13 novembre 2018
En libre écoute sur :

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Pochette Cartouche Alb#4

What will be left of our childhood
When our two heroes will go away?
What will be left of adolescence
When screens will eat her?
What will be left of the beautiful years
What we waste to work?
What will be left of the time which passes
When comes the day we die ?
What will be left of the beauty
When we shall have ravaged everything?
What will be left of liberty ?

What will be left ?

What will be left of ideal
That we had tattooed
When we shall give up ?
What will be left of our passage
When the Death will go that way
That i twill be the end of the journey ?
What will be left of our desires
When a day the most beautiful love
In the words will have become deaf?
When we shall not want to smile any more
What will be left of our face?

What will be left ?

Will there be a rebel
An Amazon, a Foreigner
To like still the sun ?
Will it stay a few years
To end my song
And to live with nonsense?
Will it stay in the universe
A star to be fetched ?

( Author: Géraldine D )


Don’t look for me where myrtles grow,
You won’t find me there, my sweetheart,
Where lifes wither near machines,
There, is my resting place.

Don’t look for me where birds are sing,
You won’t find me there, my sweetheart,
A slave I am, where chains ring
There, is my resting place.

Don’t look for me where fountains spring
You won’t find me there, my sweetheart,
Where tears flow, teeth grind,
There, is my resting place.

And if you love me with true love,
Then come to me my good sweetheart,
And cheer my heart from sorrow,
And sweeten for me my resting place.

( Author: Morris Rosenfeld, 1911)

This poem was written to call back the fire of the factory Triangle Shirtwaist,
on March 25th, 1911, when Morris Rosenfeld had been used.
The fire had made 146 deaths, 123 women and 23 men, mainly Jewish and Italian immigrants.
The workers had not been able to escape, because the boss had condemned emergency exits,
common practice so that the workers do not have of unauthorized break and to warn the flight.


Time’s run out to wait, the tick-tock shivers;
Every minute by calling endlessly an other one,
Tells me to take the key and to rock it
In a big wheatfield, to find it not more.
But I would leave only if you come with
The cat, the bird and I and then some copecks.

Catch an end of star and come in my old boat
Face the giants, who live in streams.
The passionate winds will lead us both
Towards our Eldorado, where we shall live happy.

I wait for you in the corner of the block number seven.
Do not take so much stuff, we shall leave light.
Before embarking I shall visit a poet ;
He will give me rimes, which we can sing.
The tune will take us, up to our hermitage
Where the reverie will come until the next trip.

( Author: Géraldine D )


A touch of madness settled
On the crowd which stopped
To think, walk, breathe
When the gypsy arrived.

She ignited as she swirled,
She sweated as she perspired
Love, innocence, desire
It was too much, it was necessary to finish it!

Color ruby, the red which painted its lips
Color ruby, the roses thrown to her feet
Color ruby, the dress of the last prayer
Color ruby, the fire which consumed her

Angel’s face deformed
For a body which refused itself;
A motionless smile for ever
In the name of the greed.

She fought as pounded
Her heart for the one that she liked.
The freedom, the dream, the laughter
It was too much, it was necessary to finish it!

Color ruby, the make-up which covered her eyelids
Color ruby, eyes turning away from the sky
Color ruby, the insubordination and the anger
Color ruby, the fist brandished towards the sun

To all the Esmeralda, from here to India

( Author: Géraldine D )


A guitar, a rocky voice
And here begins the song.
In the bar we stop drinking
Or on the contrary more than reason.
The sport posted on the sign
Line in the docs of the public,
Taken by the magic fingers
Which make run the tune.

The punk rocker in golden hands
Made beat the hardest hearts
The punk rocker in golden hands
Treats a little all our wounds.

The smile settles down on the lips
Of the children of binary rock
In a movement all rocked
On an imaginary flowerbed.
And it is little as a sun
Which warms bodies tired
By the depression which slumbers
In the hollow of the rebel souls.

Punk rocker in golden hands
A night went to see somewhere else
Leaving us only ones with the death
Orphans of the major chords

But punk rocker in golden hands
Always sings and still plays
For the guys and the evening girls
Who drink life at the bar rack.

For Schultz

( Author: Géraldine D )


Dance, trance, friends, emotion
Shout, drunk, kiss, transgression
Smile, life, madness, out of control !

That’s what we do, and will we do !

Mosh, pogo, whirl around, stage diving
Jump, love, hug, fuck
Freedom, feeling, pleasure, move your feet !

( Author: Géraldine D )


It is fifteen o’clock on the city
The sun covers the ardent town
Of its reassuring light,
Rocking the sleepy children.

In a greasy spoon, men play
dice without words nor a noise.
One follows with tenderness in his eyes
A dog which sniffs at the mud.

When suddenly the animal shouts
And skips into his knees.
The man understood and in a tour
Pushes him in front of so that he runs away

Run, run, do not wait for me
Run, run, and leave me
But think of me, but think of me
Don’t forget me, don’t forget me!

In a room a couple lives
Their first moment of happiness,
being guided by the desire
And the beating of their heart.

When the earth begins trembling
They believe in the confusion of the senses,
But the roaring of sirens
Already announces their sufferings.

Fast, fast, look at me
Fast, fast and kiss me
But if you live, if you survive
Don’t forget me, don’t forget me!

Near the nuclear power station a house
Shelters a mother and her son.
They were never really afraid
Of this concrete giant.

Then they stay dazed
When he let them down
And falls in rooms under the pressure
Of a wave filled with one thousand waste.

The woman kisses her child
In an affectionate dying breath.
With their destroying nature,
People stole them life.

( Author: Géraldine D )


A day furthermore, short night and then,
Nothing. A telephone which lies and a screen which sells.
She is alone. All is left.
On the piece of furniture faces smile to her friendly.

Neverthelesse photos show a well filled life :
Two magnificent children, a successful marriage,
An attractive house, the holidays in the beach,
Very nice colleagues, an acceptable work.

Years scrolled without she notices it
Taking care of her relatives, of nothing
If it is not the small concerns of the everyday life.
Here, everything was well. Why to look too far?

From woman she became a mother, the grandmother,
Belphegor concealed by diverse masks.
She does not remember if on day she was beautiful
And it’s not the thing for which we expected from her.

A light in the eyes would want to glisten,
But it’s to late, the door closed.
And if she had known she would not have walked
Her craziest desires, her sweet friendships.

But the morality urges us to live soberly,
To Diogène she prefers Candide and his garden.
The enjoyment is thrown in underground passages.
The voice of the TV rocks her friendly …

To all our grandmothers.

( Author: Géraldine D )


Eh You !
You speak about my body ?! Listen to last time.
In your stereotype the women are beautiful like that:
They have to be sportswomen, slim and futile,
But the breast at half-mast and the plump buttocks.
You can fiddle with them, whistle for them, kiss them,
Because they are exposed, they wait only for that!
To work also it is necessary to be seductive,
Because the brain of the women is in their breasts.
They have to carry heels, skirts and subleties
Or on the contrary hide their forms and their attractions.
At any rate it is the male who decides.

Woman, idiot, chick, zouze, female, bitch or princess,
Moukère, mother, ugly woman, ice-cold, whore, Djinn or tigress.
I don’t care of how you call me, I carry proudly my sex.

I heard you « but it is old as the earth
The men work, govern, the women bring into the world ! »
Masters of the universe against hostesses.
The fort which protects the low house wife.
Ah! This is why they knock, rape, bruise and punch
Exchange the vagina, the bottom of those who they love so much?!
Today you are afraid because you see that they take issue
The traditions that put you centuries to be built
To check their body. And you are well right.
Then you demote, you try to slow down.
But freedom is a flame which we cannot be put out …

( Author: Géraldine D )


Years we go on the roads to play
Punk and sing enjoyment, fury with leaky pockets
It’s not money, not glory ; it’s passion and friendship
Which make inebriate and make us live.

No way to declare ourselves a failed,
It’s too late not to continue always.
And the dawn would be very too boring and pointless
In only consumer, orderly, docile and slavish.
I’s not money, not glory ; it’s passion and friendship.
Because it’s you, because it’s us.

The Friends, the Sportsmen of Montreuil City
Wreck their ears by listening to our verses.
At the Tanneries, « the King » is collapsed on the stage,
Rocked by the tunes, the rhythmic and the riffs.
In Berlin the May Day, we meet the friends
In the disorder of Rebel store, demonstration and scene.
Köpi and Supamolly remind us that we can
Party and fight and build.
The Athénée Libertaire of Bordeaux, either is not outdone.
We always have messy hair there by a wind libertarian.
He carries us towards Euskadi, to whom my heart is carried away,
Snatched by the brother/siterhood, decades of fight and the mountain.
The vegan food of Zorro, the walks in SanPauli with our punk guide.
The brimming emotion at the concert for Paco, and the beers
Which stream to hide the tears.
Walks at the edge of Weser with the buddies of Bremen
That we sometimes find in the demonstrations antifa with those of Düsseldorf.
The fire and the party in the concert in Budapest and, the festival DIY of Gdynia.
Fritz and Felix Family, Grallouiteurs, The Grand Roger l’Agenais,
The punks (blues) of Kiel, the CCC, the Terriens of Rochefort
And Bourg en Bresse, are stronger
Than the customs officers, who do us nakedly,
With our suspects’ mouths in their formated heads.
Because nithing can be done, we shall be ther in every case.

( Author: Géraldine D )

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