mercredi 14 novembre 2012


Ce mois qui semble ne pas permettre d'endiguer les fatigues mais au contraire les révéler a été chanté, en voici un exemple : Tom Waits, album The Black Rider. Superbe.

No shadow
No stars
No moon
No care
It only believes
In a pile of dead leaves
And a moon
That's the color of bone

No prayers for November
To linger longer
Stick your spoon in the wall
We'll slaughter them all

November has tied me
To an old dead tree
Get word to April
To rescue me
November's cold chain

Made of wet boots and rain
And shiny black ravens
On chimney smoke lanes
November seems odd
You're my firing squad

With my hair slicked back
With carrion shellac
With the blood from a pheasant
And the bone from a hare

Tied to the branches
Of a roebuck stag
Left to wave in the timber
Like a buck shot flag

Go away you rainsnout
Go away, blow your brains out

4 commentaires:

  1. Images, images...the pheasant and the hare, the roebuck next to the chimney.
    Et cette voix traînante comme un lent envol de feuilles mortes.

  2. Quoi de mieux que la voix rocailleuse de l'immense Tom Waits pour commencer la soirée.

    1. Immense voilà un terme que j'adopte !