French territory. On Friday the 8th of November, a 22-year-old student set himself on fire in front of the Lyon CROUS. He is still at this moment in an artificial coma.
Students quickly mobilised, especially in Paris and Lyon, in support and to denounce precariousness. It was also a question of continuing to carry the message of this student, who wanted to target “a political location of the Ministry of Higher Education and Research”. The mobilization continues. Actions and events are still planned this week.
On this Monday, we publish the following poem.
Precariousness kills. And everything still burns. Your roads, your buildings, your symbols of power and our bodies.
Because we suffocate, we lack air. We are suffocating from your austerity, your political measures, your budget cuts, your tear gas. We are dying from the new world, from its authority draped in a velvet costume, from its felted baton, from its horizon darker than the fire of a barricade. We vomit up its start-ups, its self-entrepreneurial exploitation, its dead from work, its exhausting and empty career plans, its smooth metropolises, its virtual desires, its self-control and its uniforms.
Everything is fracturing and we look forward to the great earthquake that will come to cause havoc. To overturn this dismal world that turns a student into fire of anger. Who blinds and mutilates. Who arrogantly kills the children of a neighbourhood, or more insidiously, in the empty corridors of a school late at night.
We scorn your labour laws, your post-secondary school procedures, your pension reforms, your evictions, your facial profiling, your state of emergency. We spit on your political parties, your fascist editorialists and your indignation of circumstance; on your world as pathetic as a Cnews television stage; on your institutions of control, on your tracking of the unemployed, on your racist reflexes.
We have become allergic to uniforms, allergic to your shitty authority. We are tired of your language effects, of your sick habit of clearing yourselves, of your communication specialists. We wonder who still dares to take you seriously.
Who is still surprised by mortar fire and wars in the palace? Who is still astonished at the Fouquet’s burnt down, the triumphal arches ransacked, the doors of government smashed in? What is there that is surprising before so much obscenity.
Our desires are fluorescent yellow tides, a Champs-Elysées alive, blocked universities, self-managed restaurants, the radical lead of demonstrations, communes on roundabouts. We will not let ourselves die from nuisances, precariousness and despair. We want rich and exhilarating lives exhilarating. We will shake your presidencies with rage in our stomachs. And our strikes will extinguish your morbid normality.
Precariousness kills. And from Chile to Lebanon, the street shakes tyrants. Everywhere, we take to the streets as devils in the flesh. Everywhere we commit ourselves, we rage, we taste joy. And the bullets whistle and the bodies fall and the bodies burn. Consumed. And the drop of water becomes a torrent and collective intelligence is making its way for the assault on heaven.
We want everything now. Fire and joy. We have already expected too much from this sick society that has been convulsing for so many years already. We will not yield to blackmail or fear or depression. We take the risk of overthrowing everything and then to look at what is behind. We have finished waiting for celestial realms and final revolutions. We want incandescent dawns. We want to be able to cry, laugh and love each other and above all, to never again immolate ourselves.
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