Posts tonen met het label english. Alle posts tonen
Posts tonen met het label english. Alle posts tonen
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.
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
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
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.
...
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
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.
vrijdag 4 december 2009
since feeling is first... (VII)
e.e. cummings
since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world
my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
- the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says
we are for each other; then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph
And death i think is no parenthesis
since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world
my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
- the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says
we are for each other; then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph
And death i think is no parenthesis
maandag 23 november 2009
The dilemma of being in company
How come
one can reflect about solitude
with another person,
ou sont toutes considérations complètement inutiles?
one can reflect about solitude
with another person,
ou sont toutes considérations complètement inutiles?
Write about me
Stars, shoot me,
For I already feel as dead as fallen rain.
Snowball, cast me,
For I want to know what it feels like to be thrown away.
Waterfall, bring me down,
For I want to drown in your endless flow.
Words, speak me,
For my desire is to be the essence of this poem.
For I already feel as dead as fallen rain.
Snowball, cast me,
For I want to know what it feels like to be thrown away.
Waterfall, bring me down,
For I want to drown in your endless flow.
Words, speak me,
For my desire is to be the essence of this poem.
Alles en Niets / Tout et Rien
Nothing
Everything,
Both in my desirous hands.
---
Everything equals too much. When there's nothing left to desire, you will enter a permanent state of decadence, which will eventually kill you either physically or mentally or both. Therefore, when everything equals too much, everything equals sadness and misfortune.
---
My love for you feels like everything I will ever need.
---
My life is continuously divided by the following discrepancy, keeping mostly in mind the positive connotation given to the word by people:
Losing everything
=
Having nothing to lose
---
Is this true? When I lose you, if I lose you, will I be as neutral as if I had never met you? The obvious answer is that you will definitely FEEL worse, and that begs an altogether different and more important question. Can you separate feeling something and being something? Could it be that you feel worse but that in fact you're BEING as if nothing had ever happened? If that is true, then the ancient rational vs. emotional issue is of much more importance than I had ever imagined.
---
It is only in nothing that we search for all.
Everything,
Both in my desirous hands.
---
Everything equals too much. When there's nothing left to desire, you will enter a permanent state of decadence, which will eventually kill you either physically or mentally or both. Therefore, when everything equals too much, everything equals sadness and misfortune.
---
My love for you feels like everything I will ever need.
---
My life is continuously divided by the following discrepancy, keeping mostly in mind the positive connotation given to the word by people:
Losing everything
=
Having nothing to lose
---
Is this true? When I lose you, if I lose you, will I be as neutral as if I had never met you? The obvious answer is that you will definitely FEEL worse, and that begs an altogether different and more important question. Can you separate feeling something and being something? Could it be that you feel worse but that in fact you're BEING as if nothing had ever happened? If that is true, then the ancient rational vs. emotional issue is of much more importance than I had ever imagined.
---
It is only in nothing that we search for all.
vrijdag 13 november 2009
America
America I've given you all and now I'm nothing.
America two dollars and twenty-seven cents January 17, 1956.
I can't stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb
I don't feel good don't bother me.
I won't write my poem till I'm in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I'm sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back it's sinister.
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke?
I'm trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I'm doing.
America the plum blossoms are falling.
I haven't read the newspapers for months, everyday somebody goes on trial for murder.
America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
America I used to be a communist when I was a kid and I'm not sorry.
I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses in the closet.
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
My mind is made up there's going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Marx.
My psychoanalyst thinks I'm perfectly right.
I won't say the Lord's Prayer.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America I still haven't told you what you did to Uncle Max after he came over from Russia.
I'm addressing you.
Are you going to let our emotional life be run by Time Magazine?
I'm obsessed by Time Magazine.
I read it every week.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore.
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
It's always telling me about responsibility. Businessmen are serious. Movie producers are serious. Everybody's serious but me.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.
Asia is rising against me.
I haven't got a chinaman's chance.
I'd better consider my national resources.
My national resources consist of two joints of marijuana millions of genitals an unpublishable private literature that goes 1400 miles an hour and twentyfivethousand mental institutions.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of underpriviliged who live in my flowerpots under the light of five hundred suns.
I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers is the next to go.
My ambition is to be President despite the fact that I'm a Catholic.
America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?
I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as individual as his automobiles more so they're all different sexes
America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500 down on your old strophe
America free Tom Mooney
America save the Spanish Loyalists
America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die
America I am the Scottsboro boys.
America when I was seven momma took me to Communist Cell meetings they sold us garbanzos a handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the speeches were free everybody was angelic and sentimental about the workers it was all so sincere you have no idea what a good thing the party was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand old man a real mensch Mother Bloor made me cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody must have been a spy.
America you don't really want to go to war.
America it's them bad Russians.
Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen. And them Russians.
The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia's power mad. She wants to take our cars from out our garages.
Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Reader's Digest. Her wants our auto plants in Siberia. Him big bureaucracy running our fillingstations.
That no good. Ugh. Him makes Indians learn read. Him need big black niggers.
Hah. Her make us all work sixteen hours a day. Help.
America this is quite serious.
America this is the impression I get from looking in the television set.
America is this correct?
I'd better get right down to the job.
It's true I don't want to join the Army or turn lathes in precision parts
factories, I'm nearsighted and psychopathic anyway.
America I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.
Allen Ginsberg
America two dollars and twenty-seven cents January 17, 1956.
I can't stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb
I don't feel good don't bother me.
I won't write my poem till I'm in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I'm sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back it's sinister.
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke?
I'm trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I'm doing.
America the plum blossoms are falling.
I haven't read the newspapers for months, everyday somebody goes on trial for murder.
America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
America I used to be a communist when I was a kid and I'm not sorry.
I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses in the closet.
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
My mind is made up there's going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Marx.
My psychoanalyst thinks I'm perfectly right.
I won't say the Lord's Prayer.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America I still haven't told you what you did to Uncle Max after he came over from Russia.
I'm addressing you.
Are you going to let our emotional life be run by Time Magazine?
I'm obsessed by Time Magazine.
I read it every week.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore.
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
It's always telling me about responsibility. Businessmen are serious. Movie producers are serious. Everybody's serious but me.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.
Asia is rising against me.
I haven't got a chinaman's chance.
I'd better consider my national resources.
My national resources consist of two joints of marijuana millions of genitals an unpublishable private literature that goes 1400 miles an hour and twentyfivethousand mental institutions.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of underpriviliged who live in my flowerpots under the light of five hundred suns.
I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers is the next to go.
My ambition is to be President despite the fact that I'm a Catholic.
America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?
I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as individual as his automobiles more so they're all different sexes
America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500 down on your old strophe
America free Tom Mooney
America save the Spanish Loyalists
America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die
America I am the Scottsboro boys.
America when I was seven momma took me to Communist Cell meetings they sold us garbanzos a handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the speeches were free everybody was angelic and sentimental about the workers it was all so sincere you have no idea what a good thing the party was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand old man a real mensch Mother Bloor made me cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody must have been a spy.
America you don't really want to go to war.
America it's them bad Russians.
Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen. And them Russians.
The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia's power mad. She wants to take our cars from out our garages.
Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Reader's Digest. Her wants our auto plants in Siberia. Him big bureaucracy running our fillingstations.
That no good. Ugh. Him makes Indians learn read. Him need big black niggers.
Hah. Her make us all work sixteen hours a day. Help.
America this is quite serious.
America this is the impression I get from looking in the television set.
America is this correct?
I'd better get right down to the job.
It's true I don't want to join the Army or turn lathes in precision parts
factories, I'm nearsighted and psychopathic anyway.
America I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.
Allen Ginsberg
donderdag 12 november 2009
Collection of notes
It's a shame blogspot doesn't allow any spacing before a sentence starts. Now these notes look even more fucked up than they already did.
People that say chess is a complicated game forget what makes games complicated: the human factor.
There's no betrayal in chess!
---
The more I try to tame my passion, the more it becomes untameable.
---
If only my thoughts weren't constantly racing like this
... then I could have the perfect relationship.
---
Don't make any compromises with me in love;
it's like selling your soul to the devil
for only half of what it's worth.
---
Once more I wonder
what keeps us all going
what keeps us alive,
While I feel so much like dying.
---
Music is not and cannot be about musical sensation;
Instead, it's about human passion and emotion!
---
I keep thinking that I'm alive
But when I observe others around me
I notice that I'm barely breathing.
---
What makes me believe that this exclusiveness of love that I constantly and thoroughly feel is even a bit similar or at least somewhat present in anyone, any person of the other sex? Why can't I become aware that it's virtually the other way around?
---
Xenofobie is een geestesziekte.
---
Xenofobie is de meest serieuze vorm van discriminatie van onze tijd.
---
Xenofobie is de enige geestesziekte die onbehandeld blijft en de enige volledig geaccepteerde vorm van discriminatie.
---
The transition of idealism into cynicism is one of the most dangerous developments in our youngest intellectual generation.
People that say chess is a complicated game forget what makes games complicated: the human factor.
There's no betrayal in chess!
---
The more I try to tame my passion, the more it becomes untameable.
---
If only my thoughts weren't constantly racing like this
... then I could have the perfect relationship.
---
Don't make any compromises with me in love;
it's like selling your soul to the devil
for only half of what it's worth.
---
Once more I wonder
what keeps us all going
what keeps us alive,
While I feel so much like dying.
---
Music is not and cannot be about musical sensation;
Instead, it's about human passion and emotion!
---
I keep thinking that I'm alive
But when I observe others around me
I notice that I'm barely breathing.
---
What makes me believe that this exclusiveness of love that I constantly and thoroughly feel is even a bit similar or at least somewhat present in anyone, any person of the other sex? Why can't I become aware that it's virtually the other way around?
---
Xenofobie is een geestesziekte.
---
Xenofobie is de meest serieuze vorm van discriminatie van onze tijd.
---
Xenofobie is de enige geestesziekte die onbehandeld blijft en de enige volledig geaccepteerde vorm van discriminatie.
---
The transition of idealism into cynicism is one of the most dangerous developments in our youngest intellectual generation.
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