so their face would take form, throughout the milky mountains and clumsy snow.
© 2009-2010 Emmanuel BIGOU-BEC
Je danse
Avec les lettres,
Les mots,
Le sens,
La Vie,
La Mort,
Le plaisir,
L'amertume,
La pluie,
Mais aussi le Soleil
Œil éternel qui fixe le cul de ma bouteille.
© 2009-2010 Emmanuel BIGOU-BEC
If you are my only reason to keep on living, let's say you are my primary reason, to keep on fighting
Picture me inside a maze, this very maze of my brain and soul, with never-ending lanes, throughout Time & Space
Without dime or pace, without line or face
Nothing appears to me clearly, tell me, what am I supposed to be, if I like to treat my own mentality the exact same way I usually treat my arch-enemy, in spite of all the things I have been offered to see ?
If someone cared to explain me, if He only cared to open up my eyes, half-blinded by overrated and delirious fantasy !
I never know how to act, how I am supposed to react, in fact I must be lacking of tact ...
At night, there is that little light that will take its flight, in order to make me feel bright
This sight looks like a fight, but if I got that right then I must be taking delight in staring at an urban blight.
© 2009-2010 Emmanuel BIGOU-BEC
Back when I was younger, living with my mother
Seldom seen my father but never been a youngster, had to grow up faster
Had to watch my behavior closer, had to be clever
Eventually had a step-brother, and a step-sister
Though my family, throughout the years, become smaller and smaller
I cannot blame my father for making us suffer
It is probably bound to her, his mother called disaster
Who the hell cares about numbers, man, I came up as a lawyer
Known as the globe-trotter, travels made my life brighter
When I finally learned how to spend my time wiser, my sour life started to taste better
No more love letters, another forgotten nigger, left on the border
Who obviously failed to understand the matter, of making a career
Not as a drug dealer, not as a hustler or an actor either, no
As a hip-hop pioneer, a true lyrical digger, a real mind murderer
And if you are a hater, if you feel bitter
Do not bend over, or it will be game over
Because I am a hater lover, as much as a killer
Get ready to face the original Death Challenger
One strong soldier, ready to wander around the street corners
No wonder, this is my job, my life, as a story teller.
© 2009-2010 Emmanuel BIGOU-BEC
Je marche paisiblement sur un trottoir gelé du mois de janvier. Autour de moi, la vie est lasse. Les oiseaux ne chantent plus, ni ne sortent. Les voitures, frileuses, se font de plus en plus rares, et même les gens s'enferment chez eux, au chaud.
Seul le vent frais est à l'appel, parfois accompagné de neige, éclatante de pureté et resplendissante d'ennui.
Il y a des chemins flous, des battements de cils compulsifs, des hochements de tête et des feuilles. Le chien le plus plus courageux est de sortie, il bombe le torse. Un chaton se réfugie au cœur d'un jardin mal entretenu. Les branches fraiches craquent et les feuilles squelettiques poussent de petits cris, aigus, à cause de quelques bourrasques intempestives surgissant d'entre les entrailles du ciel.
Je m'arrête face à un lac gelé. Sa fine couche de glace reflète le ciel nuageux, annoncé la veille à la météo. Les animaux hibernent et la fourrure a la côte. Les fêtards attrapent froid, un rhume urbain et fortement contagieux. Une véritable pandémie, disent-ils. Les cieux semblent manquer de sommeil, ils sont d'un pâleur oppressante. Les nuages flottent péniblement et se déplacent, lentement, en troupeaux solitaires.
Les trains, les cars et les avions boudent leurs passagers, ils auraient aimé pouvoir somnoler un peu plus, sujets à une overdose de kilomètres.
Vois, la chaleur aussi a migré vers des contrées lointaines, cédant son trône à l'hiver hystérique !
© 2009-2010 Emmanuel BIGOU-BEC
Street blame, rêves de bohème assoupis
Extinguir, la flamme crépitante qui parcourt leurs nuits sauvages
Il s'agit d'un simple, sojourn throughout my Lackluster Tales
Laissez-vous aller, Death has left our shining room, saturated with astonished angels
Here they come, the glorious Seekers of Thruth.
© 2009-2010 Emmanuel BIGOU-BEC
Les saisons sont mortes, long buried and forsaken
Les auteurs s'élèvent et sévissent, throughout the sacred and untold rhymes
Une Transe-En-Danse, soaking in purple waves
D'abord animés, puis désarticulés, they wander around the hellish lane.
© 2009-2010 Emmanuel BIGOU-BEC
Paint their faithful wings, stuck in a hearse
Tear apart the self-conscious nurse
Blame their insanity, they tried to escape their destiny
But ended up at the feet of blasphemy
You can picture them now, the sour victories
Between Good & Evil, they lay out and spit up delirious stories
You too, took part of the dreamlike raids
Shall you never deny it.
© 2009-2010 Emmanuel BIGOU-BEC
