have you ever felt like outer space     here’s a lame
buddhist riddle    what is the sound of
silence   when I was 13    I chose a name
to write on the world    to fill in the silent space
with paint     unaware of irony then    but I
was still clever    my name is    A    B   S   E   N   T

last night close my eyes    but I still think of you    
j’hallucine       hello Alice    no let me explain 

      it starts with     !     roaring     
tastes loud     like the
heart of a star dying       where
gold is made     what is my size    I am the
wrong size    
    my body the magnitude of Creation
my arm is a spiral arm  my feet are
still in bed    the only landmark is 
sound who
is roaring   who is yelling like
time as it greedily gobbles lives
swallows worlds     this is nothing
so pretty as the sound of Death who is
sonorous and deep like the tomb of god
falling shut     no this is the sound of god
preying  anti noise the shout of   the
void   Hungry    it is creeping     looking    
for me

Dublin night, walking home, You
ketamine? Guinness.

ours    we are exactly who we need to be     we
are exactly where we need to be

In this memory I am
So happy

I would change nothing. But remembering it
in bed now, I trip. Don’t worry girl, it’s
not you. Just all the small things     I’ve been
through    eh

It’s a sober and vivid hallucination,
a combinatorial flashback. Not a dream.
I roll over to write this and I feel my arms
swing     the span of solar systems    everything
i touch unfathomably far away     i have PTSD   
when i think of you       i hallucinate        
in space          

in between dimensions
      break here in case of emergency   
thoughts too   break       my body 
slides?  a part 

the fracture flows    a razor sharp crack across the
diagonal of your body   your left lower corner:
your pinky toe but not like not ah   not   the
location does not exist or should not   imagine
um imagine if you had become a flat square
for all eternity    i did it once it was
terrible   no uh imagine um your left leg but
maybe behind you as if you had broken it

the right top corner: above your right eye by
where your uncertainty lives  offset and always a
bit perpendicular to your other eye   as if you
had broken that bit too     

not that the right eye points in a different
direction    your left eye just sees half-
dimensions   useful for imitating Picasso    
less useful when drunk     the right eye sees
wholly     it got the extra bits   

anyway that’s
where the right corner is it’s offset up a bit
and perpendicular or something I don’t know
I’m not a poet    I’m just hallucinating

as the crack flows   lightning-fast very sharp
corner to corner    i disrupt into parts   
the way a mirror does     something that
once was whole and full    which held worlds   
now is unbearable to look into    fragments 
scattering reflection    in- 
complete pieces    

each split   like fission   takes something from
this world   you never get back   if you just
put the pieces back together    like a mirror   
you are left   with less    just look at yourself

the lines that split are incredibly thin    but if
you are not careful or cared for,    if you are
not whole   

then there is empty space   

and  it shouts 
the void    is hungry    it comes through   in
between the pieces of me    it crawls through
those cracks    fast   faster than you can mend   
faster than you breathed me in   faster than
you forgot me   and once here    it will not
leave :  
negative creep

in negative creep you write this     but a person
who cares?     they say     if you are not
whole     there is a thing called kintsugi         to
repair broken pottery with gold in the cracks    
first you need acceptance and glue    but then
when you hallucinate     you can look amongst
the screaming stars      to find your pieces 

and there you may even find a lil bit of gold


Even Google knows what’s up with Jacques Dutronc (actually Google is probably the most likely to know what’s up with anything but it’s still satisfying):

While there is no decade in which this man was not dripping in a demi-glace of understated French sex appeal, Jacques Dutronc’s music and ineffable style is most closely associated with the cultural revolution of the 60’s. He evokes that decade’s tantalizing, energetic-yet-laidback ambience of freedom, creativity, and (let’s not forget) sex, maybe most succinctly in “Il est cinq heures, Paris s’éveille.” It starts with a Cash-esque rolling blues riff that develops into something more psychedelic with the flute and he just kind of describes Paris — the grungy, sexy, romantic city that is Paris — waking up:

The theme continues in “J’aime les filles” with less subtlety. It’s an ode to his greatest muse and his greatest vice (at least that how I interpret it). The song is just him describing the kinds of women he loves; as it progresses you realize it’s kind of all the women. Why the violins and the delivery? Ah Jacques you angsty man.

Here ya boi Jacques takes on a bit of an edge in tone and in content. I guess his vice got to him. I think what I like here is his irreverent tone against his content. “Les cactus” is lyrically a complaint — it opens with: “the whole world is a cactus / it’s impossible to sit down,” but it also opens with rolling snares so punchy they give me “We Will Rock You” vibes every time. It’s an existential snarl for sure, (kind of cool that 60 years later it would still work with a drugged out Lil Peep emo-rap treatment) but the triumphant tone of his “Uy!” makes me think that as much as the cactus stings Jacques, he’s got his fight figured out. Aïe aïe aïe!

Finishing thoughts: I think it’s cool that he never used title capitalization. What a rebel.