08-10-2007, 11:55 AM
Etrange mécanisme que celui de la mémoire. Encore plus lorsqu'il s'agit de celle d'un amnésique.
Est-ce la vue des forces de police venant l'arrêter qui provoque le retour clair, brillant et intact de cette mélopée douce-amère ?
Au moment où on lui passe les menottes, Randall Flagg ne prête attention qu'à ce message venu du fond de son âme, un message du Crimson King lui-même peut-être...
Les sirènes et les gyrophares sont oubliés, et un sourire vient illuminer le visage de l'Homme en Noir, au fur et à mesure que les mots passent ses lèvres dans un souffle presque inaudible...
I have stridden the fuming way
of sun-hammered tracks and
smashed cinders;
I have ridden rails
and bummed sterno in the
gantry silence of hob jungles:
I am a dark man.
I have ridden rails
and passed the smuggery
of desperate houses with counterfeit chimneys
and heard from the outside
the inside clink of cocktail ice
while closed doors broke the world -
and over it all a savage sickle moon
that bummed my eyes with bones of light.
I have slept in glaring swamps
where musk-reek rose
to mix with the sex smell of rotting cypress stumps
where witch fire clung in sunken
psycho spheres of baptism -
and heard the suck of shadows
where a gutted columned house
leeched with vines
speaks to an overhung mushroom sky
I have fed dimes to cold machines
in all night filling stations
while traffic in a mad and flowing flame,
streaked red in six lanes of darkness,
and breathed the cleaver hitchhike wind
within the breakdown lane with thumb levelled
and saw shadowed faces made complacent
with heaters behind safety glass
faces that rose like complacent moons
in riven monster orbits.
and in a sudden jugular flash
cold as the center of a sun
I forced a girl in a field of wheat
and left her sprawled with the virgin bread
a savage sacrifice
and a sign to those who creep in
fixed ways:
I am a dark man.
hrp / Je n'ai nul talent pour écrire des poèmes, celui-ci est l'oeuvre de S. King, à qui je dois beaucoup.
Est-ce la vue des forces de police venant l'arrêter qui provoque le retour clair, brillant et intact de cette mélopée douce-amère ?
Au moment où on lui passe les menottes, Randall Flagg ne prête attention qu'à ce message venu du fond de son âme, un message du Crimson King lui-même peut-être...
Les sirènes et les gyrophares sont oubliés, et un sourire vient illuminer le visage de l'Homme en Noir, au fur et à mesure que les mots passent ses lèvres dans un souffle presque inaudible...
I have stridden the fuming way
of sun-hammered tracks and
smashed cinders;
I have ridden rails
and bummed sterno in the
gantry silence of hob jungles:
I am a dark man.
I have ridden rails
and passed the smuggery
of desperate houses with counterfeit chimneys
and heard from the outside
the inside clink of cocktail ice
while closed doors broke the world -
and over it all a savage sickle moon
that bummed my eyes with bones of light.
I have slept in glaring swamps
where musk-reek rose
to mix with the sex smell of rotting cypress stumps
where witch fire clung in sunken
psycho spheres of baptism -
and heard the suck of shadows
where a gutted columned house
leeched with vines
speaks to an overhung mushroom sky
I have fed dimes to cold machines
in all night filling stations
while traffic in a mad and flowing flame,
streaked red in six lanes of darkness,
and breathed the cleaver hitchhike wind
within the breakdown lane with thumb levelled
and saw shadowed faces made complacent
with heaters behind safety glass
faces that rose like complacent moons
in riven monster orbits.
and in a sudden jugular flash
cold as the center of a sun
I forced a girl in a field of wheat
and left her sprawled with the virgin bread
a savage sacrifice
and a sign to those who creep in
fixed ways:
I am a dark man.
hrp / Je n'ai nul talent pour écrire des poèmes, celui-ci est l'oeuvre de S. King, à qui je dois beaucoup.