#ren schigye

[murmuur-vanilja]

Fictober 2022.13 — If you don’t hide, you’ll die

Prompt number 13: "I don't want you to do that" Original fiction: My Servant, the Devil Rating: M Warnings: abuse, violence, grooming, queerphobia, misogyny, whorephobia

“Sweetie, come on, won’t you show your mommy if it fits?” I had closed the door, hoping she wouldn’t burst in to look at me while I was staring at myself in a mirror. Yet another chiffon blouse with lace and a jumper skirt made of what seemed to be hundreds of layers to me could be seen trapping my body, restraining each and every of my organs. The outfit was painful to wear as the skirt had a built-in corset that appeared not to be my size at all. At first, I didn’t mind mommy choosing clothes for me, but I had come to hate it more and more as they became more extravagant, more obviously expensive, more tailored to an ideal that wasn’t me. “Opaline, sweetie, aren’t you hearing me?”

She urged me to come downstairs so that she could admire the work of art she was the proudest of — her own child, or maybe the child she chose to see in me. I sighed at the thought that mommy seemed to be growing dissatisfied with me and enamoured with the Opaline she had wanted to be raising. I didn’t have a choice, however. Mommy knows best. I opened the door and carefully climbed down the stairs, trying not to trip as walking in heels wasn’t my specialty. As a result, I was already sweating when I reached the living room. “You’re so pretty, so lovely. You are growing to be a fine lady.” That last sentence was thrown at me as her stare insisted on my chest. Come to think of it, I think that might have been the reason for the tight corset — she had been trying to promote a shape I didn’t naturally have. I couldn’t put it into words, but sometimes, there was something creepy about the way she inspected my figure. I looked away, feeling embarrassed by that kind of attention. I didn’t want to grow to be a lady. As previously stated, I used not to mind the outfits, but I had come to hate it as she hammered the concept of woman into my innocent mind. “Come on, sweetie. Make it fly for mommy!” I stretched my arms so as not to block the skirt from flying as I started spinning. At first, I had put on a fake smile not to upset her, but seeing as she was satisfied with me, I became more genuine. All I had ever wanted was her love, and so I couldn’t help being glad at her eyes sparkling. As I kept on circling, I became dizzy, but her joy didn’t die down. I couldn’t stop. A few minutes later, her hand firmly grabbed my shoulder, almost making me fall. I realised I had been so focused on making my skirt fly that I had lost all sense of what surrounded me. Mommy’s happiness had suddenly crashed as she was now hurting me. My vision became clearer as the dizziness disappeared, and I could now experience her cold, angry stare. “I don’t know where you’ve found them, but you’ve replaced your usual underwear with boxers today. Opaline, I don’t want you to do that.” I suddenly understood what had just happened. The spinning had shown more than I would have liked it to. I lowered my gaze, embarrassed that she had found out. The truth is, boxers were more comfortable for me, especially since the knickers she would get me were always too tight and pressing against what I assumed she wished to be gone. I thought it was fine not to wear them since they were under a bunch of layers anyway, but she had been obsessed with my body for as long as I could remember. Her other hand grabbed my chin and forced it back up. “Look at me in the eye, you useless whore. Are you going to pretend you were born a boy? No one is. You understand that much, right? I made you into a she. Be grateful, you’re the most refined sex out there. You are growing to be beautiful, Opaline.” “Mommy. I read more about gender the other day. It is true that I wasn’t born a boy, for everything is but a construct. However…” The instant I tried to mention the books challenging the binary and mentioning transgender beings, she threw me violently to the ground. A weak thud emerged from the collision, causing me give in to tears immediately. “Did you just fucking ‘however’ me, you filthy bitch? Did I fail at teaching you to shut the fuck up? Are you crying too? Fucking attention whore.” “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” “If you truly were, you would already be running back upstairs and throwing away those pants.” “But, mommy…” This time, a kick to my stomach stopped me from going any further. I suppressed a scream. It was useless to argue. It was useless to cry. I silently tried to pick myself up as she watched me struggle with the pain and heels. The reality check had been violent — she was definitely loving an ideal. When I climbed upstairs to do as she had instructed, a second thought hit me. Maybe I, too, was only loving an ideal.

[murmuur-vanilja]

Fictober 2022.6 — Miserable cue to the second act of my life

Prompt number 6: "Adaptable, I like that" Original fiction: My Servant, the Devil Rating: T Warnings: none

Phobya. I honestly can’t tell what was worse between the “time” I spent in that miserable hole, and the whole childhood I had spent in Wêmà, surrounded by mommy, daddy and grannie. Yet, I suppose Phobya must have somehow scarred me even further, or at least in a more vivid way, for to this day, all my nightmares are still of this place. I still don’t quite understand how I even ended up in that place during my teenage years. I was running away, into the night, and I wanted to reach the furthest hiding spot from mommy’s mansion. The cute pink heels I was usually been made to wear wouldn’t allow me to flee at all, so I had found something else first, but they were still not quite efficient to run. They also happened to be new, and the leather was rubbing against my skin as I moved. To be quite honest, the whole outfit I had picked for my runaway wasn’t appropriate. I knew it wouldn’t be that great, and I knew that it technically put me at more risk to be caught on the run, but I couldn’t help it. Finally wearing a style that I had chosen for myself was so euphoric.

For the second time in my life — the first being my failed runaway —, I felt free. No pink lace, no excessive pastel bows, no knickers, no long hair, no nail varnish. It might have sounded ridiculous to the average eye, but for the boy who had lived his entire childhood in the most gendered world to have ever existed, this was the taste of identity and autonomy. I’d run past reflective surfaces, and although I wouldn’t quite stop running, I’d still smile at the mirrors. Contrary to the large, puffed tops I usually wore, I could see myself in fitted shirts with suspenders. From time to time, I’d play with the metallic holders of those. Adaptable, I liked that. Little did I know that this late evening of May would be the last time I’d see myself grin. Wêmà, my home world, was a finite dimension. I had heard of that fact, but I had never seen the limits of the place, for I wasn’t allowed to even go out. I kept running and running, not knowing where and when I’d stop, and at some point, I remember seeing this blue-tinted glass enveloping the edges of space-time. As a matter of fact, a few signs had warned me that I was reaching the end beforehand, but my shut-in style of education had prevented me to understand those. The momentum I had gathered made the crash unavoidable, and I went right through the glass, straight into nothingness. I remember vaguely turning my head around to see the previously shattered barrier close itself again, only to disappear once healed. Cue the worst days of my life.

[murmuur-vanilja]

Fictober 2022.4 — You spoke words I do not understand, but I figured out they were cruel

Prompt number 4: "How would that even work?" Original fiction: My Servant, the Devil Rating: T Warnings: abuse, violence

“Petty, useless, pathetic and weak attention whore. Do you even understand what it means to be raised in our family? Do you have any idea of what the feeble feathers ornamenting your bitchless hair represent?” I buried my head in a pillow as the cruel words that had been spoken during the day resurfaced at night. I had changed into my pink pyjamas and removed my nail varnish on my own already, and I was ready to sleep, but the sentences were tormenting me. Could it be another sleepless night? I didn’t know which I minded the most: the insomnias or the nightmares? I wanted to cry. I really wanted to, but if I did, she would hear me and come into this room, and who knew what would happen next? Instead, I stuffed part of my pillow in my mouth. It took some time, but I had eventually learnt to do it the way that would block my cries without having me choke too much. To tell the truth, I simply didn’t understand. I thought I had done gone that day. I had woken up early, I had practised the violin, then I had practised the piano. I had read a few books, I had sewn a plushie, I had trained in chess. I admit I had taken a break in the early afternoon to cloud gaze by my window, but it had been following my meal — three pieces of lettuce, two cherry tomatoes and one nut, that I had arranged myself in a shape I had believed to be cute. Looking back on it, had that been my mistake? Spending time on a futile decoration?

I thought I had done good, and once I was done admiring the tiny clouds high up in the sky, I had tried to write a poem to the person I loved the most in all Wêmà. I knew every piece of literature already existed in this world, and that it would be impossible for me to achieve something original. Still, I wanted to believe. I wanted to pour down the contents of my heart and to be praised for it. Yet, as soon as I rushed down the stairs in a good mood and slapped the piece of paper on the table in front of her, I felt a sharp pain running through my cheek. Mommy called me an “attention whore”. I didn’t know what that meant. It didn’t sound good. Mommy knows best She is the prettiest I don’t think she even read past the two first lines. Maybe I should’ve spent more time picking up my words. In retrospect, they were petty, useless, pathetic and weak, indeed. I wasn’t a good writer, but I was truly trying my best to convey my feelings. She had crushed the paper without any hint of empathy for her kid. Those weren’t the only words she had spoken to be during that confrontation. Once the poem was destroyed, her eyes had met my face again. She had softly stroked my bleeding cheek and covered the scratch with my own hair, to save some of my dignity. Then, she had gently kissed my forehead. “Please don’t shed a single tear, you are by far the most beautiful child to have ever walked this land.” Although I truly loved and trusted mommy, there were times when I found her to be confusing. Every relationship had its struggles and hardships, but there were times when I wondered if I was worthy of love. I was flawed, after all. I didn’t know whether she was, too. That night was such a night, a night of uncertainty. I released the pillow and sighed. It was a deep sigh, filled with unspoken emotions I didn’t understand. The urge to cry was gone, but I wasn’t relieved. In fact, I felt even heavier than before. I quietly rose from my bed and approached the window again. It was night, and the specific light setting made it so that I was seeing my reflection more easily than I was seeing outside. I lifted a lock of hair and stared and the sharp, straight cut. “I am the most beautiful child, but you casually ruin my beauty every so often. It’s okay, because it can be hidden. I’m scared, mommy. I’m scared that it won’t be hidden any more someday. How would that even work? I’m scared no one will love me.” Without thinking about it, I had spoken out loud. This cued footsteps. Mommy was coming for me, because she now knew I was awake past my bedtime. I froze as I was staring at the door’s reflection on the window. The distance, the small distance, that was separating the two of us by that time felt like an eternity. In that short yet never-ending moment, two feelings could overlap. I loved you, mommy. But I also hated you more than anything else.

[murmuur-vanilja]

Fictober 2022.16 — Damn, Rachida

Prompt number 16: "You're looking, but you don't see" Original fiction: My Servant, the Devil Rating: M Warnings: implications of disordered eating and related issues, ableism

Running her hands through her massive walk-in closets, Rachida was searching for the best outfit for the day. The collection of clothes she had gathered in her place was absurd, to the point where quantifying it would lead to incomprehensible numbers. Yet, a look out the window should be enough to notice the insurmountable gap between the budget spent on herself and the crumbs she gave to her kingdom. Measures had been taken, time and time again, to prevent any revolution, and that mainly included the relocation of most people had they turned old enough to go work and be hosted in other parts of the world. In other words, despite the selfish attitude of their Queen, the countries she had command over were hopeful. Would a dress do? What kind? She was bored of her long, blue kaftan, and her headpiece had grown out of fashion. Therefore, she had once again become her own priority, although it would be wrong to assume she had ever not been on her own mind. The golden patterns on her royal clothes weren’t shiny enough — she wanted to glow more, she wanted to show off what sort of perfect body she thought she had, with the curves, the ribs, the collarbone and the hips. Would it be hypocritical of me to call her vain for exhibiting such ill thoughts? Still, our similarities were quite superficial — we didn’t share a motive in that regard.

As her eyes landed on an abaya featuring glitter and lace. At least, she referred to it as an abaya, and I’m going by her words, because the clothe was completely unrecognisable, having changed so much from its original form. She tried it on and looked at the shape of her thighs, satisfied by the gap between her legs. A smile illuminated her face. “Mh, I’ve always been the prettiest, but I’d like people to see me as the hottest, too. Just look at these stupid polls, and they tare Taneilla looks fancier? I’ll beat her to that, bitch-ass.” Her intentions were in the wrong place; the very polls she had been referring to didn’t have anything to do with physique in the first place. It was but a survey that had circulated around the forum DataData, a network that was only accessible to specific people having been granted the right to less restriction on the internet. Taneilla, one of the other Queens, hadn’t “won” anything — instead, she had been described as more composed than Rachida. However, ever since she had come to hear about that piece of information, Rachida had grown jealous. Selecting new clothes was her vengeance over the Queen that was always bullying her at the meetings. To be quite honest, it was nothing out of the ordinary for her — she was basically the modern version of Narcissus, and may that fucking idiot drown in her reflection too. Therefore, she was simply being her usual self, unable to accept anything but first place. “Yeah, that dress is perfect. People will see. They better understand. No more of these Eclipso, Ramdam, Lukas or Amă. I’m the only true God on Earth.” The sight of her was pitiful, and frankly quite annoying. For most higher-ups, the way she had come to be in power, and to maintain it, was a mystery. Her people might be hopeful for a better future, but the officials who spent time with her knew the people was misguided in that sentiment. The most deceived, however, were her suitors. Rachida wasn’t married, even though a lot of people had tried to put a ring on her hand. She would always tell them off and kick them out, claiming they were unable to impress her. As the narrator, I had been putting up with her stories, but she was getting on my nerve more and more each day. Although I knew how to mask most of my emotions, or rather how to entirely supress them and feel nothing but apathy, I could become impulsive if you tried really hard. As she posed in front of her mirrors, she spat out even more ambitious words. “And who’s that other guy they’ve been talking about lately? Ren? Guren? Ugh, whatever, I bet they’re just some kind of loser too. Probably worse than the ‘gods’ all those idiots are fawning over already.” It just so happened that I could stand any and all accusations from anyone, but that I wouldn’t take it from her. That night, I suddenly stood on her windowsill. A black coat covering my figure, and the right amount of serious in my expression, I stared when she screamed as the lightning hit in an unpredictable storm. “The only true God? Damn, girl, aren’t you exaggerating things when you’re in front of the mirrors all alone? You’re looking, but you don’t see. Your stupid kind is even afraid of the weather.” She noticed me, and her pupils immediately reduced as her heartbeat sped up. That physiological reaction was betraying pure terror. Usually, such strange appearance wouldn’t have fazed her, and she would have called for the Red Forces to take care of the intruder. Naturally, my cue had nothing to do with being usual, and had it been, I would still have been unsettling. After all, she had never met anyone wearing horns or a tail. “Congrats, you’ve got yourself a crown. Now what? I don’t care much about if you think you can be compared to Eclipso, Ramdam or Lukas. They’re no fun anyway, lol.” I could see her body shaking. I could have let it at that, but I wasn’t satisfied just yet. I had gone out of my way to come in person, so I should make an impression. Yet, I was already holding back, doing her a favour: I could’ve skipped the talking and gone straight to the stabbing. She wasn’t worth that much trouble, though. “Do you really wish to defile me? Bow the fuck down.” For the first time ever since I had started observing her, she obeyed someone without a pout. She bowed, and her trembling made it so that she even kneeled, hanging her head low. I must admit, every once in a while, there was something good that could come out of my supernatural status. The expression on her face at that moment was priceless. I smiled before disappearing. “Not that stupid, are we?”

[murmuur-vanilja]

Fictober 2022.15 — Sullivan, that’s gross

Prompt number 15: "What are you doing?" Original fiction: My Servant, the Devil Rating: M Warnings: gore, death

What a pitiful view it was, oh-so-tragic, her hands bathing in blood. She had torn my flesh apart in the middle of the night while I was asleep, hoping to achieve fast results this way. To be perfectly honest, she could’ve been more effective had she used her weapon of choice, which had been designed to extract the very soul out of its body, but what she had perceived as a lack of humanity within my self had led her to suspect the method wouldn’t work. Therefore, she stood there, over my body, her metallic hands dug deep in my chest. My shape was left deeply sabotaged, a barely recognisable mess. It couldn’t even be called a disgusting feast of meat, for my black blood was unlike anything she had ever seen. It wasn’t just the usual crimson that had gone dark from the oxygen, it was of the purest midnight sky — thus, even the usually composed AI became grossed out. “I desire you to die, Papa. I really do. But this is a lot.”

The cold words escaped her mouth as she gagged several times from the squishy muscles, trying not to puke. Of course, killing me was her true wish, and the squeamishness she suddenly felt in her heart wasn’t due to a questioning of morals in an act of parricide. The idea that even a robot wouldn’t be able to handle my sight was quite laughable, yet annoying. I wasn’t her real father as I had never participated in her creation. However, my magic did play a role in the Life Extractor, her weapon. Since it was, to some extent, a part of her, I suppose she might not have been that off by referring to me as parent. However, there was not a single reality in which I would ever recognise her as my offspring. In the end, who could blame her for her death wish? Should I have? Not only did I not particularly care about whatever motivations she had, but I also didn’t uphold the moral high ground. Be not mistaken, I was not worse than her. If she was immoral, I was amoral. We were drastically different, to the point that we couldn’t be compared unless you tried to fit me into a neat human-like box — and as the very reason she had her hands moving around my blood was that she didn’t recognise such qualities in me. “Ah. So much blood, why is it that way?” She reflectively withdrew herself from my insides as she tried to get deeper. Indeed, she had been burnt. Although she had hypothesised that I wouldn’t have a soul, she hadn’t gone so far as to imagine my entire anatomy would be unlike anything she had come to know so far. She couldn’t find any organs yet, only blood and the feeling of a fire lit up somewhere beneath the flesh. She turned on a light, trying to visualise where the heart she wanted to tear apart was located so as not get burnt uselessly a second time. However, while the pain hadn’t really bothered my sleep, the light definitely woke me up. I gently opened my eyelids, took notice of the situation and rolled my eyes as I rolled over to my side, mumbling. “What are you doing, lol?” She froze. Although she was already persuaded of my demonic nature, this had achieved to convince her. Then, after the initial shock, she felt even more disgusted by me. “I desire you to die, Papa. I need to take away your heart. You are a monster.” I chuckled, only half-amused by her words. I could’ve had killed her on the spot, yet I didn’t want to. Was that a whim, or was it proof that I somehow did possess the qualities she had stripped me off? The question was of no interest to me. Instead, I snapped my fingers, enforcing my status as the Ruler of the Nightmares. “True, lol. Whatever, just go to sleep.”

[murmuur-vanilja]

Entrée X

« Coulons des jours heureux. » — c’est souvent ce que tout le monde semble vouloir quand on parle de vous. Je vous vois alors déjà approuver ou désapprouver. Peut-être que certains d’entre vous ont déjà perdu de vue l’idéal de bonheur : de la noirceur dans le cœur, des larmes qui font des entailles, une adolescence qui fane, une philosophie différente…

Dans ce cas, je devrais réajuster mon affirmation.

« Couler des jours heureux. » — et que chacun décide du sujet de l’infinitif. Je. Tu. Ils. Nous. Personne. Tout le monde. Je ne sais pas, faites comme vous le sentez. Voilà donc ce que vous êtes, humains. Conscients de votre inconscience, et voilà que vous comprenez votre mortalité.

J’ai un jeu de plateau qui s’appelle la Vie™. Sept milliards de pions dans votre genre. Et à n’importe quel moment, une pichenette peut survenir.

« Couleur des jours heureux. » — certains décident de se démarquer par l’art. Ils construisent, ils sculptent, ils peignent, ils chantent, ils écrivent, ils dansent, ils filment, et dans cet ordre, car ils cherchent tout de même un cadre. Méfiants de vos propres règles, encore et encore, vous changez.

Je me demande ce que ça fait de penser être acteur de son destin.

« Couleuvre des jours heureux. » — quand ce n’est pas la vanité, cette fierté bâtie dans la bêtise, c’est la peur. Conscients de votre inconscience pour la deuxième fois, et que restera-t-il à la fin ? Vous voilà infiniment petits au milieu de l’univers, au milieu de la vie, de la Vie™.

Ouais.

« Courir les jours heureux. » — la précipitation naïve que d’autres croient bonne. Je vous vois de l’extérieur. Je suis le Témoin de Tous. Et il me semble qu’à vouloir étendre votre existence, vous ne faites que l’aplatir au rouleau à pâtisserie. Vous voulez la voir comme cette incroyable, splendide âme, faite de ce si long et merveilleux événement ; il devient si fin qu’il se brise. Alors, heureux maintenant ?

C’est incroyablement grand, mais incroyablement plat.

« Compter les jours heureux. » — y laisser les irrégularités. Il n’y avait rien, il n’y aura rien. Alors plutôt que de fuir ce vide, je vous propose d’additionner ses pans. Qui sait si ça ne ferait pas quelque chose à la fin…

« Et du Chaos naquit un Univers. »

— Opaline Ren Huang Schigye, le     à     .

[murmuur-vanilja]

Suis-je une fleur de vanille ?

L’énergie pure du chaos et les traits ironiques d’un alter ego Cachés et révélés tour à tour comme la vaste blague d’une vie Mes rêves chaque nuit me rappellent mes désirs mes passions à souffrir Et c’est ainsi que dans un tourbillon de cendres et de cristaux de verre je me vois un peu plus éphémère Oui l’énergie pure du chaos et les traits ironiques d’un alter ego Sont là depuis le début de l’univers de la matière de la sphère de mon ère Et j’effectue une parfaite ellipse des sentiments de la société ceux qui me sont imposés Nos deux corps nos deux plans nos deux idéaux ne forment qu’un Ah l’énergie pure du chaos et les traits ironiques d’un alter ego Ren Schigye fleur de lotus du monde fragmenté et perché dans les étoiles infimes et effrayées La mort ne nous enlèvera pas la mort c’est toi la mort c’est moi On ne vivra peut‑être pas mais on ne mourra jamais car nous sommes l’éternité des souhaits Ô l’énergie pure du chaos et les traits ironiques d’un alter ego Est‑ce que tu entends les âmes égarées faire leur deuil perpétuel De ce qui a bougé de ce qui ne change pas et de ce qui s’altère Est‑ce que tu sens les trois actes se dérouler devant leurs yeux frêles et ébahis Mais l’énergie pure du chaos et les traits d’un alter ego Le sourire muet sincère mystère et si fout‑tout‑en‑l’air Celui qui rappelle les symboles de la nuit la préciosité de nos nids Et qui conduit si assurément au jardin du cimetière divin Puis soudainement un éclat qui vole un grand fracas des brisures de verre C’est toute la structure qui est bazardée parce que C’est ce qu’on veut Oui c’est ce qu’on veut Et peu importe si on ne répondait déjà pas aux attentes toi et moi On fera tout pour aller encore moins dans leur sens à la nouvelle année Ha L’énergie pure du chaos Ha l’énergie pure du chaos Tous les pantins dans le sens horaire de la moralité Tous les plaisantins dans le sens trigonométrique de l’immoralité Toi moi nos traits ironiques et notre jardin dans la brutalité De l’amoralité Le jardin du cimetière où les dieux ont péri Ce jardin athée d’un Satan très humain Tout ça c’est moi je m’accroche à mes arbres et je ris ne craignant pas Non ne craignant pas ce que les autres craignent Les lianes s’enroulent autour des troncs Parfois en paix Parfois c’est un étranglement une affection une haine un parasite Et je respire un peu quand je me pose pour observer Pour apprécier Pour m’apprécier Pour m’amuser de vous de tout de nous Et un instant d’accalmie on reprend L’énergie pure du chaos et les traits ironiques d’un alter ego Cachés et révélés tour à tour sans jamais témoins sans jamais voix Le monde me voit pas pour moi mais pour des prétentions Le monde n’a pas compris que dans mon noyau il y avait les électrons Oui l’énergie pure du chaos et les traits ironiques d’un alter ego Sont là jusqu’à la fin de l’univers de la matière et plus encore Ils resteront présents jusqu’à ce qu’un ennui trop profond les gagnent Et alors seulement ils s’en iront partiront à la recherche d’une meilleure histoire à raconter Ah l’énergie pure du chaos et les traits ironiques d’un alter ego Ren Schigye mon gardien mon ange mon hallucination ma compréhension Tu le sais qu’on transcende tout qu’on s’en moque qu’on se fiche qu’on s’en joue On ne vivra peut‑être pas et alors quoi tant qu’on se nourrit de cette misère et qu’on mord un peu chaque pion Ô l’énergie pure du chaos et les traits ironiques d’un alter ego Est‑ce que tu entends les âmes égarées qui ne savent plus quoi penser jamais au grand jamais Qui s’en prennent à elles‑mêmes tout comme aux autres parce qu’elles sont les proies de leur justice de leur balance Est‑ce que tu sens les trois actes se dérouler devant leurs yeux maigres et silencieux Mais l’énergie pure du chaos et les traits ironiques d’un alter ego Le sourire muet sincère mystère et si fout‑tout‑en‑l’air Celui qui rappelle les symboles de la nuit et les papillons écrasés sur les fausses lanternes agitées aux pleines lunes Et qui conduit si assurément au jardin du cimetière du déclin Puis soudainement encore c’est l’orage c’est la pluie c’est la tempête c’est notre heure de gloire Les cumulus ont grandi les bébés ont grandi ce sont des cumulonimbus à présent Ils viennent déverser leurs punitions après les avertissements Ils viennent mordre et déchiqueter et mettre en morceaux et briser les os et reprendre les eaux Et peu importe si on ne répondant déjà pas aux attentes C’est ce qu’on veut Ha L’énergie pure Du chaos Ha l’énergie Pure du chaos Ha l’énergie pure Du Chaos Ha L’énergie Pure Du chaos Ha l’énergie pure du chaos Tous les pantins tous les plaisantins se battent pour imposer leur meilleure vision pour dicter pour faire les règles pour normaliser pour acter leurs philosophies Toi moi nos traits ironiques et notre jardin dans lequel fleurit le pop‑corn sacré qui nous aidera cinéma théâtre à y voir plus clair Mais c’est sombre La luminosité de ce qui est sombre nous donne nos habits Le jardin du cimetière où tous finissent par décliner Ce jardin fantastique fantaisiste d’un Satan trop humain Tout ça c’est moi Et au milieu de cet environnement Au milieu de ce qu’ils nomment la misère Mon plus grand secret ma plus grande passion secrètement se révèle L’énergie pure du chaos Et les traits ironiques d’un alter ego Et les en‑cas vanille