Make your erectile ears to the cry of upheaval

Nen pace the music critic of Le Figaro in his rant, which rather seems to be a stroke of hooch or stroke of the dune jail door closing in the din when it February 7, 2014: "The press may well have hailed all this as the coolest thing since the invention of toaster on social networks, it's bidonne sec [] and there is very likely that in a year, this seasonal Fauvism will be forgotten, as was the case previously for the poor Woodkid, similarly acclaimed, swiftly gone, and similar condensed vacuum bobo. "You see that is the sore of the case, follow my eyes, and empty like a boil would be good as a" purge for all "which pleasantly relieve us waffle ignoramuses who tell us what we should think and we predict what we will think tomorrow. No we not nirons in the low country of indescribable conventionality, even musical.

If there Fauve this is another Woodkid, I wish our music critic of Le Figaro to see his ear doctor as soon as possible to get his lead otolaryngologist veterinary ducts. He compares the jam of her teacher of the conservatory with rose petals fish soup from his grandmother. He forgot the tart, rough and rocky this fish soup and I imagine he will not hear that rose petals that gently descend from miles of sunny skies constantly lit LED lamps because it is afraid of the night and corners black. This criticism is a romantic who's surly be abused by some monster Gevaudan.

But is it quen Fauve?

It is that he should not dream night to day to his schizophrenic son, antisocial and unpredictable violence to simaginer what would the world be if we were all as asocial son, unpredictable, violent and schizophrenic, and that must be hell to this unpredictable son of violence, schizophrenia and antisocial in the standardized world of ours. We live in a television series for bobos half half champagne caviar and a third half rather double truffle and foie gras. The strangest thing is that when we meet, when we meet, when we came out of a crazy mind through life na Degal the manure pile behind the farm of my childhood, caviar us back in the nose, the champagne we tumbles in the pants, truffles and foie gras we dripping ears and nentendons us more, we do not feel neither front nor behind and our wide eyes are the windows of our infinite blindness. And it is with the manure pile behind the farm we make the best crops. Try smoking your garden with caviar!

It Tan and his / their older brothers cry a century which has seen enough dhorreurs and wants that one day they put us all nothings that put us squarely in the square boxes that they prescribe and us in the cages that they we just needed of water in the urinal flushing the skate of Marcel Pagnol and Tartuffe. Let them languishing in filth that they make us swallow as if cétait candy cane. I do not know what it cane ny where droppings beautiful neighborhoods and Fauve is absolutely right to say that he is tired of having to swallow such guano.

Tan is the newest on the scene of a world that ends nen ceases to die. The world ceases to destroy my given everything. The intellectual submission AIDS, sexual indigestion cancer, body leukemia permanent rape of my divine functions and my human ambitions. God makes good lon secular society that requires us to school for less hysterical and we must suffer their shots perverse feet and menstrual rules prohibited their top form, pill or davortement their injunctions to walk straight tail well clamped between the teeth, their anathemas against our tendencies to want to love, enjoy, enjoy, sextasier Breast we like and hands in the hair and the hair of our best friends and our best friends, from all the beasts with whom we share our bed and our sweat.

Tan is the dune youth cry that left adolescence there is already a long time but has not yet reached its mid-life and languishing in the gamy juice and cloaca financial defecation of those for whom a million of euros that nest that they spend and consume for their morning menus needs when they travel. The rest of the time is multiplied by ten or a hundred. And they are all there to coquelucher our hopeful wishes that they condemn to death while coughing all these fine voyeurs as incurable tuberculosis.

Nen pace the music critic of Le Figaro, the Minister of nen offense inside of a government censorship, nen displease indescribable president who takes his palace for a fickle scooter garage dredger in uptown with CRS paid by Marianne as phallic driver nen offense to all upstarts indescribable republic that they compare on a stamp to a topless woman throwing Molotov cocktails at foreign embassies in a country also abroad. This is what not to do wrong to the Minister of inside what love because it lindigène hunting the Republic as at the time of the Ku Klux Klan or Loas.

If you do not get carried away by these Fauve is that you have rusted claws and legs stiff in the tar the single thought of stored Bolsheviks who govern us alternately with Clemenceau and Thiers, the Jules and Baptists all the republics that buries history without even realize what does sen. There are among us many rulers quon forgot densevelir and the cart lepers forgot to pick up the corner of a stately street.

Let you take the real fantasies of these Tan and you will not regret rape your ears, your eyes desecration, pollution of your hands, the stain of your panties and mortification of your souls. It's good where it goes, this is me telling you.

Dr. Jacques COULARDEAU