srijeda, 5. rujna 2012.

Henrik Aeshna - Shizo-pop: kleptomanski književni halusineast


Najsvježija francuska avagardna književnost: vandalsko-piratsko-kanibalsko-piromanska semiotička juha.
Kako izgleda kad se u književnost prenesu free jazz, post-punk i eksperimentalni film.

 " anti-prophet of the Scum Generation, / SchizoPoP generation? "

" Rebel, intense, provocateur; bastard, visionary vandal, anti-anti-hero with a thousand faces. Profane pirate of signs and Poltergeist poet of inspirational carpe diem. All and Nothing. Henrik Aeshna’s school notebook poems are said to be radically innovative - a wild stream of words and sensations, an unstructured syntax flowing out of the musical mud and fierce effervescence of Free Jazz, Post-Punk, Experimental Cinema ( Stan Brakhage, Jack Smith, etc. ), photography and graffiti, Beat Poetry, and finding echoes in the travel journals and raging notebooks of outlaw adventurers such as Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady, Rimbaud, Villon, Li Po & Basho, Artaud, William Burroughs & Arthur Cravan, in the erotic ravings & incandescent clitoris of women writers; détournement of advertising signs, etc. We're not talking about ANOTHER poem or ANOTHER song, but rather a philosophy torn to pieces exhaling/exalting its 'furious vocation for perdition'.
Aeshna is also the creator of SCHIZOPoP MANIFESTO, a semiotic soup where the anti-conceit "schizopop" ( or "schizo-pop" and "schizo pop" ) first appeared, still in his teenage collages.
He has carved his way into this chaotic jungle stage called world as an underground musician, experimental nomad and bum, vendangeur, lots of odd jobs, cultural agitator, creator of happenings, performances, scandals, workshops for children based on a study on Perception & Sensiblity, Butoh dancer, art model, and is currently working on the divulgation of his latest book, MARSEILLE BLUES - an exquisZOphrenic corpse, and not only a deconstruction/re-interpretation of many surrealist and avant-garde concepts, but also the most poignant and brutal literary work France ever seen.
Member of a heretical sect called UNEMPLOYMENT/PROCRASTINATION, he has no fixed address, and has been getting lost and exploring intensities everywhere. - Tsunami Books


cadavre exquisZOphrenic with 50 characters
+ a zucchini gratin recipe

Welcome to this KLEPTOMANIAC HALLUCINEMA where all the EYES will be stolen!

                  "I've come back not to save anyone at all
                          but to mix it all up & BOOM !"
                    ( henrik aeshna, Naked Beans )

          "The person of the King is inviolable and sacred"
                       ( 1792 French Constitution act )

                               "I'm too drunk to fuck"
                                  ( Plato, Dialogues )

In Marseille Blues - exquisZOphrenic corpse with 50 characters + a zucchini gratin recipe, Henrik Aeshna the pickpo(ck)et of Notre-Dame and son of Halley's comet and a prostitute, both outrages and ravages all the traits of the so-called world of appearances. This infamously chaotic anti-mirror is the triumph of absolute anarchy, the final transgression; it is also one of the most remarkable examples of some key notions we can find in Monsieur Aeshna's "cannibal pyromaniac poetry": SchizoPoP manifesto, cadavre exquiszophrène, objets-volés, black-outs, erotic apocalypse, incest of the possible-with-the-impossible, zoophilia of worlds and seemingly disconnected realities…...
Here poetic terrorism and Rimbaud's "total derangement of the senses" attain their most radical and unimaginable consequences. You will come into the alchemical womb of the beast and witness all the forbidden delights of chaos, horror and ecstasy, a dreamlike tunnel of disturbingly hallucinating juxtapositions in which the entire world is turned completely upside down, as well as all existing signs, linguistic and moral codes."
As bitingly disturbing as a tsunami of humour noir possessed by Prévert's Wise Child, here this unforgivable trickster kidnaps and mixes up all identities and discourses, genders and roles, the banal and the sublime, time and space, and in the manner of a profane pirate of signs he carnavandalizes the reality catwalk, so deforming/transforming the masked ball of our Babylon of information into a real grotesque orgy, an absurd and genial schizoPoP Satyricon - the perfect crime!
Marseille Blues is the voodoo punk drag version of La Marseillaise with shocking whore-red-painted nails brewing on the bitchbox in an overnoisy blind pig bar in La Plaine, with the Chappaqua cowboy spiking the punch bowl with acid pot & pills. Be a Good Frenchman and send this irresponsible raving mad looter to either a mental house or to the guillotine, before he secretly replaces street plaques and school manuals for 'gardens of aberrations where the flowers bloom like beautiful fires!'.
Tsunami bOOKS ( PARIS )

* Launched with the English version " Marseille Blues / Good Night Cinderella - cadavre exquiszophrenic with 50 characters + a zucchini gratin recipe + A traditional multi-tiered iced fruit cake featuring the ‘language of flowers’ ", offered as a wedding gift to Prince William & Kate Middleton!

"Burn or tip off the authorities about this unpardonable absurd anti-fairytale, absolutely immoral, amoral indeed, politically philosophically sexually literarily incorrect - nasty, filthy, deplorable."

Marseille Blues - cadavre exquiszophrène avec 50 personnages + une recette de gratin de courgettes

Welcome to this KLEPTOMANIAC CINEMA where all the eyes will be stolen

MARSEILLE BLUES is my first official book in French. I started writing it on January 2nd 2011 in my apartment on Rue du Commandant Mage, near the Palais Longchamps, shortly before I moved to another apartment on Rue Saint Antoine, in the Panier old quarter, which was where I finished it, about 3 months after I had begun the sketch, after a 2-month or so pause without looking over the text. The first sketch was written in English, then I started re-adapting the original into French ; actually, it all began for fun, as an experimental trick on reality & literature, jumbling & mixing up different codes & quotes at random with my partner in crime & wine Elodie Noël, until I saw the potential of it all & started working on some less casual incestuous connections so as to forge a real classic of modern literature!!!, for exemple, by incorporating Marseilles' expressions & slangs into the text, and also by picking more relevant characters & mixing them all up, using contrast as principle, sometimes even mixing two or more references to one character & so on, thus revealing the hypocrisy lying behind both language & conventions, kinda "let's muddle the data bank of tomorrow's children, just for the hell of it!, or otherwise, let them run wild (stripped of any castrating moralities and judgments) amidst the jumbled signs and remains of a post-cataclysm world, just to watch them reinvent new mosaics, new positions, oh what a binge - pure alchemy!!!!" We couldn't help cracking up when we first read it, saying we could write a Shakespeare, way better than the original though!, only by stealing speeches & fragments from other works, and rearranging them in an alchemical way; actually, there are lots of hints & subterranean allusions throughout Marseille Blues, pretty much like indirect, fragmentary metaphors, even sub-stories & allegories within the text ( for ex., the zucchini gratin story ), referring to my pirate notions of Objet Volés & Cadavre Exquiszophrène, both re-adapatations/deconstructions of surrealistic principles. Quickly, Marseille Blues is a unpretentious anti-masterpiece written by a demonic toddler, a feral child, a cannibal, a drag Collage Monster dressed to kill, an attentat poétique against art, discourse, morality, alienation, language & representation, an absolutely immoral/amoral anti-fairytale, politically philosophically sexually literarilly incorrect, which disdainfully mocks & spits at everything & everyone. Definitely, the Book of the millenium!


Aeshna est le créateur du SCHIZOPoP MANIFESTO, où l'anti-terme "schizopop" (ou "schizo-pop" et "schizo pop" ) a été utilisé pour la première fois, encore dans ses cahiers d'escolier et ses collages.
Et il vient de lancer la version voudou punk travestie de la Marseillaise, MARSEILLE BLUES - cadavre exquisZOphrène avec 50 personnages + une recette de gratin de courgettes, distribuée par Tsunami bOOKS

SCHIZOPoP MANIFESTO is a hundun soup, a meltingpot-like twister pregnant with multiple correspondences, somnambulism & carnival, lipstick & vandalism, black sheep schizo samba, unusual chrysalis, incests, amalgams...
POEM SHREDDING: "The series below is the result of a sudden outburst  of rage at a soirée one night when I ripped all my notebooks & poems to shreds, as if I was somehow lacerating my entrails, then after setting the scraps on fire I started pissing on the pile scattered all around the floor. The morning after that pandemonium twister I woke up & looked around, - what a beautiful mess - these are the pics I took that morning.."


"There is only one way to save yourself: fuck up your reputation"—a Francis Picabia style lipstick graffiti lurking around in a bathroom in a seedy strip club bar of Pigalle

"BLOODY YR HYMEN"—Aeshna's landmark graffiti, first sprayed still in his teens

"GIVE ART AN ORGASM."—shamanoise/dervish wild wisdom

... hun dun soup, a meltingpot-like twister pregnant with multiple correspondencies, somnambulism & carnival, lipstick & vandalism, black sheep schizo-samba, unusual chrysalis, incests, amalgams...

''SchizoPoP Manifesto'' is a series of experimental works, subliminal collages and mash-ups created and developed by poltergeist poet, performer/interventionist and cultural provocateur Henrik Aeshna still in his teens and later spread as street posters, shopping bags, postcards, book shreddings, body painting, nomadic installations, assaults, as well as all kinds of available media and/or found material.

A priori, the anti-term schizopop first appeared in Aeshna's collage poems (named "Collage Monster"), and it has since served to define part of the experimental creative code manifest throughout his works, as well as the way such anti-artworks interact with a determined spatial or psychological setting or context both to deconstruct it and transform it, so provoking the outburst of poetry, a hijacking of the senses into other expanding zones of experience. In Aeshna's détournements, enlightenment and transgression, the banal and the sublime, art, life, delirium, sacred and profane, all these tumultuously copulate to give birth to "hysterias based on real facts", a kaleidoscopic carnival of sensations & images stranger to any categories and classifications. To sum up, SchizoPoP Manifesto has been mischievously described by a curator as "a hybrid rebel grandson of Dada-Surrealism and son of Fluxus and Punk-Situationism, but which decided to defy its parents and escape from home for they've become predictable intellectual totalitarians, unbearably boring, blasé and bureaucratic— but not before burning the house down".

"Streets and roads as schools, scars as proverbs...

Creation is risk, confrontation, a remorselessly radical plunge into the Danger Zone. Aeshna's association with life/art is dangerous, totemic. It doesn't make history; it makes the present moment, an outburst of revelatory presence or a garden of aberrations where the flowers blossom like beautiful fires. His poems themselves are a raging jazz torrent of sensations, school-notebook 'sin/phonies' soaked with vertigos and epileptic syntax, steeped in flesh magma music sex dreams and subversive-tantrik lyricism, copulating personal impressions and hallucinatory visions with all the stray floatsam-and-jetsam of daily life and mass media, so morphing frigid language and sensationalism into kind of a "pyromaniac 'shamanoise' poetry, vibrant and cannibalistic. Altogether, a knockabout invitation to life through the explosion of all the senses."



... a hundun soup, a meltingpot-like twister pregnant with multiple correspondencies, somnambulism & carnival, lipstick & vandalism, black sheep schizo samba, unusual chrysalis, incests, amalgams

'''SchizoPoP Manifesto''' is a series of experimental multidisciplinary works, collages and mash-ups created and developed by poet, performer and cultural provocateur Henrik Aeshna circa 2000 and later spread as posters, postcards and wall tags across Europe, in the US and South America, and characterized by the artist(s) storming the most unpredictable places, from public toilets to galleries, from streetcorners to laundromats and bars. 
A priori, the term schizopop first appeared in Aeshna's collages poems ( or as the artist puts it,
"Collage Monster" ), and it has since then served to define part of the experimental creative code developed by him throughout his works, with strong associations with his former manifesto "BOOM - Chaos Poetry Vandalism", which perfectly describes the banshee behind the mask:
My first anarchy act, I was about one or two years old. I would scribble & deface all the books & magazines I picked up around!
Absolutely. I’d spare no history, philosophy, art, fashion, legislation or religion. Nothing at all. They tried everything to educate me, in vain.
Actually, the term "schizopop" ( also "schizo pop" or schizo-pop" ) has nothing to do with any specific conceit, style, genre or sub-genre of this or that, as it is rather an instinctive way of cannibalizing and rearranging global codes and references ( from cutting up reality fragments and media material to copulating with apparently different realities, whatever media is used, from poetry to painting, dance, performance art, cinema and parody, or a simple gesture, and mixing it all up into a new piece or performance ) so as to recreate other possibilities and correspondencies, and with the aim of blasting away the pillars of alienation behind pop clichés and established codes, in short, a hallucinatory state of mind whose fuel is provocation, spontaneity, fluxus, or as Aeshna highlights: "a new pyromaniac poetry, vibrant and cannibal - a hundun soup, a meltingpot-like twister pregnant with multiple correspondencies, somnambulism & carnival, lipstick & vandalism, black sheep schizo samba, unusual chrysalis, incests, amalgams ". In fact, what distinguishes the schizopop aesthetics from other collage-based disciplines, such as Kurt Schwitters' Merzbau or Burroughs/Gysin's cut-up method, just to name a few, is Aeshna's particular poetic sense itself, described by him as "incests" or "zoophilia of words and apparently distinct realities" (i.e., some of the mutant "characters" that people his gallery, such as RimBlake, Kate Sade LaFolle, Barbie Karloff, cadavre exquis-zophrène itself, Shamanoise, SchizoPop, etc.), so creating a fascinating, multifaceted universe where banal images kidnapped from media mass copulate with chaotically loose short phrases, poems, songs, children's scribbles - actually, almost all Aeshna's works are permeated with children's scribbles and schizophrenic syntatic disconjunctions, as well as paper shreddings and books. Other anti-terms coined by Aeshna are Objet Volé ( stolen object ), a re-adaptation/re-interpretation of the Objet Trouvé ( found object ) notion developed by the surrealists, and Cadavre ExquisZOphrène , another nuance of the Surrealists' play Cadavre Exquis, and both notions can be distinctively perceived in Aeshna's experimental collage-based humour noir play Marseille Blues - cadavre exquiszophrène avec 50 personnages + une recette de gratin de courgettes , in which the pirate principle of robbery, lie, prankster terrorism, apocalypse, transvestism and role inversion both questions and demystifies all dichotomies and discourses, as well as the moral relation of society, language and culture to the world of appearances. The insight is that if you mix all codes and roles up, invert all positions, vandalize monuments, you'll then see the thing in itself, that is, the very essence of its hypocrisy & absurd, or then its aura either, even in an existential way, and through such anarchy of the senses, you can remodel another perception of things etc. He also exemplifies the way the Testament ripped off the old millenarist myth of recreation through chaos and destruction only to prove and impose the sovereign morality of the god they picked to play the major role in the apocalyptic drama, but also essentially to judge and alienate people, control them, impede them from feeling/exploring/seeing beyond the limiting barbed wired fences of their logics, which is the way they appropriate symbols in order to control reality, and so does society and its capital-ruled rites, politics, advertising, art, etc.
  SchizoPoP Manifesto's latest stunts have been described as "SCHIZOPoP CABARET, or CABARET TOXIQUE - live video sessions featuring nude bodies, cello bass & dub shamanoise ( another aeshnean term ), mixing it all up with the sonic-visual deliriums of Stan Brakhage, Jack Smith, Shuji Terayama, Ken Russell, Sainkho Namtchylak, Free jazz, Butoh, Noise (music), silence, French songs, tribal, dervish rock, Glossolalia & all gnarling hell breaking loose etc etc. - SCHIZOPoP poetry w/ bits of possession, shockolates & red wine thrown in.". During another storm-in, Aeshna wandered around and inside the Louvre museum holding a shopping bag reading BUY MY PAIN, dancing butoh amidst strangers and tourists, besides performing a series of other apparently nonsense, provocative gestures. As a critic have said, "SchizoPoP Manifesto is a hybrid rebel grandson of Dada-Surrealism and son of Fluxus and Punk-Situationism, but who decided to defy his parents and escape from home for they’ve become predictable intellectual totalitarians, unbearably boring, blasé and bureaucratic – but not before burning the house down”.
  During a live assault Aeshna said "SchizoPoP Manifesto doesn't intend at all to manifest another discourse nor an aesthetic movement as we understand it; rather, it is an explosion of the senses, an insurrection of desire taking shape; it's all about a state of mind, above all. The world itself and culture are an unconscious SchizoPoP, and SchizoPoP Manifesto is kinda Collage Monster which can alchemize everything around into a new language, a new spirit, the prima materia of life itself. SchizoPoP loves contrasts and its only discourse is TOTAL FREEDOM & Give Art an ORGASM, as all the rest is frigid monkeypissing Blablaism & useless bourgeoisie. Don't ever try to cathegorize it into a pre-determined etymological chain or whatever; a priori, it's a nomad, a trickster which can explode itself before it gets trapped to further reappearing on another stage, intense and possessed, or flaring up on the lips of a mischievous child. SchizoPoP is a newborn baby, fresh and raw, ludicrous, cruel, experimental & mad, and is the Now”.

I despise all the heroes who brought me here 
the orphan cardigans dressing the poles
the sunset of a thousand windows on fire
my tongue is yr bed
yr cocoon
yr awakening
& dawn on the horizon as a poisonous sun
Allons enfants de la Patrie, 'tout aux tavernes et aux filles !!

      let's burn all churches & schools down
bleach out all bibles & books
 & build beautiful Blakean brothels burnin with exuberance & lust --   drop out of normal school before they rip off your heart & pack it up into academic shit for a perpetual cycle of happy servitude -
betray, betray your fate, betray them all -
just do it!
in the future
we all will be sorta like Trevis Bickle or Barbie-Karloff mad cow riddled with plague blowing the sax playing the berimbau 
reciting schizopop soapbox litanies
or Basho Bartok Butoh Blake Boom on
top of a crumbling building in flames
We won't eva go to Heaven
or to Hollywood
nor to the Promised Land
for our credit cards have been cancelled
& Alice has grown up & has just been promoted to group vice president/commercial banking manager at Gateway Bank. 
a madhouse on fire
                     madmen in flames screaming
         a police car in flames 
the Green Fairy incests firecoal skies & beaches a bottle of wine or absinthe cigarettes songs & yr lover’s sighing naked body & breath melting into sweet sweet nothings… -
entwine my tongue with yours
gluing yr saliva to my weirdest dreams
throw kerosene in yr eyes so we can admire together
a flammable sky scrawled by comets
To the matchbox girl & to the blessed pyromaniac who set fire to London 400 years ago & made everybody dance… 
the billboards of Sodom began to speak the truth,
a crowd of limbless Nicole Kidman replicas roared in my brain:
welcome to the Promised Land,
where fairies are burnt alive
candies, candies, candies…
the Discarded Eternity of
       a million Marylin Monroes Marylin Monroes Marylin Monroes Marylin Monroes marylin Monroes Marylin Monroes…
yr body is a bloody flag from countless soft copulations & rapes
each pore transpires a verse that escaped from home to never come back again
we were maniacs, mad, sparkling & psychos… listening to Porno for Pyros & Lydia Lunch, Bela Bartok & Sonik Youth, & spending our days rolling away from high school to smoke marijuana & have visions in the forest, or shoplifting alcohol in supermarkets & then invading ruined mansions at night to contemplate the enlightened lotus of our holy rage like mini buddhas soaked in ether & chloroform
let's be eternal
even if for 15 fucking minutes
Pull up a scream from the bottom of your angst
& make it explode through the night
make it shake the ground & concrete buildings
world is sick, the world is sick!
out! get out of here now!
stop! stay where you are!
may the loose beasts hurl in the alleys their insatiable thirst
may the streets & roads be our infinite living room
the night is a baby!
let us declaim long erotic spurts on church altars
vomit our bloody heartburn on the walls of dead buildings
out! get out of here!!!
stop! stay where you are!!!
world is sick, the world is sick!
crash clash thrash boom boom boom
what now we’re far from home!!!?
a toast to the screaming hunger & thirst in our entrails
-- we want sex sex & mooore sex,
orgasm of voracious tongues entwined, saliva & breath,
O my wild love, love o'’mine
come poetry
the true living
a new loving
a new feeling
come the new season
a new vibration
a new pulsation
come poetry
come now & always & right NOW
may every moment be fever magic rapture dream mystery
may every second be eternal
let us dance naked on the piano-on-fire of rocknroll,
on the debris of all of our laws & plagues
& celebrate the Great Law of the Unheard-of Scream dictated by unbridled subjectivity running wild
let us tag motel mirrors & kingdoms w/ terrible sacraments
& dance dance dance till dawn
frigid poets, give art an ORGASM!
it’s time to face your biggest ghost & say “NO MORE!
it’s time to live danger again, inject yr body with a new violence
it’s time to get real & start dreaming again
it’s time to tear up your ID & become multiple
it’s time to smirch yr makeup & show yr real face
it’s time to spit at all jerks, mock at all mirrors & judgments
it’s time to stop regretting & wake up - do what you want shall be the whole of the Law!
it’s time to get out of the cocoon & make it happen,
life begins NOW!
go now, no matter where, your name is vengeance!
run amuck,
arm yrself w/ seeds, shoot your gun at random:
scream  love  bleed  breathe
sin  run  die & reborn
life is brief   money is eternal
& FUCK the rest! 
( h aeshna, about 20 yrs old )

PARIS ( excerpt )
for Baba Yaga, François Villon, Jeanne Dark, Claude Le Petit, Mireille Havet, Jean Genet, Monsieur William, Brigitte Fontaine, my punch-and-judy betty-blue Béatrice Dalle & my fuckbuddy Carla Bruni
Paris I have immortalized at the Pantheon my golden feces, my infamous lies, my tragedy-scented cum towels, my childhood debris, my suicide love letters, my epileptic pop-ups, my garbage picked Turin shroud-wrapped disfigured teenage face, my seeds, my formaldehyde-preserved enchanted abortions, my spring buds & plum blossoms, my masks, my postcards from hell, my souvenirs picked in dreams, my objets-volés, my mountain aphorisms & memories of other lives, my banned damned book, my eyes incubated in the fever of dreams, my fines for dangerous driving & early-hour somnambulism through the streets, my cynical cyanide smile, my muddy worn out shoes, my patriotic love, my religious fanaticism, my pet cancer, my collection of best-sellers, my mother’s hysterectomy, my daddy’s corpse, my nervous breakdowns, my reformatories, my exiles, my straightjacketed tongue, my cureless boredom & prominent beer belly, my pride in being white yuppie self-made-man liberal fascist fashion black yellow alien arab cool cool cool so fucking cool man, my war medals, my lust for life,
my jailed verses, angel meat & devil meat for mass cannibalism & necrophilia-masturbation, my universal altruism, my holidays, my holocausts, my nausea, my bottled gastric juice, buy, buy my pain, my Oscars & Grammies & Nobels, my pollockian menstruations, my plans for the future & my poems selected by Le Figaro, in short, my one thousand decapitated heads each with a different expression…
Paris ma pute, ma belle, mon amoureuse
lick my debris
wish I could strangle you as you whisper sweetly in my ear
                                            mon amour
I won't gouge my eyes out at the end of this ridiculous fable
I won't come back to this Big Brothel to satisfy the syphilis of a whole hell erected in my name, - spectateurs wankers disciples & art dealers, oh no
I won't end up like Artaud in a straightjacket
jet set freakshow haute-couture Hannibal Lecter
screaming as a muzzled dog behind a
luxurious window in the Champs-Elysées
Helena boxed in the Theater of Vampires
Or Kaspar Hauser or Pasolini’s parricide cannibal condemned to be torn to pieces by wild beasts bureaucrats & then getting my pieces packaged & sold off like minced meat on the shelves of the Planet of the Apes
The framed & tamed plastic prophet of
a plastic puppet generation!
no, I will no longer barge in through these pale curtains to say out what I really feel,
like one who betrays a character & doesn't even appear
But mostly,
I will no longer be here
when they arrive at the crime scene 
& the circus is on fire
I did it my way
SUPER STARFISH, (c) Henrik Aeshna SUPER STARFISH, (c) Henrik Aeshna

(some of my depraved youth before I became a well-respected citizen...)
I was ten years old when I killed my father with a punk rock record
a long long time later a Gun Club song would drag us into the night…
a subliminal call…
it was Saturday night in Paris
arranged a date with a hott brunette I was in touch with on the internet & who had posted something like
“ anyone in this fucking city willing to ask me for a drink out tonite?”
we were tuned in to the same music: “Fire Spirit”
I was “home alone” looking after a mentally ill rich lady’s apartment who was away for the weekend, and like an innocent kid in a candy store
I decided to anarchize!
got myself three packs of beers & wine
stored the stuff up in “my” apt. & made my way out to the station – jumped over the turnstile to avoid purchasing a ticket & quickly, hopped the métro to Ledru-Rollin possessed by the fire spirit & Elvis typhoid fever
& that bubblin’ inside
& echoin’ everywhere till it spread
and then cracked open like a Pandora’s beebox
from the sidewalk
in front of McDonald’s just off the station where we first met (cherry Halls’ & Jack Daniel’s breath &
screaming pale blue eyes) all the way to a
bar near Bastille
a ruby red retro beehive-like juke joint called Le Fanfaron*  
where we drank waffled lied & blasphemed
played dice with death & flip-flopped all night in that boisterous drunken boat to all sorts of old rare vinyls Kid Congo Johnny Cash Cramps Stooges Reverend Beat Man Dutronc Gainsbourg France Gall old French soundtracks & rockabillies surf candies & songs of the 50’s & 60’s & the first apocalypstick French kiss & such
till we ZAP,
we ran off without paying, this ole ludicrous Russian roulette for zen masters & ninjas only, & hopped a comet to another free “Cinema Paradiso”, two stumbling “Strangers in the Night” down those dirty lyrical streets impregnated with vicious promises, us rolling up a real symphony of sins, tearing it all down raisin’ hell & laughin’ at life at death “wastin’ away” all our already-aborted youth on whatever dangerously divine & profane happened to cross our way to transfigure us, or not, fuck it - let’s storm the reality garden, zap, then we tried to unchain (steal) a scooter from a light pole in an alley, zap, & all I can recall right now is that after another rip-roaring maelstrom of parties shots sultans pinups toys & cabs we crashed into “my” room &
-        “where is my culotte?!”*
(* a few days later, my employer, the mentally handicapped lady-that bitch I looked after found a cum-and-wine-stained woman’s thong underneath her bed… Needless to tell how I ended up…, but for a bunch of clothes, all my writings, notebooks & journals all completely torn to pieces, let alone the bittersweet taste of unemployment – ironical but beautiful!)
Henrik Aeshna, member of a herectic sect called Unemployment/Procrastination,
… some months later I was kicked out of Le Fanfaron by the grand conard neurotic owner, after going out of the toilet shouting: LA VIE COMMENCE MAINTENANT – life begins now! - I had spent only 2 minutes at the bar before being shoved away, when this glorious fight flared up and tables and glasses began flying over everywhere!!! – I had given a noise reading at KZ BAR with some friends, and then we plunged into the night, rolling through the streets of Paris, screaming, drinking & laughing loud, storming laundry rooms to recite hallucinatory dramas, provoking the sleeping windows & ants’ nests & exploring intensities, LA BANDE DE PARIS! 
artwork by Henrik Aeshna artwork by Henrik Aeshna

( cheap rotten rhymes of a war hero, or a war whore )
I am a 1p royal whore
( the new stripper of Gang of Four, baby )
& I wanna go to war
To rape little bhoys & ghals
Innocently taking me for Lady Blah-Blah of Calcutta
I am Milton’s Paradise Lost
In a dirty hotel in Soho
My eyes & veins overflowing with crystal
Jesus Christ shot dead at my feet
- coz my cock died on the cross for SoHo's sins
& was raised on the third day on Old Compton Street... Amen.
I am Amélie Poulain’s sexual nightmare
Corrupting carrier pigeons all over Paris
I come from a madhouse where the washing machines play joujouka flutes
& there’s a Virginia Woolf drowned in my blood
I am a perverted pastoral
the broken biscuit Barbie of Bangkok
Sucking cock & selling my poor used up Victorian ass
While my dreams starve & die on the ash-covered floor of a nameless brothel
I am Gerard de Nerval's last blues
baby, do not wait up for me tonight
for the night will be black
& white
I am the seven-year syphilitic bitch & witch of the English dream
whose flag is the front cover of The Sun soaked with menstrual flow, ten bucks a blow,
I am the crow,
I am the eclipse
I am the Anarqueen of the apocalypse
wearing a barbed wire crown
& grunting like Judy Garland in the rain.
from the poem NAKED BEANS,  (c) Henrik aeshna 2009 from the poem NAKED BEANS, (c) Henrik aeshna 2009

IL A TUÉ LA POÉSIE ET EST ALLÉ AU CINÉMA (voir «Autant en emporte le vent »…) :
(Article écrit par Elodie Noël après de nombreuses conversations avec Aeshna autour d’une bouteille d’absinthe en écoutant tous les types de sons et rituels, de Velvet Underground à vaudou, et après plusieurs ‘Parkours Poétiliques’ à travers les rues de Paris, cette ville qu’il évoque souvent comme ‘Paris Manège Halluciné en Feu’, une espèce de "ville-pute, mixte de playground et purgatoire"*)  
« Je suis venu ici pour déverser ma farce
& transformer la Disneyland de Sartre
en une arène risquée »
Henrik Aeshna, « Naked Beans »
La pensée d’Henrik Aeshna est celle d’un être visionnaire engagé dans la quête d’un ‘corps sans organes’ insoumis et qui perpétuellement délire. Un enfant lucide révolté cruel qui jette des pierres en flammes sur les murs, invectivant sans réserve ni compromis la lie stagnante du grand manège puant. Une provocation fière et arrogante, pure et intègre, porteuse d’une rage de vie-tourbillon, une explosion directe et sans détours plongeant sans peur dans le sang les sanglots les feux sauvages les pluies les épidémies. 
Henrik Aeshna connaît et maitrise une force puissante très semblable à celle du clown-bouffon sacré des peuples/tribus/communautés encore vibrants et qui travaillent à déployer les plis/crispations/définitions/membres intérieurs dans un lâcher-prise total du soi étendu dans l’extérieur-univers-mutant en mouvement perpétuel ; - ce clown sacré transgresseur des codes établis, créateur de nouvelles lois absurdes et universelles, sage qui doute de son équilibre en même temps qu’il est sûr de sa chute, grimace entièrement tendue qui déchire les toiles de la censure et contamine l’esprit conscient/fertile qui laisse alors danser et crier hors des limites ses rêves les plus fous, les plus beaux et les plus laids, dans un carnaval où la force de vie est mise à l’épreuve (rythme voix tambour danse incarnation transe-toxique-et-possédée barrissements …), où l’homme devient son désir/source/flux. Car il a volé au-dessus de sa cage et engagé une lutte épuisante avec le bourreau quotidien tué. Il s’est délivré de sa chair morte et renaît intense dans une connexion/un contact/un orgasme avec le monde : « Give Art an Orgasm ! ».*
Henrik Aeshna appelle les VRAIS et SERIEUX troubles fêtes, dérangés, kidnappeurs du réel, dépouillés, inventeurs, exilés, excités, assoiffés, sorciers, malades, schizophrènes en provenance du CHAOS à sortir dans la rue pour ‘EN FINIR AVEC LE JUGEMENT DE DIEU’, EN FINIR AVEC l’homme-esclave devenu lécheur de culs, voyeur-consommateur d’objets simulacres, l’homme-boutique occidental consommé acheté vendu, l’homme-institution donneur de leçons formatant le désir des élèves devenus soldats/carrière ennuyeux que la culture et la politique s’empressent de distraire dans une lobotomie de spectacles-produits, de soirées thématiques, de voyages-croisières, de revues, d’expositions/musées/galeries, tout cela dans une tenue correcte exigée sur un corps/une pensée sainte et modérée. Oh gloire ! Des visages frais comme des murs bétonnés, des blablablas stériles provenant de discours stérilisés. Comment ne pas se rappeler de son Manifeste Blablaiste ironisé devant les portes des salles de facs et autres CERCLES intellectuels/politiques ou de son infâme intervention au musée du Louvre où il parade avec un sac d’achat sur lequel est écrit  ‘BUY MY PAIN’, le thème même de sa première exposition solo à venir, ou encore, quand il vendait l’oreille de Van Gogh dans des paquets de viandes hachées dans un kiosque monté devant le musée Van Gogh à Amsterdam ? C’est comme si l’anti-poète voleur de feu et buveur d’absinthe crachait des pétales de napalm dans l’opéra reality show de cette prévisible ironie dans laquelle lui et nous sommes tous encagés (« je n’arracherais pas mes yeux à la fin de cette fable ridicule »*).
Le pouvoir économique achève et verse le champagne promis dans la coupe vide des têtes comblées, droguées, maintenues. Actuellement le marché colonise, contrôle et manipule la psyché de l’homme, passant de sujet-acteur conscient de son désir à objet d’un désir haché offert en kit. Les zombis modelés auront vite et bien satisfait, comme une envie de chier, une part de leur désir personnel autorisée dans cette sinistre masturbation. - Bienvenu(e) dans MEDUSA TV* !
Sortir de ce Marasme fait d’éparpillements d’ablations de clivages, Quitter ce monde calculé prêt-à porter est une urgence, faire pousser des fleurs enivrantes aux couleurs vibrantes éclatant de pigments organiques, réintégrer la vie, sucer le jus délicieux des cactus infernaux, se jeter des falaises dans l’océan hurlant, DANSER, danser dans le silence, foutre un point dans la gueule des convenances assises sur leurs chaises en attendant qui, quoi, GODOT?
Sortir de ces boîtes (à images, à musique, à slogans) envouteuses, débilitantes et trompeuses. Broyer le bavardage ambiant et écouter, observer le souffle des orages.
Perception pure, sauvage, immédiate et intégrale d’intensités tournoyantes, c’est de là qu’émergent les visions et le Vagissement** d’Henrik Aeshna, poète-bombe-enfant-sauvage qui fusionne le réel et le rêve vécu en des points de contact fulgurants dans lesquels l’esprit-poète allume anime et travaille l’éclosion de cette langue-passage, langue-extase qui retourne le sang des tambours derviches et touche leurs plus secrètes intimités.
Elodie Noël


Web stranica: Henrik Aeshna & The PLASTIC PROPHETS (Site officiel: OEUVRES, SCHIZOPoP MANIFESTO / MEDUSA TV / BLOG, Poèmes & Provocations )

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