CITY OF QUARTZ We may only have time to - Count the square yards offered to us and those we'll never thread upon - Dream of spaces our brain can no longer imagine - Talk about happiness in the past tense, with colors that we no longer can see - Count the one not left anymore to live. Born as king?! Yeah, the palace where our throne is set is a bog ! So that we can only shit our rage in a dream and live anarchy through poems, lost in the shithole that sheltered once our good resolutions. One gives birth so that one can eat. One keeps on going so that one ends up under plastic and behind shop windows. Nothing left to understand, nothing left to learn in here. We only need to laugh and cry... and mechanically execute orders from slaughterhouse to the grave.  How many more minutes to go, each one bearing one more regret? 

THE NEW SHAME OF PUNK TO COME "One Hundred asses to fuck and even more fuck heads to punch" is the only way I feel about this fucking story! "One Hundred asses to fuck and even more fuck heads to punch" is the only way I feel about this web site story. It's like a gift from god turned into the golden calf... when the threat's going down, the assholes parade! Don't you think our independence is more than a marketising motto on a tee shirt worn by - Each one of us who rewrites his life with no courage for living it - All those who talk about squats without even knowning the smell of them - Youngsters who wear gun-shaped-belt pretending to be gangsters - New pin-ups and porn rock stars who never leave their bathrooms - And Michael Jackson sosies who invade the hardcore scene... This hardcore scene sucks! You think you are writing the new shape of punk to come but you only made it a municipal waste.

TAKE TO REMAKE Where everything turned black to dust and only deserts remain... Take to remake. Mirages flower to the beat of hearts, stirred by the thousand paged modern tragedy that is hope to which we are leashed like a dog. The epilogue and prologue are united where new names and faces draw the well built lines of the labyrinth sheltering windmills at the feet of which we once laid down our arms. Everything sleeps quietly in here - The toad keeping its watch on earth - The ogre eats those he meets - The knife waiting patiently for the child’ windpipe. Nothing gets lost for everything is dead already for those who dig in the valley of resignation. Where the enemy keeps it watch on the sunny slope, protecting its rational on the other side. - The toad keeping its watch on earth - The ogre eats those he meets - The knife waiting patiently for the child’ windpipe. You’d shake with fear... even more if you knew where you really are... in the “free” world baby!

PANEM ET CIRCENSENS Live from the arena, thirty people listening, it’s the open season to go hunting crown of thorn and pine needles. Shining under local headquarters neons, the emblems of a city of belts boarding the battlefields of ambitions come to grip with each other. The world stops turning, taking its time beholding the “artist” putting on air and the principles of transfer of myth of long ago. The nauseous broken record praising the glory of yesterday of which they’re only the witnesses: a chocolate medal for every dreamt victory. The play is now performed at the counter or in front of the same shared plate... We won’t die of hunger anymore, we just die of boredom. So I see that your close enemies must be cherished if you want your quest to have meaning!

MODERN SOAP MOVIE ... A fight to enter the temple of farce and ghouls ... When the cat and mouse hand over to the hare and turtle, each gone in separate ways in a play of shadows under the blazing sun. But in this race to reach the first step of a podium made of clay and shit, you forgot arena isn’t any different from those we tried escape. Now you choose the shackles of an illusion making you believe you belong to an elite grown by opportunism, pride and lies. You suck bro’! You suck so much that the only thing you deserve (now) is to be fucked!

THE QUICK AND THE DEAD It's all about savoir-faire: first you learn to read, then you learn to count, then you understand what's expected of you. You must also learn to make yourself more beautiful than others, to be the clone, to be the polystyrene clone of dead-eyed models. You must also learn to wait for your turn, the turn of the screwed that's given to you - not that you want to. In the end you'll learn to enjoy the lame post mortem comfort of a life past. By the way, you've learned to stroke those odd dreams stolen from mirrors as you've learned to love the man you still loathed and that you hate even more now. And if you don't follow the rules that have been soft-spoken to you... On your way to glory, to fame and suck-cess you'll see that the medal you've been yearning for turns to a one-sided coin once you remove the blue-knotted package. It's not that you dig dough when you bump into the set, set around the scales that gives you the weight of your own inflated image... what you wish to feed your sad audience feeds your own madness. But you gotta know it does never gonna be enough for them. They will never stop to give an everlasting love to any golden calf whether it be you or any other girl considering she sold better than you did her body and name to the illusions she serves.. You're not less a public figure than the anonymous voice-over in the silencio theater of your angst-ridden life. It’s all about savoir-faire: First you learn to read, then you learn to count, then you understand what's expected of you.

WHITE THRASH KIDS = REDNECK GEEKS Seven pm at “the white trash” in Berlin (we’re) borely in the place that we glimpse. The new hype pin up tattoo on each guy’s arm we see. Betty Boop with the new wave haircut (that) has given up soul music for cheap electro. And when the dolls up to get to the Vanity Fair, words like “punk”, “hardcore” don’t seem so good down there. Are they getting bored in the mystic toons universe ? Or are they feeling more passion for hamburgers they serve than for music and verse ? Broading over it as they’re laying at the table that’s when we realize some incredible shit : School’s football players and geek have given up college uniforms (and) wear John Travolta outfits and yet they still follow the norm. But they forgot one important thing : who decided that wearing leather jackets and blue suede shoes make one so cool ? ... When “cool” is a devaluated password for “fool”. Yeah, a tuning fan is as cool as he gets : not worse than a stomp collector, a ballerina or a Chinese top dancer... Not worse... but certainly not better: We won’t play at the Crazy Horse tonight, but for fashion whores, what sight!

SEN It’s a dead end. The whole earth has been covered by the asphalt, and the sun sets no longer. Every fucking breathing thing has to die. Sen’s freedom fades through short-living years. From the sky the vultures spy on the world with forgotten colors : they’re looking for dreams which could escape them. And they would love that Sen asked them to let her live… spend all her life, half-dead, washing our lies stuck to the linoleum of these golden cells. “One never forgets people one loves, but it’s often hard to remember them”  She has now to make this choice, disown or forget herself, abandoned to the madness of the automatic mode of afterlife. No more lions to tame in here, just some pigs to feed and satisfy cause everything has a one-life use. Like the last kiss she though she shared was… One never forgets people one loves, but it’s often hard to remember them. It’s a dead end. Even her name didn’t resist to time… she just sold it to the body she uses. Here, a “none-faced” spies on her… It’s the shadow stolen from her. It tears your heart apart and exchanges money against your blood. Pan, did you make the right choice in the ogre’s secret place ? But it’s the first round to win ! To remember she’s neither the eternal sunshine in which we drown nor the wads, the food we eat, or the work “offered” in which we lose ourselves… It’s better to burn out than to fade away! The midnight express is waiting now for Sen, with its own ghosts, reflections and her last hopes. “One never forgets people one loves, but it’s often hard to remember them”    

IN BED WITH MADONNA As a starter, lemme tell you this: there are no good or bad styles in the scene, only good and bad bands, sons of whores and friends. In any case, you change your style more than you change your underwear. Lemme tell you this: it's just another logo from the H and M brand. And we know all about them (way too much!). So, either you do, or you do not! Either you do or you keep your mouth shut! And on the side of the know-it-all, the coolest one is always the most cynical, and the most bored of them… so that our fucking scene can outlive them! Now that we're at it, let's talk about music: sons of bitches that make us dance dig (Marilyn) Manson or copy (Tim) Armstrong. They talk about bombs but the only ones they plant are coming out of their asses after having sold them to the rock tabloids. MTV… going back to a high school lifestyle after twenty… They would sell their life away only to do it but what they don't know, is that they've already done, spending it gulping down illusions the way bad weeds gulp down sour waters. Where are punk rock and ethics in this mess?! They've been sold out on e-bay. The last auction before the final curtain, it's your sad lot in life but it's a consolation one: hanging out in the so-called right places convincing yourself you're still on the right side. 

THE STORY OF OUR LIFE Now It’s up to you to have no fuckin’ regrets! No time for regrets, no one else to blame for our mistakes. We must now play the game, stay faithfull to words, a large amount of hate with rage as our guide. So we keep on fighting against the same things, against the same ghosts, all over again... Choosing our life, all over again! That we can’t get back to the way we were and even (if) it stinks, it will be our smell... The good life! Each society has the images it deserves, and It feeds the actions that will make it fall. The good life! Where the fear of tomorrow no longer dwells. Too busy living, talking, eating and fucking in the present tense. No time for regrets, no one else to blame for our mistakes. We might never change the world but we’ve changed our fucking lives