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The subway spit them out into the old city. That's where she wants to find a place for dinner. It's her birthday so she'd like to treat herself. She's gorgeous in her white strapless dress, her curly ginger hair falling over her shoulders. From head to waist, she looks like Scarlett and he can't take his eyes off her blue ones and her breast. Those hips seem to have nothing to do here, though; like a sculptor fucked (with the proportions). Large. Massive. So is her ass. But it doesn't lower his excitment. Quite the contrary. He feels like fucking her doggy-style and cumming all over that huge ass of hers. Thinking of it he got half a boner. Hope his girlfriend's not gonna notice. She feels everything and got good eyes... and yes, she's walking by her side. They're best friends... See the question coming, « why not a threesome? » Well, the answer's simple: he don't wanna fuck with the devil no more... He's about to leave and she got no clue. But for now he's just gritting his teeth and enjoying the view. So is his best friend, also in the group. He plans on screwing Scarlett and his odds are good... except that he's a few bucks short to buy her dinner. Unfortunately there's nothing he can do for him (he wants Casper to give him a break and got just enough money for this.) But Scarlett is fine with it. Like, she's really fine with it. But Casper is not. (Casper is for her heavily white powdered face, plus she's really about to become a ghost to him.) « How is it possible not to have 20 bucks? », she asks in a demeaning voice. And he finally gets why she never sucked him good: she always had that silver spoon in her mouth.
(…) Let me ask you “do you believe in God?” I bet you reply “nope, but He believes in me.” (…)
He sees the dead and talks to them... Or he's got access to an other dimension? Anyways he doesn’t care about the living of this world, except when he needs a cigarette or change... which are things that the dead have not and would make the alarm of any inter-dimensional portal ring, and it’d shut. And that’d be a shame if it did… He always walks the same streets, rolling his caddie, in deep conversation with a friend or many. And just as we can’t see them, we can not hear them. He’s probably fine with it, as he speaks in a low voice, almost whispering and constantly catching his breath as those long walks wear on him. He must be pretty old now, though no one can determine his age. I’ve been told he’s been going for that very same walk for at least twenty five years. Some people say that he looked pretty handsome back then. But now only his eyes of a nice clear blue, gazing, can prove it. Between two red hanging cheeks, his small mouth breathes a sigh as he takes a break on the same little square next to the cathedral. His favourite spot to approach people walking by and ask for the precious stuff. In general, cigarettes are given more easily than change. Maybe it's why the caddie is always empty. Unless it is full of the unseen... A black hole inside a used and dirty canvas bag on wheels. Maybe this is the portal.
“Do not say the word. It’s not suicide. They must not know. We say it’s a heart attack. And pray for no one to freak out”. (The truth is he hung himself and it was no impulse.) He planned it, buying the rope a couple days before. And the truth is it did not surprise us at all. We could see it coming though we didn’t know him that much. He was family yet a stranger. Even to his wife and daughters. A caring shade. You could feel the distance even in his sweet voice whose constant monochord tone indicated he never really was into the conversation. So, I always thought he was permanently dreaming of his real life and missing it. Life he should have lived. In couple with a nice man, at peace with himself, forgetting about those who’d judge him. And letting go. (Eventually taking an amused look back at the introverted little boy he was, who knew he’d never suit that “man of the family” costume he was “destined to wear”.) Well, it’s (just) my firm conviction. He didn’t leave a note, so... at his funeral, the ones in need of an answer turned to the priest. But father just said “do not wonder why”; not sure it helped.
Sitting on a bench, looks like she’s waiting. Just like me. So I walk to her & ask “are we here for the same thing? Car sharing?” She says “yes” and smiles, nice smile despite these spots around her lip. “They should be here real soon”... And her phone rings. They are actually already here. “Their car is right there”, she points. Small. And packed. A boy and a girl step out, announced by their fragrances… I got nothing but a small bag, bench-girl carries her life on her back. It's visible, yet the goldenboy asks “Are you carrying anything with you? Any luggage, guys?” Like, he hopes we’re gonna say “no” and drop our stuff, so he won’t have to bother trying to make some room. “Santa’s been good to us, our trunk is kinda full”, he says. I really don’t like them. But I like their dog. His name is Guacamole. If he could speak, I bet he’d say “why this name, you idiots?!” And that is the only good question, but the idiots prefer to politely ask about our jobs and the rest: boring. Still, we politely reply before bench-girl pretends to care about them (and God... it's boring). They’ve just graduated. Freshly out of business school. “Time to get a job”, boy says. To that, I reply “the party now begins”... but it doesn’t make them laugh, (not even) politely. No.
We eat plastic. In the 22nd Century, we eat plastic. They found a way to make us digest it. They found a way to make us love it. Plastic crisps are cheaper than classic ones. Plastic sandwiches come into plastic packs we can eat as well. Oh God, it's so good. We eat plastic everyday. Every meal. Plastic, all life long.
Blurry but I remember the first night. I remember that creepy bar and that we kissed a lot. And how lucky and proud I felt to take the hostel hottest girl out, away from some twats that would not give you a break. I saw you desperate to escape, so I showed up and said “let’s get the fuck out of here, my dear”. I had never spoken to you before and yet you left your seat… (The day after we had coffee then a mellow afternoon in Prospect Park: we sat down in the grass and just talked and stared at each other. We didn’t kiss at all during the day, though we could feel how bad we wanted to.) Back to our sober and shy selves, but we knew by night we’d be all right. That is why to stop drinking was not an option back then, for it was my only way to get into the “Life Club”. So our last night was a drinking lesson to the Yankees by a French and an Aussie. (Wasted again on May 27, at 5:00 am. And horny but) unable to close the deal (thanks to the presence of a roommate and an architectural lack of privacy.) “Is this how it’s supposed to end?” I’d wonder on my way back, through (Avenue A, Varet Street, JFK, Dublin then Paris…) How is this supposed to end? I was stupid…
HÖNÖNÖ ! 02:37
It was a fucking nightmare. Had never felt so much like getting out of somewhere, (witnessing) a new colonialism: hippies turned into landlords. For three days we'd just be fucked up the ass with extra ice and crushed glass. What’s the point in keeping it nice with greedy bastards? Every time I expressed my resentment I was set aside. Those guys had no pride. No guts and balls. It was all ripped off and put on the table as a sign of submission. It's new colonialists against desperate people and no one is reliable, they all want to fuck you in any way. So I'm like a giant open wallet... but take a look closer, see how empty I am… There’s nothing I can do for you and certainly won’t pay for your fucking bill! Are you kidding me?! I didn’t even have one drink! “You have to pay for the Hönönö!” Oh no, no… Fuck you! I won’t pay to fuck your girlfriend, just leave me alone! She’s not even your girlfriend, look at you man… And I won’t talk to that guy, they call him “Da Bitch”, but we’re (actually) his’.
The invasion will only happen on your invitation. You are the host so you get to choose who sleeps in the guestroom. Don’t let him in. Stay away. And keep away. I have to deal with a living trouble, please don’t get involved. He doesn’t see the harm he does, or doesn’t want to. The only perspective he got is just his point of view. He is a victim, don’t be his. We won’t be the next ruins he likes to wander through. You still had the bitter taste of loss in mind, yet he looked into your eyes and said “you have no idea how low I feel”. So, no mercy for the fool and the spoiled. No mercy for the selfish and the liar. Just have mercy on the few who still stand by him day and night but don’t remember why…
Republic Street, all I see there brings tears to my eye. Foolishness, misery and despair. Greed and ignorance, frenesia of useless actions, a mix of slavery and idleness. Everyone's on a mission down there : spend or save but keep walking this street endlessly, frustrated not to feel, frustrated not to be. On Republic Street some starve but they will look good, others stuff themselves with void, exploring the abyss of unlimited consumerism. (Now) I remember : me and the lads, adventures we had all over our dying empires, our lives. And now I see the blanks. No one there to fill them and I won't. I don't want to... Then I see this kiddo, (holding) a plastic up in her hand, begging. And next to her, her parents stuck on a bench, drunk and making out. A bottle slips out of the woman's hand and as the man grabs her right boob, she moans. The kid's staring at me, we tacitly agree : Life's a bitch and then you die.


released October 12, 2017

All songs composed, arranged and performed by Alabaster except "Our Dying Empires..." by Alabaster, Pierre Bozonnet, Guillemette Serve & Camille Henner. Recorded and mixed by Laurent Saussol, with additional recording by Bruno Germain. Mastered by Umair Chaudhry.
Album artwork & layout by CPG, cover shot by Th. Dantil.

ALABASTER: Pierrick Marin (guitars), Rémi Dulaurier (drums), Damien Debard (bass), Thomas Dantil (vocal & lyrics, additional guitars)

Bigoût Records:
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ALABASTER Lyon, France

A mix of noise, hardcore, punk and metal performed by current and former members of Overmars, Sofy Major, Geneva and Kiruna.

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