She writes like the numbers that follow one another, in rhythm and urgency, she writes for the living a language that is addressed to the last ranks. She, Lisette Lombé, apparently seated on the armchair of En Sol Majeur.
But appearances are no longer what they used to be, especially since this cross-border slammer (that’s her word), protest-performer (that’s mine), erotically committed and poetically militant, since she was born in a crab basket called the world. A basket located for Lisette Lombe between Brussels and Kinshasa, between a feeling of belgitude and a congolitude to question. It’s starting to be a habit: we quote it, we claim it, because we read it: The magic of burnout, black words, We don’t apologize for anything, Hold, Venus poetica until the last ones burn burn burn And Child poets
The musical choices of Lisette Lombé
Mass Attack Unfinished Sympathy
Kae Tempest thirtysomething
Of the‘ree I‘m kissing you