"foucault" poems
Once I looked to the Bard for words profound;
ageless, his wisdom ran unabated.
Yet Hamlet is now ideologically unsound,
“the slings and arrows” historically Iocated.
I wept for the creature of Frankenstein,
spurned by his master, forced to roam the Earth.
But I’d been subjectively positioned in a paradigm
by Mary’s anxiety about childbirth.
I read Balzac, Hardy and Henry James
describing “worlds” which seemed quite sensible.
Now Eagleton’s exposed their bourgeois games
I find them morally reprehensible.
I dreamt of being Robinson Crusoe
or proud, fierce Hawkeye in his buckskins dressed,
but Fenimore and Defoe have to go,
they’re culturally encoded and empirically obsessed.
Inspired by Guinness, did James Joyce sit down
to see what magic flowed when he was ******
The stream of Ulysses floats Bloom-about-town
dreamthinkingnever : “I’mamodernist”.
I’d gladly give Woolf a Room of Her Own
and be one of the boys with Hemingway,
but sensitive guys leave their bulls alone
say de Beauvoir and Luce Irigaray.
No more fun with Wordsworth being daffodilly,
no simple pleasure reading Mickey Mouse;
Steamboat Willie can’t help but look silly
dissected by Foucault and Levi-Strauss.
The Bible shows intertextuality
says the two Jacques, Lacan and Derrida.
Judas, a construct of bisexuality?
The **** fixations of Herod are?
It’s got so bad I deconstruct a holiday brochure.
I can’t even **** without Roland Barthes and Ferdinand de Saussure.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 12:06 AM UTC
And it comes with some pain the the bullies from our childhood were a result of social Darwinism,
at least in the sense of the state, where capitalism reigns and the most ruthless and powerful win all the freedom.
Us cowards were too scared of violence to do anything about it. The teachers barred us from bullying, and with emotion they punished bullies, when they could be caught. Punish the bullies so they will develop the slavish obedience not to harm their peers, so in the future they will merely quietly compete up the ladder and sigh at the impossibility of their ladder extending past their bully bosses. If you want to have real freedom and fortune in this life, I hope you never stopped being a bullying child. I, like most children, bought the obedience and swallowed it like morning pills. In rows I sat, I pledged to red white and blue, and while the bullies slapped our heads, we kept our retaliation to unified grumbling, yet in a school there is no strength in numbers, besides the strength of harmonizing our slavish sighs. It’s just like at work under our bully bosses. The strength of the individual is denied in a school, so we can work like a cog, working hard at our shape to fit best into the machine.
The bully notices the competition early on and acts hard, swift, and originally. For this is how wars are won. But us slaves have our way of converting the bully, we have numbers on our side, yet little strength. Out of weakness we tell the bully that they are an ill shaped cog, and they will never be able to help the machine if they keep their powerful aggression. Conversion to slaves may occur, or a half convert is created who is too deluded with their new illness, so they can do little physical harm to anyone anymore.
And all without a drop of blood. We go to work secretly competing with each other, in order to buy the system’s validity at the end of the week. And we rip each other‘s teeth out in our dreams
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:39 PM UTC
i. you will miss him in drizzles and monsoons, in swells and tsunamis. you will listen to his favorite song for hours; it will hit you every unexpected moment. it will hurt, stab, ache, and you will suppress constant screams with strained lips.
ii. you will collect everything he gave to you and wonder if it is dimensionally real. you will sleep in his shirts, retaste saltwater kisses, and reread conversations as if there's something you missed the previous thirty times. absence does not make the heart grow fonder; it rips it apart and you cannot stitch the ragged halves with no thread.
iii. you will feel his touch presently in everything you do. it will be soft and cruelly comforting. it will constantly and inescapably linger. it will haunt you in early rainy mornings and dark lonely evenings.
iv. you will read endless musings on love and philosophy. you will entirely understand foucault's prison. you will live in steinbeck's tide pools and stars, and relate to simon bolivar trapped in his labyrinth. you will wonder why everything is like this, ugly and broken (and also if you are becoming delusional).
v. you will drink tea that scalds your tongue and stand outside on freezing nights, numb and overfeeling at the same time. you will ask the silent moon a thousand questions. you will see him and blink, head swimming, heart pounding in surges. the stars will wink and the wind will mock you.
vi. you will have blissful afternoons you forget and sorrowful nights you remember. it will still consume you in bouts, devour you in spells. nighttime will become both your enemy and remedy: it will wickedly remind you, yet help you heal.
vii. you will try and fail to make sense of him (and the universe in general). you will grapple with reality and yourself. perhaps you will never know why he stopped loving you: you will keep wondering how some things can just be left broken.
iix. slowly, slowly, you will sprout on your own; you will be tender and nearly whole. most importantly, you will realize his love brought you an entirely different kind of happiness.
ix. you will stop worrying and trying to piece together an empty puzzle. even the deepest scars find their way of fading. your mom was right: stop picking at the scab and your wound will heal.
x. you will learn to love yourself in ways he never could have loved you.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 2:35 AM UTC
Dark bat, would I were curious as thou art-
Like a tea-tray twinkling at night,
And lying with eternal wings apart
Til morning when you end your flight,
And spend the day at your raven-like desk
Chanting incantations old and obscure
With lyrics obscene and Kafkaesque
Quoting first Foucault, then Sassure -
No-yet still puzzling, still remarkable
A black beacon amid shades of grey -
Elusive, and in pursuit quite snark-able.
To you I am drawn as a ****** to ****
I’ll be your muse and you’ll be my death.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 7:07 PM UTC
they say god is perfect.
that holds true for me, too.
no concept contains me in totality.
Stirner wrestled with the undefinable:
an indefatigable Unique,
anarchic,
lacking category.
Camus perhaps said it best,
"i rebel, therefore i exist."
i strive to personify resistance.
i find the answers
in harmony with Counterparts,
defining *The Difference
Between Hell
and Home*:
"i am what i am
and i am an outcast."
an outlaw,
a nobody
akin to Nietzsche,
returning infinitely—
stretched like so many grains of sand
on time's flat surface, orbiting
eternally around the creative Nothing
at half-past 3:00 in the morning.
a singularity,
deconstructing
Derrida's Différance.
a nomad on the margins,
wandering aimlessly,
roaming perpetually
with Deleuze and Foucault,
an astronaut arranged
along the endless frontiers
of an ever-expanding cosmos.
Vonnegut recognized
the periphery affords
a radical view
to the few who choose
to embrace that which cannot be Known.
a zero-sum game
between Death and me,
staving off manic-depressive ennui
if only momentarily.
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 2:55 AM UTC
1.
thar once was a big tree
grew high in the middle of the field
it sheltered from rain; became fine-home to blue-birds
till the cutting-folk came and slew it.. down.
2.
enver was a man who had great luck at the table
this gent won a ton of coins hands-down
which attracted the rabble from all round
so this pore-man from denver lost it once again..
3.
gently rowing splendid
along the fyne shore
to reach
make sure ye have two oars!
4.
peter was a pyper, had a girl named jessie
hardly went to market
when the livestock all got tired
he played a tune, all lively-like.. they all got up to dance!
5.
jolly molly had a dolly, that she called polly
they went by train to Swiss-towne, Bern
to order two cups of strawb-lolly
but once there, they broke stride and ordered two hot-chox.
6.
there once lived a physicist who brought earth-pendulum to life
Léon Foucault was he named and born unto this day
born in 1819 in gay-Paree and died in 1868
he set about wide-views of rotation right upon its head!
S T - 18 septemba
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 1:59 AM UTC
I think about time I've spent
moments in my life
watching ****** movies
eating bad food
working dead end job
after dead end job
staring at the blank wall
listening to ticking clocks
cheerfully counting down my demise
long walks I'd take at dusk
down the trails by the river
pretending I enjoy running
because the pounding of my heart
in my head made me feel alive
I'd think about life and death
and whether god exists
and whether love exists
about *** philosophy, infinities
the hours I have spent writing
poetry and nonfiction
displaying myself for scrutiny
painting canvas that I hate
to make myself feel something
to hope it reaches someone
reading Nietzche and Foucault
as if my existence could matter
but along the way I found myself
and maybe all of these moments
have led up to something
consequential and meaningful
every moment is part of my journey
every experience is part of becoming
every hour has lead me to you
so not a single second
of my life has ever been wasted
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 5:40 PM UTC
Unbeknowst to all,
The tree of life has three stages.
Trunk. Branch. Oil.
Terrence Malick knew this.
Dinosaurs our oil.
Ten sephira. One oil.
It is my burden of dreams, I shall prevail through the pongo del muerto.
Foucault's pendulum spilling sand. Spilling oil.
Scaoil. Release. Urchar.
Sraith pictiúr a ceathar.
Airborne toxic event.
Seepage Daniel. Seepage.
Put Oil.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 7:15 PM UTC
paranoid automatons
surveying themselves
within
de-civilizing panopticons;
a missing guard
in a rich light tower
watching you
watch yourself
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 10:19 PM UTC
Like...it feels like whole world and the, you know, uh...all the smily candy teeth and stoned-out-of-their-mind ******* with their lip service to some techno-God of...what? Acceptance and power dynamics, or empowerment or whatever... It's like they're out there building these monoliths to themselves...like, mirrors made out of diamonds that's all positivity and critical theories and **** even Heidegger or Nietzsche thrown in there, Foucault, Lorde sometimes, a lot of other names, too...so much to remember when you wade into the world of identity, right? But it's also so sugary that I get a headache, like, when I see the steel roots that they're...repurposing? I keep tripping over them and stuff, I dunno.
Queer's a word I hear mostly coming out of only my own mouth, maybe the walls...if wall's could talk, right?...and that really tells me a lot, I guess? About what it means to be a *** but like, not really? And how I'm totally not trans? I mean I'm still BASICALLY a boy, right? Like shouldn't I be like, calling myself a girl if I'm not a boy, etc.? The stony monuments to Liberation...they're using the big L right?...tell me so. I'm so close but still not good enough, or something like that. The binaries are there for a reason, etc. Not even that. Just a quiet, like...exclusion? Joke? What I wouldn't give to be a fully-fledged ****** or a true ****** y'know?...card-carrying member of the conference, where I can actually cry and my voice comes out in something other than a croak and people look at my tears and hear my words and say, Yes, that's real and that's okay?
Whatever though. I'm probably wrong anyway, right? I'm just half-baked, or not exactly full, or...what's the word?
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 10:05 PM UTC
Tick tock went the clock,
echoing
through monastery halls,
synchronizing the actions of men,
building up modernity’s walls.
Creatively destructive,
eternal
yet fleeting,
modernity was paradoxical,
according to the Harvey reading.
Art had expanded,
abstraction arises,
and Sigmund loves his mom,
more than anyone realizes.
Our friends the id,
the ego and its super,
tell us who we are,
Freud has the world in a stupor.
A catch-22 for dear Pablo,
who will sleep with a ****
but is terrified of syphilis,
as is seen in his art.
There was power and truth,
and Foucault says we’re repressive,
but suddenly things change,
Postmodernity becomes quite impressive.
PoMo cares not for beauty,
or what pleases the public eye.
It’s style for style’s sake,
in the buildings stretching toward the sky.
Uma dances with John,
a young boy finds a severed ear,
Joaquin loves his OS,
PoMo film is, well,
Queer.
Yuppies love pastiche,
their lofts were once a workplace,
they’ve coated them with chrome,
they’ve gentrified the space.
Unlimited breadsticks
have soiled the very Italian name,
Baudrillard says it’s simulacrum,
there is no truth, it’s all the same.
We traipse through this
postmodern world,
not knowing postmodernity
is where we are.
We wear workboots to fashion shows,
we worship that reality star.
We think we’re special snowflakes,
and skinny jeans make us cool,
and media exposure’s made us cynics,
quite impossible to fool.
What we don’t realize is that
we are not our own,
we are pseudo individuals,
through PoMo we have grown.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 11:09 PM UTC
what can tortured lonely creator do to break free?
To get rid of all his oppressors and get into equanimity
the answer is single: to write, sculpt or paint!
but what is when he is droven mad?
Michel Foucault said that nobody yet have created something
by staying in madness..
what else?
Write letters,letters, letters, untill you see how superficial or ****** up are your addressees?
It will end in loony bin
where psychiatric terror make from him a aboulic lamb
he remain being broken forever untill this magic moment
if he will be so lucky to meet a friend
such real friend who gift him understanding
understanding is only salvation
understanding is only solution
understanding is only freedom
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 1:58 PM UTC
Into our rooms, we scurry
into the comforts of chairs we can spin on,
screens we stare at for hours;
there is so much we have condensed
into the slight rhythmic movement of the wrist.
Only twenty years old and where have I come to,
on a desk with a jar of money beside Derrida
(with a cartoon where Plato instructs Socrates)
and the tattered pages of
Foucault, madness and civilisation -
those sick lepers ride a boat, which reminds me:
the Leith overflowed today, gushing
rushing into the harbour. I
looked out the window, imagining
it was Styx
and the ferryman had come to get me.
There is so much
artistry to it all, sometimes
it overwhelms me and I stutter
and remain silent for days;
the swirling air encloses
around; leafs tear,
wind flurries, shuffling shoes
shuffle shoefully
marbles that drop down stairs
knock knock
tick tock, tick tock
old Clock tower ding ****
ding, these clocks, Burns, don’t you get sick of them?
it is now time to begin
the lecture. Open
the rows
for late students. I am definitely
going to be late today. Look, someone has inscribed
“you are the yellow bird I have been waiting for”
I feel great
Can we write our stories with passion today?
Can we speak to each other properly today?
Can we see the sky rupture today?
It’ll be like walking the beach at night
at sunset.
Oh, god
when will
I ever
Forgive me, forgive me, I was distracted
for a second there
with Lear’s fool who implores
“Give me an egg and I’ll give thee two crowns”
and the funny looking cat that stares at me through
the bathroom window.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 1:37 AM UTC
If I met her today
would I be ready?
Would we walk past that fence
chain-linked where I first saw her
checkerboard shadows on her face?
Would we go to the cornfields
and play hide-and-go-seek
chirping like lab rats?
Would she rub her nose against mine
and kiss me, feeling my stubble
sharp like quills on a hedgehog?
Would she hug me at a funeral
church bells swaying slowly
like a Foucault pendulum?
Would I rub her back, listening
the river in her voice sighing,
"My personal therapy man"
Would I whisper of her beauty
holding her as I feel her life
pulsing like a symphony orchestra?
Have I imagined it?
Does she even exist?
Would we even be possible?
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 11:16 PM UTC
her yere sızdığından
- gündüzleri
güneşin diktatör olduğu fikri
gündüzün diktatörlük
ve gecenin tüm güneşler
yeterince uzak olduğundan
demokrasi olduğu fikri
SAÇMA
saçma elbette
teoriye uymadığı için değil
ya da iktidarın doğasını
ele vermediği için değil
foucault adını veririm değil
güneş
bildiğimiz güneş olduğundan
ve güneş
ve güneşi düşünürken
-ışığın olmadığı bir anda-
ışığın olmadığı bir anda
politika düşünme adetinden
(bilirsin ontolojik refleks)
güneşi - - bir kez de olsa
- - güneşi
politik terimlerle düşünme
düşünmüş olma sefaletinden
ortadoğu da olsa
ortadoğu'da da olsa
saçma
saçma
güneşin umrunda olmaz
ortadoğu siyaseti
güneşlerin umrunda olmaz
ortadoğu siyaseti
Nov 1, 2017
Nov 1, 2017 at 8:31 PM UTC
We three sat
on the stoop
on Thursday night
eating watermelon.
Our Georgian brick
building
crouched behind us,
the front door held open
by someone’s flip-flop.
The day had been hot,
and when it began
to rain,
the sidewalk steamed
with every drop
until there were no more
drops but the evening’s
deafening applause
and silver spears of rain
shattering themselves
on the wet-black street.
We piled our melon rinds
in mixing bowls
and all stood
wordlessly
to go.
We had talked that night
as students do;
ambling about,
trying new things out:
Pater, Pound,
Benjamin, Foucault.
Distracted now and then,
we watched a desperate moon
clamber gently
up an arching oak
and jump
in the sad, still way
that moons
so often do.
In the silences
of our conversation,
the locusts stirred their thrum,
shrill and urgent,
talking one to the other—
or one to all—
in the noisy communion
that is a Virginia night.
Nighttime’s business
had halted, though,
to let the sky be unburdened.
In the rain’s roar,
our watermelon all but gone
and Baudelaire
(for the moment)
spent,
we'd grown unexpectedly
silent
as if to note
something sacred
in the night.
Oct 20, 2016
Oct 20, 2016 at 12:32 PM UTC
xÀ Maurice de Foucault.
Le soleil fut avant les yeux,
La terre fut avant les roses,
Le chaos avant toutes choses.
Ah ! que les éléments sont vieux
Sous leurs jeunes métamorphoses !
Toute jeunesse vient des morts :
C'est dans une funèbre pâte
Que, toujours, sans lenteur ni hâte,
Une main pétrit les beaux corps
Tandis qu'une autre main les gâte ;
Et le fond demeure pareil :
Que l'univers s'agite ou dorme,
Rien n'altère sa masse énorme ;
Ce qui périt, fleur ou soleil,
N'en est que la changeante forme.
Mais la forme, c'est le printemps :
Seule mouvante et seule belle,
Il n'est de nouveauté qu'en elle ;
C'est par les formes de vingt ans
Que rit la matière éternelle !
Ô vous, qui tenez enlacés
Les amoureux aux amoureuses,
Bras lisses, lèvres savoureuses,
Formes divines qui passez,
Désirables et douloureuses !
Vous ne laissez qu'un souvenir,
Un songe, une impalpable trace !
Si fortement qu'il vous embrasse,
L'Amour ne peut vous retenir :
Vous émigrez de race en race.
Époux des âmes, corps chéris,
Vous vous poussez, pareils aux fleuves ;
Vos grâces ne sont qu'un jour neuves,
Et les âmes sur vos débris
Gémissent, immortelles veuves.
Mais pourquoi vous donner ces pleurs ?
Les tombes, les saisons chagrines,
Entassent en vain des ruines
Sans briser le moule des fleurs,
Des fruits et des jeunes poitrines.
Pourquoi vous faire des adieux ?
Le même sang change d'artères,
Les filles ont les yeux des mères,
Et les fils le front des aïeux.
Non, vous n'êtes pas éphémères !
Vos modèles sont quelque part,
Ô formes que le temps dévore !
Plus pures vous brillez encore
Au paradis profond de l'art,
Où Platon pense et vous adore !
706
A sadness that I implore.
It is sweet yet, indignating.
Why, you might ask?
The truth is …
There is no truth once you are God.
Everything is true.
To the criminal who ***** and killed his daughters
To the dying voices of the martyr mothers who protected their family.
Foucault says it too.
It is true. What is better than truth?
That question will end the day we realise that we are all true.
Even in the art of lying, there is a truth.
There is pukka.
There is an inexplicable oneness.
It is unappeasable.
One has to accept it.
Even your murderer has a point.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 3:31 AM UTC
less than
the upsurge of bitter bile
yesterday’s failure
rides his chariot
like blank abyss
because what is money for if not love?
and what is money for if not emotional connection?
and every day spurns a tilt
of forgetting why
we’re together at all
“hey dad i think you treat mom like ****
“what are you talking about remember that time she left you at the mall”
“i don’t see what that has to do with your own personal conduct”
“ask her about it sometime”
why would i ever want to be
spilt tea across the cloth
on a main street in
mise en abyme
south d
“it’s idiots like your mother who are running the world into the ground”
my mother is a stay at home wife.
Aug 8, 2019
Aug 8, 2019 at 8:35 AM UTC
after changing my drinking regime i realised i moved to a different planet... it's days are ~36 hours long, they include an entire night and two halves of two days.
this poem was to be a brief review of a
sample of a book,
the melancholic mystifying melancholy
as something mysterious,
not a noumenon in sight,
just the same bland phenomenon on
repeat, always in the modern age
with urban environments instead
of attacking old men who accomplished
much, instead attacking youth...
it's when he mentioned reading much
of Foucault's madness and civilisation,
much?! what's much? a lot, most of it...
so it doesn't exactly mean all of it,
and this is a person studying for an MA
(masters in arts)... oh let me tell you,
melancholy in youth spreads like
an Australian bush fire, in youth depression
is actually contagious, a virus of some sort,
old farts don't bother each other in
the same way, moulding each other...
they complain about bad knees,
aches and pains and erectile dysfunctions...
but it's a sad comedy, it's not exactly
a tragedy.. they're laughing with each
other: WE MADE IT! youth can't say
the same, old age used to contain the virus
of depression en masse, it spread
naturally, in varying degrees, but depression
in youth is like A.I.D.S. or something,
talking my old grandfather for long periods
at a time i too thought about jumping
off the roof... yet this is given the comforts
of post-communist retirement whereby
he was comfortable. i too read all of
Foucault, one picking up **** from a dealer
who worked in a hospital and was supplying
lean ***** to rich kids doping...
book in hand, he was sitting on his sofa
playing a computer game, we were both at
the same uni, he was there for business reasons
studying oriental & african studies...
but actually there on business...
he saw me with the book and just said:
oh man, heavy going, yeah? see... i should
write something more on the subject matter,
but there's already a bunch of coalminers
digging in my conscience whether i start apply
self-censorship to the whole debate, accusing
myself of the Orwellian thought-crime;
the great suppressors of vocabulary, who
probably speak fluent regional slang better
standard trans-regional English.
May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 6:16 PM UTC
Under this beaten skin
I can see a newer blueprint
Waiting for the ashes
Waiting some more crashes
To wear a new face when it win
They say easy come and easy go
But I think it can't be real, tho
I saw some decent public man in a game show
And if karma is a ***** should we stop to vote?
I am going away with a new disguise
I am warning my friends before someone dies
But the purple drank don't let they realize
We can't trust anyone behind a ******* tie
'cause they are faking and smuggling 'till the Nobel Prize
I see some fake-ass sophists at the morning show
Droping mind over mind like a domino
They could shave up their ***** to look like Foucault
And keep their cynical smile while everyone blows
The comedians were our source of truth
Now they're offering jokes for a pair of fancy shoes
People used to have band shirts, now they have tattoos
We were brilliant, now we are just turning screws
I am going away with a new disguise
I am warning my friends before someone dies
But the purple drank don't let they realize
We can't trust anyone behind a ******* tie
'cause they are faking and smuggling 'till the Nobel Prize
Nov 30, 2020
Nov 30, 2020 at 11:20 AM UTC
you read faulkner and it turns my stomach.
but i like when i find you devouring my books--
i liked the time i found you curled up with my copy of the poisonwood bible
and you stuttered apologies for the marked and highlighted pages,
for the notes in the margins,
as you explained you had become engrossed in the story
and forgot it wasn’t your own copy after all.
i like when you talk about barthes and foucault
and try on literary theory like glasses:
horn-rimmed new criticism,
nice round reader-response theory.
i like when you touch me
as if i were the delicate curve of sylvia plath’s bell jar,
as if you know that i am at once suffocating under pressure and
suffocating myself,
as if you know that all i need sometimes
is the singing of your fingers on the glass
to give me harmony
and air.
i like when you pick up the poetry collection i bought at the bookstore down the street
and translate marina tsvetaeva's verse back to its original tongue.
and you never say it in english, but я люблю тебя
has crossed your lips, dangerously,
before you started teaching me russian,
before you found out I knew enough of the language
to translate
that.
Jul 29, 2019
Jul 29, 2019 at 12:47 AM UTC
Vicomte de Foucault, lorsque vous empoignâtes
L'éloquent Manuel de vos mains auvergnates,
Comme l'océan bout quand tressaille l'Etna,
Le peuple tout entier s'émut et frissonna ;
On vit, sombre lueur, poindre mil huit cent trente
L'antique royauté, fière et récalcitrante,
Chancela sur son trône, et dans ce noir moment
On sentit commencer ce vaste écroulement ;
Et ces rois, qu'on punit d'oser toucher un homme,
Etaient grands, et mêlés à notre histoire en somme,
Ils avaient derrière eux des siècles éblouis,
Henri quatre et Coutras, Damiette et saint-Louis.
Aujourd'hui, dans Paris, un prince de la pègre,
Un pied plat, copiant Faustin, singe d'un nègre,
Plus faux qu'Ali pacha, plus cruel que Rosas,
Fourre en prison la loi, met la gloire à Mazas,
Chasse l'honneur, le droit, les probités punies,
Orateurs, généraux, représentants, génies,
Les meilleurs serviteurs du siècle et de l'état,
Et c'est tout ! et le peuple, après cet attentat,
Souffleté mille fois sur ces faces illustres,
Va voir de l'Elysée étinceler les lustres,
Ne sent rien sur sa joue, et contemple César !
Lui, souverain, il suit en esclave le char !
Il regarde danser dans le Louvre les maîtres,
Ces immondes faisant vis-à-vis à ces traîtres,
La fraude en grand habit, le meurtre en apparat,
Et le ventre Berger près du ventre Murat !
On dit : - vivons ! adieu grandeur, gloire, espérance ! -
Comme si, dans ce monde, un peuple appelé France,
Alors qu'il n'est plus libre, était encor vivant !
On boit, on mange, on dort, on achète et l'on vend,
Et l'on vote, en riant des doubles fonds de l'urne
Et pendant ce temps-là, ce gredin taciturne,
Ce chacal à sang froid, ce corse hollandais,
Etale, front d'airain, son crime sous le dais,
Gorge d'or et de vin sa bande scélérate,
S'accoude sur la nappe, et cuvant, noir pirate,
Son guet-apens français, son guet-apens romain,
Mâche son cure-dents taché de sang humain !
Jersey, le 20 mai 1853.
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