woensdag 29 september 2010
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.
vrijdag 3 september 2010
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.
- 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.
woensdag 5 mei 2010
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.
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.
zondag 21 maart 2010
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
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
woensdag 27 januari 2010
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
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
dinsdag 26 januari 2010
donderdag 21 januari 2010
Cats & Dogs
I stay inside
Although the sun shines. She seduces me – the full glory of light –
And traps me into the corner. As I close the curtains they dance
For me, and in my soporific state (who taught me that word?
Oh I remember, it’s the mysterious French girl whose words
whirl inside me erratically, without treading on the traces of reality;
I bet she is asleep right now, dreaming of another world)
they unveil their secrets for me.
Epiphany, I can see you, I will trust in you no more.
I think about blinding myself but that means I would be
Harnessed by your despair, that you awoke in me, that will not rest.
I’ve never seen buildings as tall as these. The devils throw rocks
At me from behind their wall of mist, as high as my enslavement,
But they never hit me anymore. The angels scream at me from
Behind the same clouds, sometimes ringing my ears deaf,
But the distance is too great to carry a message with our earthly voices.
All of them, way up there, on that first building to your right
Have consumed their own fate like cattle. But I can see them still.
The curtains have stopped dancing by long, serenely
They flatten their corruptive body, awaiting my approval.
And it’s this very moment – in control of everything around –
When the raindrops start a riot with the vibrant cold
And heavy darkness that I feel content and pleased.
I’m not to be seduced by the lucency of your kind any longer.
Admittedly black in soul, I now open the garden doors
And march within the night.
Although the sun shines. She seduces me – the full glory of light –
And traps me into the corner. As I close the curtains they dance
For me, and in my soporific state (who taught me that word?
Oh I remember, it’s the mysterious French girl whose words
whirl inside me erratically, without treading on the traces of reality;
I bet she is asleep right now, dreaming of another world)
they unveil their secrets for me.
Epiphany, I can see you, I will trust in you no more.
I think about blinding myself but that means I would be
Harnessed by your despair, that you awoke in me, that will not rest.
I’ve never seen buildings as tall as these. The devils throw rocks
At me from behind their wall of mist, as high as my enslavement,
But they never hit me anymore. The angels scream at me from
Behind the same clouds, sometimes ringing my ears deaf,
But the distance is too great to carry a message with our earthly voices.
All of them, way up there, on that first building to your right
Have consumed their own fate like cattle. But I can see them still.
The curtains have stopped dancing by long, serenely
They flatten their corruptive body, awaiting my approval.
And it’s this very moment – in control of everything around –
When the raindrops start a riot with the vibrant cold
And heavy darkness that I feel content and pleased.
I’m not to be seduced by the lucency of your kind any longer.
Admittedly black in soul, I now open the garden doors
And march within the night.
Stop, Slow Down.
You step into the white fluorescent light
That my sight had so intensely captured,
And harvest spring fruits before my eyes;
Each single fruit piece is your gracious body.
But the white stream moves away and follows its path after
The courageous jet-fighter, with thousand feet per second
High in the air,
As do my eyes.
The white clouds seem to be struggling
With each other to go into whatever direction
As fast as possible, taking all sorts of forms.
Every small piece is another secret of beauty to me.
Every second one awakes anew, and builds
Its own peaceful kingdom in the skies.
I saw the plane descend behind the defoliating treetops,
And you disappeared the same moment
into the intangible haziness of the smoke.
That my sight had so intensely captured,
And harvest spring fruits before my eyes;
Each single fruit piece is your gracious body.
But the white stream moves away and follows its path after
The courageous jet-fighter, with thousand feet per second
High in the air,
As do my eyes.
The white clouds seem to be struggling
With each other to go into whatever direction
As fast as possible, taking all sorts of forms.
Every small piece is another secret of beauty to me.
Every second one awakes anew, and builds
Its own peaceful kingdom in the skies.
I saw the plane descend behind the defoliating treetops,
And you disappeared the same moment
into the intangible haziness of the smoke.
The natural beauty of a stream of water
Made me finally park my car,
And exhale my youth.
In nowhere and everywhere I found myself;
One physical, the other spiritual,
And together lost in happiness.
I took it all with me to the chosen spotless site
You had so clearly and vividly recognized
From your collection of dreams.
It were those dreams that we had built on,
Those dreams that we cared for,
In those dreams we believed.
There, in my head a piano sounded
And I felt our dream
Awake.
There, on the banks of that river,
You gave birth
To our dream,
And
We walked with it and fed it
Along the shores of time.
Made me finally park my car,
And exhale my youth.
In nowhere and everywhere I found myself;
One physical, the other spiritual,
And together lost in happiness.
I took it all with me to the chosen spotless site
You had so clearly and vividly recognized
From your collection of dreams.
It were those dreams that we had built on,
Those dreams that we cared for,
In those dreams we believed.
There, in my head a piano sounded
And I felt our dream
Awake.
There, on the banks of that river,
You gave birth
To our dream,
And
We walked with it and fed it
Along the shores of time.
Chez Diable
Solemnly the silence hovers through my entangled hair
Which had never felt so original before.
But it was not only my hair that felt out of place.
My clothes – compared to theirs, which are reminiscent to me of that time I played ghost
With my little sister; but the drawer with the sheets was too high for us
So we played with the old curtains –
Had never looked more modern than in this environment.
Nonetheless, no-one noticed my presence in the anonymity of this place of Hope
That looked so cold and dead to me -
Or rather found me worthy enough to notice.
Maybe they were all connected to Him;
I mean, for God’s sake, what do I know?
I am only here to bring the red wine.
I turn around, close the heavy, mahogany-adorned monastery door
And walk to the always attractively cosy-looking café ‘Chez Diable’ –
And I noticed for the very first time
That the door is decorated with the same mahogany woodwork as the monastery door –
To deliver the money.
I suddenly remember that the oldest customer once told me
That the café must be as old as the monastery,
Because it has always been there
Just around the corner.
Which had never felt so original before.
But it was not only my hair that felt out of place.
My clothes – compared to theirs, which are reminiscent to me of that time I played ghost
With my little sister; but the drawer with the sheets was too high for us
So we played with the old curtains –
Had never looked more modern than in this environment.
Nonetheless, no-one noticed my presence in the anonymity of this place of Hope
That looked so cold and dead to me -
Or rather found me worthy enough to notice.
Maybe they were all connected to Him;
I mean, for God’s sake, what do I know?
I am only here to bring the red wine.
I turn around, close the heavy, mahogany-adorned monastery door
And walk to the always attractively cosy-looking café ‘Chez Diable’ –
And I noticed for the very first time
That the door is decorated with the same mahogany woodwork as the monastery door –
To deliver the money.
I suddenly remember that the oldest customer once told me
That the café must be as old as the monastery,
Because it has always been there
Just around the corner.
Still
Still, flat lines,
Drawing but eternally being drawn;
Our lives are so restless.
Romance with no name eats its heart out
And prays for satisfaction.
The sky opens up and drops new things
Onto our curiosity and boredom,
And we never give in
And we are never sorry.
I know you don’t want me to write right now,
But you’re nearly asleep – a moment of peace –
And I’ve never been so penetrated with emotions.
You kick me softly, once,
Twice and I drop the piece of paper,
That spreads its wings
As if nothing had gone wrong.
You can’t see me because you turned your back on me
But I’m awake already,
Wrapped in morning’s light
That even illuminates your corner.
You turn and the bed makes funny noises
And you yawn
And you sigh,
And the light fades into the other room.
Drawing but eternally being drawn;
Our lives are so restless.
Romance with no name eats its heart out
And prays for satisfaction.
The sky opens up and drops new things
Onto our curiosity and boredom,
And we never give in
And we are never sorry.
I know you don’t want me to write right now,
But you’re nearly asleep – a moment of peace –
And I’ve never been so penetrated with emotions.
You kick me softly, once,
Twice and I drop the piece of paper,
That spreads its wings
As if nothing had gone wrong.
You can’t see me because you turned your back on me
But I’m awake already,
Wrapped in morning’s light
That even illuminates your corner.
You turn and the bed makes funny noises
And you yawn
And you sigh,
And the light fades into the other room.
Cracow by Night
We drink our beers in the slumbering of the city,
In the morning of the night
When the cigarette smoke that is the morning mist
Stains my vision as well as my lungs.
There's no music;
Only an alarm clock ringing in the form of a popular song
that cuts through all that is unconscious and of interest to me.
We dare not speak yet cause we fear our voices
haven't recovered from our last attempt.
I feel alone and abandoned like a little child.
I count the days your arms have stopped touching me
(I haven't the courage to count the other way around)
and know I will only need one hand,
Although I honestly feel like I need every single finger of you.
The music abruptly stops and I can think again.
I feel our desires meet, some place elsewhere,
that we can only travel to together,
but it is the desire of seeing you again
that cannot meet yours.
Another empty glass makes two more hands
and the table - poisoned with alcohol - tremble,
Raising so many urges,
Raising indolence to its feet.
I wished there was a mirror
to reverse or adjust my angle on this moment,
to reverse something that feels so irreversible.
I wish another person's joy was more understandable to me.
Morning ends
Today, as we carry ourselves through the streets
that whisper in a language I do not speak.
I'm once more struck by loneliness
and when I finally find my temporary bed,
It's the breathing of the unknown people
that keeps my solitude awake.
In the morning of the night
When the cigarette smoke that is the morning mist
Stains my vision as well as my lungs.
There's no music;
Only an alarm clock ringing in the form of a popular song
that cuts through all that is unconscious and of interest to me.
We dare not speak yet cause we fear our voices
haven't recovered from our last attempt.
I feel alone and abandoned like a little child.
I count the days your arms have stopped touching me
(I haven't the courage to count the other way around)
and know I will only need one hand,
Although I honestly feel like I need every single finger of you.
The music abruptly stops and I can think again.
I feel our desires meet, some place elsewhere,
that we can only travel to together,
but it is the desire of seeing you again
that cannot meet yours.
Another empty glass makes two more hands
and the table - poisoned with alcohol - tremble,
Raising so many urges,
Raising indolence to its feet.
I wished there was a mirror
to reverse or adjust my angle on this moment,
to reverse something that feels so irreversible.
I wish another person's joy was more understandable to me.
Morning ends
Today, as we carry ourselves through the streets
that whisper in a language I do not speak.
I'm once more struck by loneliness
and when I finally find my temporary bed,
It's the breathing of the unknown people
that keeps my solitude awake.
vrijdag 15 januari 2010
Letters to the Beloved, #3
Het is alsof mijn gedachten niet meer menselijk zijn, alsof ze boven al het mogelijk menselijke zweven, net zoals de mens er eindeloos over heeft gedaan voordat het kon vliegen, moet ook dit een compleet nieuwe uitvinding zijn, iets wat de mensheid nog nooit eerder ontdekt had, iets waarop ik, zodra ik me even zonder bovenmenselijke kwaliteiten voel, patent kan aanvragen ware het niet dat ik zelf geen idee zou hebben waar ik dan eigenlijk de ontdekking van claim; wanneer ik ren, ga ik minstens twee keer zo hard, wanneer ik moe word, geef ik daar helemaal niets om; als ik val, lach ik in plaats van beschaamd te zijn en huil ik alleen om de kleinzieligheid van al het leed en verdriet in het leven, dat toch, met de kracht van zoveel levenden, door de liefde, niet per sé de zwevende en onbegrijpelijke soort, hoewel ik het me wel zo voorstel, al dat leed wordt bestreden door die liefde, en zoals ik het nu voel, zoals ik mijn bloed krachtig voel pompen en mijn hart hoor vechten met elke slag, mijn vuisten niet gebald maar mijn handen in elkaar gevouwen als twee geliefden in elkaar gevouwen in bed, zo voel ik het, zo voel ik dat we sterker zijn dan al het verdriet, dan alle pijn, zelfs sterker dan de kracht van het al het afsterven.
Nee, nee!, ik heb het niet over individuele liefde, het kan niet zo zijn dat, ik accepteer het gewoon niet dat men denkt dat mijn liefde alleen op mijzelf slaat, alleen mijzelf gelukkig kan maken terwijl ik zie dat het zoveel anderen om mij heen gelukkig maakt, moed geeft, meesleurt in positieve gedachten die uitmonden in een onuitputtelijke hoop op verbetering, op iets mooiers, op iets... liefdevollers. Ik weet dat het niet alleen op mij slaat, daar hoeft niemand me van te overtuigen, niemand zal me van het tegendeel kunnen overtuigen, ik kan niet de enige zijn die deze liefde zo voelt en ik kan dus ook niet de enige zijn die liefde op deze manier wilt delen.
Ik ren, ik zweef, ik val, maar ik val niet echt, ik struikel over de grappen van het leven, ik zie waarom ze grappig zijn en niet pijnlijk; ik lach niet om de pijn van anderen maar ik verzacht het door naar ze te lachen, door ze te leren begrijpen, door hen mij te laten begrijpen, door hen lief te hebben zoals ik niemand anders en tegelijkertijd iedereen liefheb. Het is waar dat ik één persoon bovenal, boven iedereen zal liefhebben, maar is dat dan erg? Wat wordt verwacht van mij? De bron van alle liefde heb ik natuurlijk meer lief dan de stroompjes door het landschap die het voortbrengt, net zoals de basis van een liefhebbende familie, het hart ervan, twee innige geliefden, en hun zoon en dochter, net zoals het hart van een familie de leden zijn, niet hun huis, hun auto, en alle liefdeloze kapitalistische troep die tegenwoordig wordt geassocieerd met het hebben van een familie; zo zal mijn liefde voor haar voelen, als het hebben van een familie; dat moet toch één van de mooiste gevoelens ter wereld zijn. Mijn liefde voor anderen, daarnaast, is niet vergelijkbaar met materialistische liefde, zoals zoveel families hebben; ze zouden nog liever hun buurman laten sterven dan hun televisie afstaan. Nee, mijn liefde is voor iedereen, niet individualistisch, het heeft enkel ergens een bron, een bron die ik waarborg en eer, vereer, terecht verafgood.
Nee, nee!, ik heb het niet over individuele liefde, het kan niet zo zijn dat, ik accepteer het gewoon niet dat men denkt dat mijn liefde alleen op mijzelf slaat, alleen mijzelf gelukkig kan maken terwijl ik zie dat het zoveel anderen om mij heen gelukkig maakt, moed geeft, meesleurt in positieve gedachten die uitmonden in een onuitputtelijke hoop op verbetering, op iets mooiers, op iets... liefdevollers. Ik weet dat het niet alleen op mij slaat, daar hoeft niemand me van te overtuigen, niemand zal me van het tegendeel kunnen overtuigen, ik kan niet de enige zijn die deze liefde zo voelt en ik kan dus ook niet de enige zijn die liefde op deze manier wilt delen.
Ik ren, ik zweef, ik val, maar ik val niet echt, ik struikel over de grappen van het leven, ik zie waarom ze grappig zijn en niet pijnlijk; ik lach niet om de pijn van anderen maar ik verzacht het door naar ze te lachen, door ze te leren begrijpen, door hen mij te laten begrijpen, door hen lief te hebben zoals ik niemand anders en tegelijkertijd iedereen liefheb. Het is waar dat ik één persoon bovenal, boven iedereen zal liefhebben, maar is dat dan erg? Wat wordt verwacht van mij? De bron van alle liefde heb ik natuurlijk meer lief dan de stroompjes door het landschap die het voortbrengt, net zoals de basis van een liefhebbende familie, het hart ervan, twee innige geliefden, en hun zoon en dochter, net zoals het hart van een familie de leden zijn, niet hun huis, hun auto, en alle liefdeloze kapitalistische troep die tegenwoordig wordt geassocieerd met het hebben van een familie; zo zal mijn liefde voor haar voelen, als het hebben van een familie; dat moet toch één van de mooiste gevoelens ter wereld zijn. Mijn liefde voor anderen, daarnaast, is niet vergelijkbaar met materialistische liefde, zoals zoveel families hebben; ze zouden nog liever hun buurman laten sterven dan hun televisie afstaan. Nee, mijn liefde is voor iedereen, niet individualistisch, het heeft enkel ergens een bron, een bron die ik waarborg en eer, vereer, terecht verafgood.
Erasmus
We are murderers of creativity
and backstabbers of motivation,
pickpockets of happiness
carrying our wine and hoarse voices in the streets,
shining like stars, shamelessly
in our nightly feverish insolation.
Crossing white lines, uncertainty encircling our oh so temporary entity,
and you tell me “I can’t dance to techno music”,
crossing darkness, harassing yourself and discovering liberty,
and you tell me “I’m so depressed, I don’t know what to do”,
falling from your bed into the emotional gutter,
and you tell me “let’s just be friends”,
crossing my personal Interzone
as I crucify wooden Jesuses
and spread my semen on your walls.
We are worshippers of black culture
crossing cultural bridges
oversleeping life.
We are the laziest lifesavers on earth.
and backstabbers of motivation,
pickpockets of happiness
carrying our wine and hoarse voices in the streets,
shining like stars, shamelessly
in our nightly feverish insolation.
Crossing white lines, uncertainty encircling our oh so temporary entity,
and you tell me “I can’t dance to techno music”,
crossing darkness, harassing yourself and discovering liberty,
and you tell me “I’m so depressed, I don’t know what to do”,
falling from your bed into the emotional gutter,
and you tell me “let’s just be friends”,
crossing my personal Interzone
as I crucify wooden Jesuses
and spread my semen on your walls.
We are worshippers of black culture
crossing cultural bridges
oversleeping life.
We are the laziest lifesavers on earth.
dinsdag 29 december 2009
love, again
Liefde voor meisjes : het vinden van een ander persoon tot wie je je op een irrationele manier voelt aangetrokken, meestal vanwege de onzekerheid over de interesse van de andere persoon in jou en relatief waardeloze kwaliteiten zoals “het maken lachen” of coolheid/status van de persoon, om vervolgens gewend te raken aan de ander tijdens de relatie en deze gewenning te verwarren met een diepzinnige en onverklaarbare band met die persoon.
Love for girls: finding another person to whom you feel irrationally attracted, most often because of the insecurity about the interest of the other person in you and relatively worthless qualities such as “making you laugh” or coolness/status of that person, to consequently get accustomed to the other person during the relationship and mistaking this habituation with a profound and inexplicable bond with that other person.
???????
Liefde voor jongens: het hebben van zoveel mogelijk seks met meisjes tot wie je je aangetrokken voelt, en als dit buiten je bereik is door wat voor omstandigheden dan ook, het behouden van een enkel meisje dankzij wie je op een regelmatige basis seks kan hebben, waardoor je uiteindelijk in een relatie belandt en je al je mannelijke vrijheid verliest.
Love for guys: having as much sex as possible with girls that you feel attracted to, and if this is unreachable for whatever reasons, retaining a single girls thanks to whom you will get sex on a regular basis, because of which you consequently end up in a relationship and lose all of your masculine liberty.
???????
Liefde zoals het zou moeten zijn, liefde zoals ik het zou willen: twee innig verliefde personen, die elkaar aanbidden op hun knieen dankzij hun gepassioneerde verlangen de ander alles te willen geven wat een mens maar te bieden heeft, zonder ook maar de kleinste egoistische gedachte.
Love as it should be, love as I want it to be: two persons deeply in love, worshipping each other on their knees thanks to their passionate desire of willing to give the other person everything that a human being has to offer, without even the smallest mention of egoistic thoughts.
...
Love for girls: finding another person to whom you feel irrationally attracted, most often because of the insecurity about the interest of the other person in you and relatively worthless qualities such as “making you laugh” or coolness/status of that person, to consequently get accustomed to the other person during the relationship and mistaking this habituation with a profound and inexplicable bond with that other person.
???????
Liefde voor jongens: het hebben van zoveel mogelijk seks met meisjes tot wie je je aangetrokken voelt, en als dit buiten je bereik is door wat voor omstandigheden dan ook, het behouden van een enkel meisje dankzij wie je op een regelmatige basis seks kan hebben, waardoor je uiteindelijk in een relatie belandt en je al je mannelijke vrijheid verliest.
Love for guys: having as much sex as possible with girls that you feel attracted to, and if this is unreachable for whatever reasons, retaining a single girls thanks to whom you will get sex on a regular basis, because of which you consequently end up in a relationship and lose all of your masculine liberty.
???????
Liefde zoals het zou moeten zijn, liefde zoals ik het zou willen: twee innig verliefde personen, die elkaar aanbidden op hun knieen dankzij hun gepassioneerde verlangen de ander alles te willen geven wat een mens maar te bieden heeft, zonder ook maar de kleinste egoistische gedachte.
Love as it should be, love as I want it to be: two persons deeply in love, worshipping each other on their knees thanks to their passionate desire of willing to give the other person everything that a human being has to offer, without even the smallest mention of egoistic thoughts.
...
dinsdag 15 december 2009
m'endormir
Het enige moment waarop ik me waarlijk veilig kan voelen, is als ik m’n eigen paleis beklim, onder de dekens kruip die ik zelf elke nacht verwarm, waarvan ik zeker weet dat ze mij veiligheid bieden omdat er nog nooit een andere ziel onder geslapen heeft, omdat ik alleen hier mezelf kan zijn, alleen kan zijn; omdat ik niemand anders kan vertrouwen zoals ik mezelf kan vertrouwen, omdat ik in niemand zo ver kan verdwijnen als in mezelf, zodat ik me veilig voel, veilig, eindelijk veilig, niemand anders die nog durft mijn gedachten binnen te dringen, zo schijnbaar eindeloos alleen met alleen m’n eigen armen om me heen, dwalend door m’n eigen dromen.
vrijdag 11 december 2009
I DON'T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT YOU.
YOU're the one messing up the system, supporting it like a cheerleader during a football match.
I don't give a shit about you, you're not doing anything to improve it.
What the fuck are you talking about, marriage problems, don't fucking bother me with that.
I don't give a shit about you and your rose.
What are you being insecure about? The way you look? Let's see how you'll look after having died from famine.
What the fuck is going on in this sick society?
I don't give a shit about you, who do you think you are, the queen of the proms?
Oh you are, now tell me why I would ever give a shit.
Go fuck yourself and your ego.
I don't fucking care about your facebook.
I hope you choke on your cigarettes.
Let's smash some mirrors on the wall tonight.
YOU're the one messing up the system, supporting it like a cheerleader during a football match.
I don't give a shit about you, you're not doing anything to improve it.
What the fuck are you talking about, marriage problems, don't fucking bother me with that.
I don't give a shit about you and your rose.
What are you being insecure about? The way you look? Let's see how you'll look after having died from famine.
What the fuck is going on in this sick society?
I don't give a shit about you, who do you think you are, the queen of the proms?
Oh you are, now tell me why I would ever give a shit.
Go fuck yourself and your ego.
I don't fucking care about your facebook.
I hope you choke on your cigarettes.
Let's smash some mirrors on the wall tonight.
zondag 6 december 2009
Vriendschap en Liefde
Ik begrijp iets wat ik onbegrijpelijk genoeg eerder niet begreep.
Ik begrijp waarom je zo voorzichtig bent met liefde tussen jou en mij.
Ik begrijp dat je mijn vriendschap zo erg waardeert dat je de kans het te vernietigen misschien liever niet voor lief neemt.
Maar ik kan je een ding beloven:
Niets gaat ons vernietigen, zeker liefde niet, omdat jij en ik de liefde zelf zijn, en zonder elkaar niet meer zijn dan een gesplitst hart.
Ik begrijp waarom je zo voorzichtig bent met liefde tussen jou en mij.
Ik begrijp dat je mijn vriendschap zo erg waardeert dat je de kans het te vernietigen misschien liever niet voor lief neemt.
Maar ik kan je een ding beloven:
Niets gaat ons vernietigen, zeker liefde niet, omdat jij en ik de liefde zelf zijn, en zonder elkaar niet meer zijn dan een gesplitst hart.
I sing
of battlegrounds;
Vultures dragging my heart
through the muddy grounds
and deserted prayers,
abandoned fields,
leaving it there
to rot at sunset,
throwing it around
shooting it back and forth
as if it were a bullet,
while it's a heart.
There is one vulture
that takes a long flight,
a deep dive,
plunging its beak far into the flesh
and ripping out its insides,
tearing off its pale skin
as a final symbolic gesture,
like how they often shoot
once more at a dead man,
leaving it unprotected
for the rats and armored tanks,
...
until the sun rises
and revives the corpse
of a hardened soldier.
of battlegrounds;
Vultures dragging my heart
through the muddy grounds
and deserted prayers,
abandoned fields,
leaving it there
to rot at sunset,
throwing it around
shooting it back and forth
as if it were a bullet,
while it's a heart.
There is one vulture
that takes a long flight,
a deep dive,
plunging its beak far into the flesh
and ripping out its insides,
tearing off its pale skin
as a final symbolic gesture,
like how they often shoot
once more at a dead man,
leaving it unprotected
for the rats and armored tanks,
...
until the sun rises
and revives the corpse
of a hardened soldier.
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