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Niemand is een eiland

 

Er moet een gedicht komen 
Over ejaculatie en calculatie
Over leven vol hartvet
De optelsom van 52 jaar oorpijn
Levenslang dichten op
De trampoline van de dood

Etiquette, etiketten de droefenis
van copyrette schudden we van ons af

We doen daarom nog eenmaal
Samen de Knausgard of Murakami

De pikken staan reeds in
straatnamen rechtop geschreven

Van de Hi ha hi ho , doe de Nobel!
Of de ha hi 
ho, de noblesse

We horen luid koren zingen 
‘For Whom the Bell Tolls’
Voor jou, mijn vriend

Wist je dat Uruguay het Zwitserland
Van Latijns-Amerika genoemd wordt

Ik wil in Montevideo zijn
Jij Cavani ik Suárez

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la rosa enflorece

de tijd is slechts een plooi
waarin de dode zanger
in zijn zwijgen drukt de lippen
op de petalen van de roos,

het zachte niets, zijn eeuwigheid

 

 

 

 

de roos bloeit open
in de maand mei
mijn ziel verduistert
van de liefdespijn.

de nachtegalen zingen
in de liefdesstruiken
moordend is de passie:
oneindig is mijn pijn

kom, kom sneller Duif
kom sneller naar mij
kom sneller, ziel van mij:
ik sterf hier van de pijn.

thooooaaheeeEEEEedzZjud

LA ROSA ENFLORECE

La rosa enflorece
o en el mez de Mayo,
mi alma s’escurece
sufriendo del amor

Los bililicos cantan
en el arbol del amor
y la pasión me mata,
muchigua mi dolor.

màs presto ven Palomba,
màs presto ven a mi,
màs presto tu mi alma,
que yo me vo morir.

[text from a sephardic romance]

Our poetic impulse, our strongest intuition is to affirm life against any limitation, including, especially, in view of the countless historical disasters, religious reductionism of the free spirit to a transcendentally cloaked discourse of power.

Any affirmation of life precludes the affirmation of death plus the annihilation of consciousness, the improperness of any ‘after-life’, that can only be envisioned as a ghastly never-ending torment of pseudo-completion, as well as the idiocy of religious idolatry, personal god-creations, the attribution of uneasing troubles to demoniac forces etc, although one needs to be lenient on purely ‘practical’ moral grounds, however little such leniency may have to be in accordance with a truly ethical position.

I mean: however ‘ wrong’ some blokes may be, you just don’t spit people in the face for being ethically adrift. In fact, in my view, the only vantage point allowed is a rectification by exemplum, acquiring the wanderer’s weak and faulty rhytm and working it the other way, all the time keeping strictly within your own ‘legal’ field of movement.
Within the future present of the other’s life, it’s kinda like a Star Trek thing: you don’t interfere, you can show but not touch, lest you corrupt the promise inherent in what is shown with the act of breaking the promise. Sometimes the mere act of viewing disrupts the chance of wathever beauty is to be.

Unless you’re some kinda nutty saint, nobody will notice anything, don’t fool yourself, mohammed. But it’s the only ‘legal’ way and theoretically it is even possible.

Anyway, in spite of today’s fashionable ‘bleak destination’, including the ‘daring heroism’ of so many intellectuals staring Emptyness Itself in the eye (“my mirror, no I, I, no I”), any true immanent position today would require a serious reconsidering of what is too easily acquited as belonging to ‘idolatric transcendentalism’ or even plain foolish stubborness.

For immanence as such _also_ necessitates a ‘mystic’ movement within its discourse, namely there where the ambivalence of the affirmative energies is used, metaphorically speaking, as the engine of pro-creating consciousness, uncut from the worlding spirals of pre-consciousness, on ‘purely’ virtual grounds, pre-individual if you want, albeit that the pre may be wrongly held as a signifier for an absent temporal order.

The order of speech here is perhaps topological, preceding the psychic space-time divide. And pro-creation here would be a lengthening beyond the order of speech that is applied, hence the paradoxical, hence the term ‘mystic’ to describe (write down, denounce) the movement.

But of course this ‘immanent mysticism’ would de facto tune in nicely with any transcendental ‘traditional’ language/usage/method of acquiring ‘un-worldly’ knowledge. Extreme care is required in view of the strength and ruthlessness with which religious dogmatists have been able to recuperate any intellectual effort passed to us by these rare individuals and their testimonials of extreme experiences.

Furthermore, although a poetic method of investigation does not require any succes in a world that seems dead set on destroying itself anyway, regardless of any sense, common, poetic or otherwise, you might take care not to compound the already soaring insults of insanity and naïvity with any further association with the quacks and new agers of the scene, as it further succumbs into commercially orchestrated sickening whirlings of slime into slime into sour vomit.

It’s worth giving this line of thought and (daily) praxis a chance though: occasionally one does end up with a piece of strangely sharp and heavy matter able to soar right to the bottom of this global mess and make a sound that cuts through all the crap.

It is, unsurprisingly, somewhat erotic, that sound.

It goes like “thud” at its weakest or “dzjeEEUjuCK”, or sometimes even “thooooaaheeeEEEEedzZjud”.

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La muse

 

Je tourne sur une femme,

une vraie pute banale,

du genre qu’on ne prend pas –

au moins pas dans son lit –

 

(la conjugaison de ses pensées à lui

avec l’ondulation de sa mauvaise volonté à elle

rend les sens extasiés en phrases

dont il désire les mots).

 

L’homme que je manipule,

tu préfères ne pas le voir.

 

 

 

(traduction du poème ‘de muze’ de Dirk Vekemans)

 

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De realiteit van het productiemiddel

Ik heb niet tien jaar gestudeerd
om in lege ruimtes te praten

ik betaal voor uitkomsten
ik betaal voor kwaliteit

keer op keer onderbreekt de arts
me na 18 seconden

ik maak gebruik van paramedici
en laat oogmetingen uitvoeren

het laatste wat ik wil zijn
data om zelf bij te houden