Il est parti

Il est mort Gainsbourg, Brel too, Coluche, Desproges, ces chanteurs, ces comics whom time solid as teeth could not hold; those dead for the crime of making us laugh or feel or forget. Sand finds its way off beaches, rocks that the earth thrusts forwards retreat, cliff faces erased and people who spring out of clay and lime lie down again. They are gone Keats and Rimbaud, the romantics, the decadents, lost to another verdure across the way there whose hidden life we can only guess at; gone Hutchence, Morrison, Lennon, Cobain lost, slain, swallowed by the sleeping earth, redefined by their pain. My house shook this night and the children were asleep and did not feel the walls tremble, the cups shake and slide on their shelves, the floor give up a dull orgasm and stop still again as if it had never lived for that brief moment. Il est parti Marceau, silently, like a flame that licks at the surface of what it consumes – a gentle twist and leap, proud and ashamed of its own face, sad like a butterfly, hopeful as a bee, il est parti …


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