Voter, c'est pisser contre le vent

We have created a dimension in which we have convinced ourselves that it is people, not subjects, that should be elected, that should be voted upon, that should be in power. By failing to have seen the initial impact of money on politics, coinciding with unavoidable corruption, as well as the "bribability" of politicians that is now proven to be an inherent human weakness, we are sustaining a system that maintains the power of the opulent as well as the misery of the poor. We must grant power to ideas and no more to people who have contrary ideas to the public, which, thanks to better transparency, will increase public involvement and dismiss the apathy fed by the discontent with politics' ivory tower of peoples all around the world.

Poèmes de Paris

I carefully caress you
- in a way I hadn’t deemed possible –
And you shudder like shellshock.
You erupt what seems ten thousand times.
On a diet of mafia cigarettes
Tom Waits sings his songs,
And we both know they’re about us;
This is our life in rooms.

Without confines we find ourselves unnaturally bound.
Your beauty is exasperating and becomes inexplicably untouchable.
Outside our vacuum my body is dysfunctional;
Within our vacuum of peace,
Sometimes violent, when you command,
Sometimes purely loving,
My body cries of lands undiscovered and history yet to come.
Outside our confines, within the greatest liberty thinkable,
We hunker for our terrain vague,
And every single daydream is a poem written about our seclusion.

The existence of our vacuum dissolves
And my soul flows along unwillingly.
My greatest hero is your ego,
The greatest villain is your time.

It all ends where you leave.



~~~



Traffic in Paris

I overlook an eternity of desire, ahead.

Our bed is broken, my back destroyed, our hearts finally mended.
Decisively we head for our next non-destination,
As we keep falling through the floors and ceilings until everything becomes one again,
The room and its floor, its ceiling and its curtains,
Its wasted years waiting for love,
It all becomes your gazing brown eyes, as big as the room itself,
As big as Paris,
Always asking me what I’m thinking of until they reside,
They reside in love’s vacuum where they find peace.

More days to come to hallucinate in lucidity.
Only a couple more days to come to wallow in your eyes
Yet an eternity of desire to write about them.



~~~



Leaving Paris

Where is my heart?

I’m here to exhume a body,
The body of the capital of my desire.
I can feel it press on my skin, like your cigarettes,
Paris,
Or the butts that are now left behind.
You are an elegy,
Paris,
With your sweet scent of sex
From hotel rooms that outlive
All of your creations.

Where is my heart?

I have lost it in the streets near Moulin Rouge.
This city is dead to me now.
Only my tears accompany me now
Through Montmartre,
Up the stairs to the Sacre Coeur.

Naamloos

Versteend door de jaren,
Een gedicht zonder geraamte,
Kanker om het te verzwaren,
Een lichaam zonder schaamte,
Vervallen in gewoonten,
Bedeesd tot op het bot,
Heerser van een koninkrijk,
Een koninkrijk zonder lot,
Een oeverloze rivier,
Waarop ik me bevaar,
Met een kompas zonder vizier,
Richtingloos in het gevaar;
Een herinnering wordt vereerd,
Een verlangen altijd begeerd,
Een leven zonder haar.

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.


- Robert Lee Frost

All You Who Sleep Tonight

All you who sleep tonight
Far from the ones you love,
No hand to left or right,
And emptiness above -

Know that you aren't alone.
The whole world shares your tears,
Some for two nights or one,
And some for all their years.



Vikram Seth

Samen
zijn onze woorden

onze stemmen

onze gedachten

en
Samen
is onze liefde
zoals geenéén,


maar ík, ik ben zó
Alleen.

Because I'm finally able to access some works that I was unable to access before, and because I want to share them, I've decided to make a compilation of older work which can vary from 2 years old to half a year old. I will post them in no particular order.