UNFINISH MATTERS. How strange, I spend a lifetime writing poetry, short stories and novels but when it comes to write my own story, I feel paralysed. Is this what they call, the writer bloke? Alternatively, I might just afraid to tell the true. One thing is sure, I have no fear of copyright be stolen, after all, who would be insane enough, to steals or wish to borrow my past? Yes, I guess this is the beginning of my autobiography. I am neither old nor about to drop dead in a near future, hopefully… But the need to speak or should I says to let out the passing years has come finally Where do you start? I guess that after speaking to some close friends I felt it was the right time to let out the true expose himself. I know myself it will not be very logical or neat more to the point, a labyrinth of memories that hopefully in the end will make sense. I think the best introduction would be to says, what doctors told me in the past, which is; I am a miracle to be alive today, at the age of thirty-five years old. Why? Well in a nutshell this is in few sentence the beginning of my fairy tale (be aware that I am rather sarcastic) as far those tales were written for children’s books! I was born from a young mum, who got pregnant at the tender age of sixteen by a man call my father who suffers from an alcohol problem. My father was violent, so far nothing that extraordinary, how many peoples had an alcoholic’s father? We spend the first ten years of my life living in total fear. Beating and while I do not particularly feel comfortable with the word torture, I cannot find a better adjective to describe what become common practices. As long I as remember I lived in total fear and become completely secluded in my own world as a mechanism of self-defence to escape the daily reality of everyday life. How did I escape the ugly world that I submit too? By being creative. My first memory! I would comeback from school and if my mother open the door looking at me and giving me our secret signal, which was an expression of anguish and fear and her face, I would not speak and keep quiet so not to aggravated the situation and hopefully hoping for my father not to start a tantrum, which would soon become a living hell… If my mother opens the door and smile, which happen, rarely we had a chance not to suffer from the madness that by then control both of us by the man, who I call my father. by the age of five after one too many episode of violence, my father throw me and my mother on the street in the middle of the night, I guess there was no stars that evening. Mum calls my grandparents who came to pick us in the middle of the night. It could have been the end of a long torture road but instead a policeman persuade my mother after speaking to my father to give him a chance, after he had apparently swear to stop drinking. Therefore, we did comeback and so he did stop drinking, or so we believe! For a while he did, from the little I remember, but soon, my mother realised something was not quite right and find out behind the walls of the toilette, a bottle of Ricard and water + glass. After being caught and confronted it, there was no need for him to hide anymore and the second part of the movie carry on. From five years old to ten years old. My mother was working in a factory and so was my father who was a “pied noir” (from an Algerian dad and French mother). All my souvenirs are fills with horror from then on. I, always wanted a dog and to both my mum and me, one Saturday morning dad came back with a puppy, my first dog call Miranna, a little mongrel. One of the happiest moments of my life. I remember very clearly the day he came back with that furry ball of life. We spend a while searching for a name for her. She was a dream come true. After this, I can only recall fragment of violence’s and screams My father was working different shifts, sometimes it would be at works during the day for a couple of weeks and then he would be working at night and comeback in the mornings. As for me, by then I had started to go to primary school. From then on life became a living hell. All I can remember is the crisis. when I was not at school and left with my father I remember being beaten very badly one day after having being naughty and broken a window in some neitboorhood building. My punishment was dad kicks me so hard, I was lying on the floor of the kitchen and the kick was so hard that I was throwing into the living room by the force of the impact. I hide in our closet of our flat until my mum would comeback from work by fear to be beaten. One day, when Miranna was still a puppy he took my metal ruler of my school bag and beat the dog, I think it was the first time I started to block my memories, I do remember it happen, but have very little visual souvenirs of the event except the scream and the cry of the dog. I do not remember anyone coming to our flat for ten years. I guess by then we had become prisoners of his illness. The violence escalated to delirium crisis due to the amount of alcohol my father by then was drinking, I might be wrong but if right by then , my dad was drinking by then a one bottle of Ricard a day + some bottle wines. My mum when present would always put herself between him and me and get the beating. I would go to bed and shake like a leafs in some empty winter nights, listening the tears and the screams of my mum, sometimes my dogs would come hiding in my room. Strange episodes which I do not remember the right orders; One night, while we were eating another argument started, I was holding my head with one hand and before I realised what happen, my father stab me with a fork. Another time, after realising, I was not wearing my slipper; my father broke a plate on the floor and made me fetch them by walking on the broken pieces of glass. I do remember my mother begging him not to do so. It was too late the madness was part of the routine and as far as we knew there was no escape anymore. One has to remember my mother was till in her twenties by then and domestic violence if one can call this such as… Was not taken seriously. My first impression of the world! One night dad when completely ballistic and jump on my mother and started to push her through the window ( it is important to mention by then we were living in some council estate = if my father had is way, I would probably be without any mum by now), so I run downstairs and making a guess, I must have been around 8 or 9 by then, I was screaming outside downstairs, I could see my mother body being half way about to falls, I look and I shall never forget what I saw! A neighbour no doubts which heard my screams open his windows to shut his shutters! So much for helping… Suddenly there was a noise and my mother was back in the flat. By the time I run back upstairs in our flat, my mother has managed to have the upper hand, while my father was trying to push her through the windows he lost his balance and she managed to take control. all I remember is walking in a kitchen and see blood spot on the walls, my mum was hysterical and told me, if he was not for me, she would have kill him. I think he was the first time we won the battle! There was the episode when my father forces himself sexually on my mother on the kitchen table (no comment). The last night… I came back from school and by the look of my mother opening the door I gather more atrocities would be on the table that night. I think by then, it did not matter, we knew he had drunk himself silly during the afternoon, which means we were up for more slaughter. Therefore, he did! One of my father fetishes by then was to smash alarm clocks a soon as we wake up, believing in his madness that while it was only 6pm, he would be persuaded it he was past bedtime and would started breaking anything, which was the night the door of the wardrobe in their room was destroyed. I forgot to mention my father was quite a strong man, he had being in the parachutist in the army and still had lot of strength in him, despise years of abuse. He woke up and stared to dismantle the wardrobe with rage. As usual, my mum and I kept very quiet, as we both knew by then; if one of us says a word, it would be the perfect introduction for more violence. He came to the kitchen and I was paralysed by fear, I stand still. He took a bottle of water and started to pour water over my head, laughing. This was the final straw. I do not remember much except that night he was supposed to go to work nightshifts. The escape. As soon as he left for work , which if I am right would be around 10 pm, my mother packs what she could and calls my grand- parents to come as soon as possible. By then it was obvious our life was hanging by a tread. Therefore, finally we left. Suitcase, kid and the dog. My grandparents came and this was the beginning of a new life. By the next morning, we had found a refuge for mum to live in, while me and my dog would stay with them in a small village, where they lived and still do. By no means, this is few and between episodes of ten years. This is a simple introduction. I have to almost force myself not to falls into poetry or pretty sentences on the page. While it will be essential to go more into deeper details above the brief examples have just mentions, it would be nice to think life became easy and from then on I became the perfect citizen but I would lies if I had says so… This was the introduction to what I was about to calls my life. Nevertheless, before I finish this chapters, I would like to speculate few points which I beleive are extremely important! Please do not think I am searching for sympathy or pity! No, the two most important things who come to my mind right now is; -1, I think it is the time to speak or should I say to write for my own sanity. -2, if my story can help one person it would have been all worth it… As for this minute, I do wish one thing, a happy conclusion. COPYRIGHT@2006.H.N.MARGOT.

CV POUR INTERNEMENT. ATTENTION ! Si vous êtes de l espèces humaines qui prend ombrage aux fautes d autographes, arrêté de lire tout de suite ! Vous aller vous abimer les yeux. Si vous êtes de nature à aimer “Charles Buskosky” écrivain dégénérer, las vous aller peut être apprécié…? Et encore…. Alors on va commencer par les présentations ou les excuses vous choisissez ? Moi, personnellement je m en fout. Moi, j aime inviter les mots, parce que le langage universelle n a qu’une langue et croyez moi j en essayer pas mal tester dans mon haleine ! Ok, on recommence en évitant le sordide, humm. Mon nom est Herve Dit Margot, les anges n ont pas de sexe. J ais eu le plaisir de grandir dans une petite ville française que l on appelle Troyes. A 15 ans, boulot. Je détestais la discipline française et sous le déguisement scolaire, la torture et la façon que nos chers professeurs nous flinguaient tous espoir et future ! Espérant que la situation scolaire et l éducation française s est améliorer ? Les présentations s est chiant. Jusqu’ a l âge de 10 ans vécut dans une zup, père alcolo aux crises de delirium. Mère qui aurait put être ma sœur. 10 ans de secret, mais surtout 10 ans priver de la parole par peur de représailles. Comme toutes les familles abusées, personne ne venait nous visiter, a par les grands parents. Jusqu’ a ce jours, je ne suis pas surs, s ils connaissaient la prison dans laquelle maman et moi vivions. Ok, j imagine ce que vous penser, il se plaint, pas du tout, j ais passer l âge de pleurer, si t`elle chose excite de toute façon ! Non, la Pieter ne m intéresse pas, je m en suis sortis sans. Par contre si tu masturbe mon esprit tu vas gagner la loterie ! A 14 ans hôpital spychiatrique (je reviendrais sur le sujet). Non, je ne suis pas fous au sens du mot, juste sensible, le monde me dégoutait, les gens m écœuraient, la société sentais mauvaise. A 18 ans, j avais réussit à faire mon petit record après avoir lut, des bouquins très ensorcelant, comme “Christiane F, 13 ans droguer prostituer etc.…. Bref, une inspiration attirante. L herbe Bleu bien sur, et tout le reste… Vous avez comprit un peu, le scenario, je pense. 18 ans = trois lavages d estomac (putain, je ne conseille pas, s est douloureux la mort lente). Trois jours dans le coma, perdu à Marseille city. Mais le mec a la barbe en haut avait d autre projets, autrement il n aurait pas décidé de me réveiller ? Vous ne croyez pas ? Niveau baise. Alors las pas mal non plus, gosse j aimais me promener sur les trottoirs, s est marrant comme les voitures s arrête pour vous aider….mais bon, sa va bien de s offrir comme une fleur faner ! Un jour faut bien les faire payer ! Alors, pour célébrer la mort de mon père, ayant déjà déménagé sur ma petite ile ou on parle le pas le français. J ais reçus un télégramme, “ téléphone, s est à propos de ton père…” Finalement on avait quand même réussit a ce barrer en pleine nuit avec la mère et la chienne Mirana, quand j avais 10 ans. Faut dire, qui ne restait plus beaucoup de portes d armoires a arracher ou des réveils a éclater contre les murs, mais ce qui commençait a faire flipper, se n`étais même plus la frappe, on s`y était bien habituer, mais le faite que quand je rentrais de l école a 6 heures et que cher papa commençait à délirer persuader qu`il était 11 heures du soir, et qu`il petais un câble, c est sur que l ont a commencer a se poser la question si on n’allait pas être la prochaine porte de l armoire ? Après tout, on avait déjà eu droit à la violence domestique. Le gosse qui s enfermait dans des placards quand la mère étais au travail, la boucle de la ceinture et le reste qu’il vaut mieux garder dans les tombeaux du passer… Alors, quand il a commencé à vider de l eau sur ma tète en rigolant, le déclic s est fait ! Il est partit a l usine, et nous on a fait nos clic et nos clac. Les grand parents sont venu me chercher et maman c`est retrouver dans un foyer pour jeune fille. Quand a moi ? Tu parles d un choc ! La transition de la ville a la campagne ou il n y a même pas un magasin, c est brutal. Malgré tout, il a les souvenirs agréables comme la boulangère qui délivrait le pain a la même heure, dans sa petite camionnette. J entend encore le clac sonne… A comme j aimais cette vielle France. Toute cette petite chose en voit d extinctions ! Macdonald a tout entuber et on est tous coupable ! Qui n a pas bouffer, un morceau de carton avec un morceau d excrément a l intérieur, et une sauce chimique, au gout de tomate ? J aimais bien, le petit camion qui passait de village en village pour chercher les enfants, pour les emmener a l école… Sa me rappelle ces roulottes au couleur flamboyante avec des sirènes bien lugubres, qui passaient dans nos zup, pour nous annoncer que le marchant de bonbons était las. “Maman, ta pas 1 francs ?” Je me demande combien sont en taule pour abus sexuels de nos jours ? -« tu veux un bonbon mon petit ? Approche… « Candy Man…haha. C est noir comme humour mais faut ou on se fout une balle dans la tète ! Prenons une bouffe d air. Revenant à la bonne campagne française, elle me manque, c est marrant, comme la nature peut transformer une personne. Il est vrai que sans exagérer, les villes sont des nids à vipères pour gens névrotiques ! Si vous enfermer des exclus de la société ensemble, dans des cages a lapins, sa va faire des porter de petits déformées ! Ma grand mère elle faisait l élevage de lapin elle aussi. Mais bon, il y avait quelque chose de sain, quand elle passait le couteau dans leurs gorges…. Et puis, la campagne s est remplit de surprise, un jour on égorge un lapino. Le lendemain, on donne naissance a un veau….et puis bien sur il y a la chasse au grillions, souvenir doux a l âme, je doute que pour le pauvre insecte c`était une autre histoire ! Les soirs d étés a cherché des fées mystérieuses, qu’on appelle des vers luisants. Fidele compagnes de rêves d`enfants. Bref, je viens de réaliser, s est plus une introduction, mais un prologue pour jeunes qui cherche l internement ! Alors on a vas essayer de recommencer, je sais je suis exaspérant. Mais comme peuvent en témoigner mes amies/amis, je pars peut être dans tout les sens, mais je retrouve toujours ma route littéraire. Est ce le faite d être dyslexique/dyspraxique ? Cela a mit longtemps à saisir, que ce que j`imaginais être une faiblesse était ma force, ma puissance & jouissance ! J écris avec mon sang et je tape avec mes couilles ! L esprit malheureusement il y a bien lonptemps qu’il s est perdus dans des déserts à poursuivre des mirages ! Bon aller Herve écrit les ses mots, plutôt que d essayer de te cacher derrière ta poesie douteuse. A 18 ans, j étais droguer par ces bon médecins français, me mutilait avec des lames de rasoirs, avait vécut dans un garage pendant 2 ans, avait été violé a paris et après 3 lavage d estomac, avait finalement réussit à tomber dans le coma Au réveil, une semaine amnésique parsemer de quelque fragment de rencontres sexuelles très bizarres… Cela a mit un petit bout de temps à réaliser que quelque chose n`était pas très catholique. Avec recul, une enfance assez ordinaire. Je pense que le réveil a sonner quand j avais 18 ans, et que je venais d être libérer encore une fois d un hôpital psychiatrique, après avoir été interner pendant 9 mois, il faut dire que la grève de la faim, et être anémique, a part bouffer des cachetons, c est pas le meilleur des commencement dans la vie. Et puis las j étais partis déjà bien loin. Mes amies/amis, étaient aussi défoncer ou encore plus grave que moi, et cela veut dire quelque chose ! Recul en arrière… Copainville, pas mal pour le nom d un foyer ! Refuge pour jeune déglingué… Je n arrive pas a trouver une meilleur description ? Alors las j ais sauter pas mal d étapes, je dois admettre ! Mais bon, je suis sur, comme tout mes histories on y reviendra plus tard et comme un puzzle, les pièces se mettront en place ! Aller assez de français douteux, je préfère l anglais…mais bon de temps en temps, l indulgence de la langue natale me manque…. On verra si on a envie de continuer ses mémoires qui ressemblent plus à un labyrinthe ou moi-même je me suis perdu ! Mauvaise autobiographie a démêlé ! A suivre si vous y arriver !
COPYRIGHT@2006.H.N.MARGOT.

« 15 JANUARY 2006 » Sunday mornings are funny little bubbles from one week to the next. one can experience some very unusual contrast, like some loose painting left outside which the weather would have took great pleasure to re-model to his moods! My mood of this morning is neither sad nor happy, anyway, as far as I am concern all this terms are useless. What I mean is; -1- When the poison kicks in, I shall be embrace by the superficial arms of xanax, and left believe I am ok… There is no tear, I have none left! I just simply wish this god damned awful feelings of fear and anxiety accomplice of my morning would go away without having to falls into this abyss of some unscrupulous physician, who don’t give a damned really and just pump me up with the most powerful psychotropic drugs on the markets, hoping to shut me up! I would think… there is many doctor “Shipman” out there ladies and gentlemen! Well it seems, my body strive on this little sweeties for the brain. While i have try for the past 3 months to find help, somebody to whisper me a sweet word or gave me a sincere hand to grab me from the ever so close holy hole I am seating on the edge off. But each time is the same story, the same comment! In less then a month I was told 3 times, I was a miracle of science! Apparently after being in touch with various specialists and organisations, who treat this kind of dependence on medications, I am the first person it seems whom is on such high dosage! Let alone, when I told them, I just finish my degree in June (pass with first class honour) and work 50 hours a week! I think I nearly kill that poor lady from shock! I imagine, she believe I was calling from a hospital bed with glazy eyes… COPYRIGHT@2006.H.N.MARGOT.

THE SUN It is a perfect day to feel a little morbid… The wind fills the ears of the trees with painful melodies And tears of the sky fill their being with long forgotten sorrow! The earth shakes with tremor, like a sobbing body, The ground opens, with a hideous smile, Dribbling with red glowing spit, Waiting to swallow some hazardous victim…. Tornadoes are dancing, deadly ballet of nature, Taking to their frenzy, anyone to their fancy! Leaving the stage empty, apart from the spotlight of the thunder And the dying sound of the storm…. The rain will wash away the last remain, witness of his beauty. Behind the great shadow, the sun is waiting to take the stage And rob his friends of the applause again…
COPYRIGHT@2006.H.N.MARGOT.

THE MEANING OF LIFE, WHAT IS U TALKING ABOUT?

The sinner in me reflects upon what we call life, I suppose…
What is life?
So many intellectuals have tried to put some label upon an empty word.
Yes of course, we could used all kind of nouns, adjectives etc…such as;
-nature, freedom of mind, breathing, warm, opening your eyes in the morning light, enlighten, family, emotions, feelings ( not quite the same) and so much more…
What a waste of time, life is what we make of it.

I guess my gut feeling is, my life is what I have achieve so far but then again, call it ironic, is what I have experiences so far.
Let see:

-from the tender age of innocence (1-10).
-being beaten while mother is at works, with knuckle belt, hiding in placard.
-by 7 learn to take my trouser down so i won`t be bullied at school.
-a drunk abusive father, a neurotic mother, traumatise so I wet my bed till 11 years old, divorce, running away in the middle of the night so we may not be kill by my paternal when he got back from work.
- living in perpetual fear.

10 to 11 years old.-

-Tribunal put me in my grand-parents care till the city council gave my mother a new place to live.
- My mum coming to visit me every week ends by train.
- Discovering the countryside.
- Being close to my cousin (same age, brother` daughter of my mum).

- 11 to 12 years old.

-Molested.

-12 to 18 years old.

-moving back with my mum.
-stop wetting my bed.
- starting to listen to the Cure and become a fanatic of Robert Smith lyrics.
-looking like Robert smith!
-meeting my ex-girlfriend, Christelle.
-being bullied.
- realising something about my sexuality.
- start working at 15.-live in a garage from 15 to 17 years old.
- Rape in Paris.
-hate working in hospitality.
-being put at the age of 15 on medications, mostly benzodiazepines.
- Depression
-suicide attempts, 3 to be precise, cry of help?
- Overdose in medications, in a coma for 3 days.
-loss all…
-put in a psychiatric unit for 9 months
-put again in psychiatric unit for 1 week.
- Mother can’t cope, finding a job or out!
- find ads in the newspaper for a job in the UK.
-move to Leatherhead, surrey.

18 to 30 years old.

- First boyfriend.
-First time making “real” love.
-father died when 19.
-Christelle commits suicide age 22.RIP.
- become a top hooker in various agency, under age (19).
- sugar daddy,famous priest in london.( the pervert has picture of himself shaking hand with the queen , that the real one! hanging in his flat)
- stuck in the past.
- Punk and new wave.
- Pet rat.
- learning the true meaning of friendship.
- become addicted to psychotropic drugs and methadone.
-detoxify for 15 weeks in the Mausdley hospital at 23.
- cut out all contact with my family except for my little brother.
- write endless letter to mother, never post them.
- Finally post letter to mum for my soon to be, 30 birthday.
-mum come to my birthday.
- become popular in the circus of show byzzzzzzz.
- Endless party with A-list (not impress)
- saw Cure many times; still think the guy is one of the best lyrist of this century.
-suicide attempts.
- stop self mutilating.
-6 years of intense therapy.
- start working in Tony and guy.
-turn my life around.
- take the decision to work part time, to get back into creativity.
- applied to university.
- do a BTEC, pass with merit.

30 till today…

- got accepted to do a degree.
- pass my degree first class while working week end.
- meet my angel, falls madly in love.
- take my lover in France.
-feeling rather happy for the first time.
- Relationship breakdown.
-back on medications.
-diagnosed with anxiety disorder and OCD.
- bought my first dog.
- got two dogs.
- buy my flat.
- Still after 5 years no recover from the breakdown of my relationship.
- put on heavy medications till now.
- Insomniac.
- computer GEEKS.
- battle each day to find the desire to breaths.
- work in a salon till I get a job in my study, 50 hours a week, sweat shop!
- hoping for love?
- won’t quit! For the sake of my dogs and family.
- start a BLOG, why?
-2006- Determined to see the light I once met.
- No happy, not unhappy…stable.
- write; make animation (my degree in digital arts).
- bought pygmy marmoset, cute and loveable.
- waiting for mister right!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
- had fit in june, serious.
- wish impossible things...
- prescribe barbituriques (TUINAL)+ xanax + valium to sleep & functioned.(meaning still working 50 hours a week)
- still despise years of abuse a sexy mother fucker;-)
- want to stop meds this year!
- start some heathly lifestyle, one step atthe time.
-stop smoking for the past 2 weeks!
- feeling like coming from along way, starting only this year to realise my acheivement.
- still no in bed! 3.44AM.

To be following….

ANGER Elise gives a cold kiss to the angel, ready to break his wings… “Let me take you to the land of broken dreams, where no fears equal the horrific reality! A place, which I have, learns to love to avoid the bitter disappointment of faith. Faith a word as empty as my heart felt today…” “Love is only a state of mind, a excuse for loneliness, the most hypocritical form of relationship. My kisses for you as naked of lies, pure as air.” Elise holds the angel closely. “You walk through lands of emptiness, filling yourself with silly beliefs, hoping for better. Hope doesn’t belong down here! A basic emotion made by simple mortals. Grab all the pleasure you can and extract the essence of it, without expecting for more. Look at me angel, I am the perfect living creature…” Elise senses the warmth of the angel. “When friends and family turn to ashes, you fall deeper into some abyss of faith, blind of hypocrisy, too afraid to face the holy hollow, the divine emptiness of life, the beauty of space…” Elise caresses the angel’s face with icy fingers. “Fly to your god, before my anger break your wings, tell him I do not want his love. Regrets and sympathies are too late. I have learn to grow my own flowers from my private darkness where his divine light never came upon me!” COPYRIGHT@2006.H.N.MARGOT.

AUTOPSY OF THE NIGHT. 4 am, there is no escape, U knows u life is here, Far below and crush from above! U better hopes and prays, Co`s when they sleep at night, They don’t hear u cry … Each day vanishes… When….??? Would the moon embrace me for good? I am so empty! COPYRIGHT@2006.H.N.MARGOT.

ROCK AND ROLL Rock and roll is destroyed, fuck that shitty society, suck cock and enjoy it! Rock and roll make me shiver with pleasure, make me wanna kill and let them beg for mercy! Rock and roll is quizzing life to the last drop and spit it out into the face of some degenerated Western society, fuck it all and ask for more, filling my hole with more pleasure and laugh in everyone’s face! Rock and roll is saying, “Fuck you” from the pit of my guts and means it! Rock and roll is purity, sainthood, brotherhood, motherhood and love, far from the evil scum I see each day! Rock and roll is screwing the system, before it screws you! Eat it, smoke it, drink it, fuck it and leave the garbage to the looser! Rock and roll is anger, fear of injustice, real pain from children’s hearts! Rock and roll makes me want to live, makes me breathe, like a vital link between my soul and my body! Rock and roll is an ideal, a melancholy, a sweet caress, in some lonely night. It is the light, which fills my shadow. Rock and roll is my Buddha, my fight to true beauty, my search to nirvana, my belief, my hopes, and my dreams! Rock and roll is my power, the essence of my darkness, the pit of my inflicted nightmares! Rock and roll is my art, my creative god, the eye who guides me, my cock, my flesh, my blood, my bones! Rock and roll is my prayer. Amen. COPYRIGHT@2006.H.N.MARGOT.

INFATUATION. Lust has touch my soul, To embrace my body ever so tightly… Love has departed, To leave my heart free again… My flesh is in fire, My bones witness… As my colon, Call for satisfaction! Depravation has no name or face, But simply tickle my spine, Running through my head, As a complete infatuation Battle of the titans, I merge myself, Hoping for one night, Pleasure and pain… Those are the name of my game, Those are the weapons of my fate, Lust and love merging together, Recipe of the dancing devil… Toads dancing on my hair, Singing my future goodbyes, Hoping for the magic kiss, To turn unto a prince. Maybe one day, Sweet lullaby, Whisper to me, More melancholic memories… COPYRIGHT@2006.H.N.MARGOT.