1. THINK GOD OUT OF EXISTENCE

Good. I promise to be good.
Forever kind, I never dare.
Fool. I swear I am nice.
I never move when she’s not there.
Dead. Cat is dead.
Wrapped in plastic, he’s still my friend.
Sour. That’s what she smells.
Just like Cat, I need her there.

A man… enters our lair
Father… what shall we share?
Mother… She loves Bubby.
Liar… She wants Bubby.

Naughty Father…
You don’t like me.
Evil Mother…
You reject me.
Wrapped in plastic….
Dead and morbid.
The two of you…
To death I lead.

Inside. Alone in here.
Bubby fright. Bubby can’t leave.
They smell. Just like Cat did.
Oh home. Farewell I bid.

Good. I promise I was good.
Forever kind. I finally dared.


2. THE BLAZING BULL

As the bronze would heat up,
The victim was grilled and burnt.
Yells were resounding,
Just like a roar.
An excess of suffering
For the people
Struck by the noises
Of agony.

The burning smell
of cooking flesh
For the pleasure
of Phalaris

The one inside the bull
will scream and shout,
unable to cope with the pain.
The sound of his voice
will sound like a dreary mooing.
It will enchant you while
he is submitted
to death.

As the scent of despair
Was enhanced by the herbs
Screams were deafening
But he craved for more
Hiding your disgust
Hiding your fear
Struck by the noises
Of agony

The burning smell
of cooking flesh
For the pleasure
of Phalaris


3. META INCOGNITA

Beware of the seawolf
Sailing the ship of infamy
He lurks, soon to engulf
The land, the mines and dignity

The caravels, named after angels
Cruising afar, ready to seek
Boats of demise, boats that repel
Soon drawing hope down to the bleak

Oooooh oooooh ooooh

Sailing the seven seas
to fathom
Driven by utmost greed
not wisdom

Trying to find a path
way up north
Fathom the ground and find
shining ore
Taking a land that isn’t yours
with your force
Abducting lives, loading the freight
and set forth


4. LA MORT MULTICOLORE (MELMOTH COVER)

Je suis la mort multicolore, pour ne pas déparer le décor.
Tout a couleur de l’ennui derrière les pare-brises de vos nuits.

Toujours les mêmes affiches criardes.
Les néons qui vous font cligner.
Sur l’autoroute où vous roulez.
Sans doute vers votre mort.
A la radio, la voix susurre.
Les bienfaits du déodorant.
Au croisement des autoroutes.
Les radars tournent sur leurs piques.
Le con qui éclabousse la chaussée.
C’est beau quand vous accélérez.
La gerbe brune des sandwichs.
Les machines à laver géantes.
Les aspirateurs à crédit.
Vous êtes fatigués.

Et le néon éclaire la porte.
Des hamburgers les Rolling Stones.
Les sourires de Marlène Dietrich.
Un whisky vieilli dans nos cœurs.
Les stations Martin Luther King.
Tous les noirs font le plein.
Profilés derrière les motels.
Des pains brioche et des conserves.
Des soutien-gorge à profusion.
Je crois que vous avez frémi.
En lisant sur une des affiches…

Des bières.

Des crêpes.

La mort multicolore.

Je vais vous dépasser sur ma 750 cylindrée
La boue éclabousse votre auto.
Elle a fait voler les badges pornos.
Que j’avais piqué sur mon cuir.
La chaîne va briser en éclats, les pare-brises, vos réflecteurs.
Vous allez vous étaler, sur l’étal des publicités
Dans le fracas des tôles.