Spectre versus spectre, I repeated. Happiness has been removed, dislodged during the camera holding them guards. Much of what normal people do: scraping the truth unto old indocrinate music - start taking pictures.
"Who's they?" and other torture instruments unfolded before eyes gazing. Deceit is golden, inhale the destiny lies, the same printed hippies.
"They're plants!", the same beseeching look, labelled half forgotten love.
But not for me!
Print area confuse. Do you recognize confusion hippies? Typical low-echelon type, devoted to following taxi drivers impovering me. Recognize the poetry of Copy/Paste.
You feed us? And kiss my sticky material with great presence of suspicions on that gangplank. I walked and walked and walked. My knees almost broken. Box open. Hotel Bloedel?
I couldn't understand. Try the golden deceit, the desperate center. Life is short. I'm glad you have illusions of youth and other shortcomings. The truth is hidden inside deceit.
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In één enkele rush geschreven. De titel is "I'm Not
Personnel". In het Engels ja. Ten eerste omdat het een cut-up gedicht
is van teksten in het Engels (grondstoffen: L. Ron Hubbard, Douglas
Coupland en Philip K. Dick). En ten tweede because that sounds more
interesting & artyfarty (deze is gepikt van De Kakkewieten?). Ik moet wel eerlijk toegeven dat ik het ...gedicht zelf nog niet begrepen heb.
I talk of love (of
course) in only formula world,
It has no meaning. Mass produced signage,
And the structure of machine choice processing
Text references hypertext, physical aberrations
Love Rake The Landscape.
It is coming,
it is coming from everywhere. Pretty flowers,
Propagandistic sleep cycles. Smear it on in formula world
Imagine the difference, mix to you in shipping
Ingredient is Tadalafil. And
has no meaning Sick stanzas when I smile, half awake today It will make you weep or
laugh ("customers perfect
product feelings") - terrorists shot your proven "Ugly" world
Love Rake The Landscape,
and all those bitter photos
Sex? coldly executing our lowest
common commands
The consuming licensed machine Chorus where I live
Processing a romantic gesture. to imagery references I talk of love, of
course. One false or long departed: the poet's lie.
Anyone can see there's nothing in it. Or to it.
Over dead, dry bones - it will only process
Embarrassment.
And penetration, of course.
De regen vertoont geen enkel teken dat hij af zal nemen Ik ben alleen in de mij toegewezen tijd en oneindig zijn mijn wonden Een feest van helende smart is het leven Een gefladder van vertwijfelde vleugels
Jagers hebben een slagveld van het bos gemaakt De jeugd zingt aan de rand van de klif De gebeden ruisen door het gulden waas Een gefladder van vertwijfelde vleugels
De stormlamp staart me aan en onhandig verberg ik mijn ogen Slechts de verlosten zullen veilig wandelen in de ovens van de haat Wij zijn de inwoners van een dood land deinend op wrede golven Een gefladder van vertwijfelde vleugels
Hou je holle roeiboot maar op de zee van krokodilletranen De mens kan slechts dreinen in zijn zieke duisternis en dorre dood Illusie is de koffer waarin we het eigen hart meedragen Een gefladder van vertwijfelde vleugels
u bent een waarlijk doder zwart en koud als vogels in'n duwdal Jezus, mijn dood model vul ons met eenzaamheid wat ons leven is
uw hoop is dwaas uw moed doet verdwalen in de woestijn ik volg uw doods spoor
God, die ons vergeefs liefde deed zoeken geef ons een eigenliefde bind ons aan de koude mensheid en verlos ons van geest Amen
* Enkele woorden uitleg bij dit gedicht: de eerste versie dateert van 16 november 1984. Het heeft een bizarre ontstaansgeschiedenis. Toen mijn grootmoeder in het ziekenhuis op sterven lag werden daar stenciltjes met 'gebeden' uitgedeeld aan de zieken. Ik las een van die gebeden en nam het mee naar huis. Daar knipte ik het gebed in stukken. De woorden en stukken van woorden die ik zo bekwam legde ik opnieuw aan elkaar, in de vorm van een 'gedicht'. Zo ontstond in zekere zin een nieuw gebed. Ik gaf het een tijd de titel "Duisternis Heerst" maar eigenlijk prefereer ik de huidige neutrale titel. In de periode november 1984 tot november 1991 wijzigde ik er nog enkele dingen aan.
the temple you make with your fingers up! Sun Nostalgia. Tepid in the palm, being equal to having no fishhook or half-sleep. If you read this:
Yesterday - yes? ... "The moon, this hour." exotic apple transformed as reports from through alabaster fingers. Do come! together like bits of juice written life scripts stone floating where space is inside the cows
And you, your murky nirvana-- Dislodged dream you tap. Pull it out with your fist. -pink bitterness. wake My habit to key-note
Voodoo open hinge Epiphany for God's short letter "To be all wind."
A cut-up poem by Erik Vloeberghs, principally based on cut-up poems found on the Internet. Yeah, right! Written February 13th 2005, slightly revised November 5th 2005.
sitting naked at the bottom of the circumstances 70 tons of flute and we follow the Mercury sandals eventually be relieved of SOS the cover of the horrible images is my square food and the tall sickness waits
fade out to Gothenberg do not believe erogenous holes and pepper show them how ugly "Reality" can be Meditation? Hiroshima is gleaming pleasure I must fight with candle in ass and the tall sickness waits
the worst is yet to come from the Sudden Inspiration Department your army lost the "detour sign" a Biological Law reverse switch is taking over and the tall sickness waits
Another item of February 13th 2005 served by Erik Vloeberghs and again based on the works of the great William S. Burroughs. Cut-up the cut-upper !!
we might start with a smile it is a day like any other I offer you nothing void everywhere, calculating love? with whom?
"I don't remember" the crust from the beginning to understand tortured metal typical leak out know eventually not relieved SOS the music shifted heavy metal state
writers the distant voices and the reformed "Everything is just fine," he said do not believe insect screams it's all the same, the Reality Film broke all good things come from the hypochondriac
Cut-up poem by Erik Vloeberghs, principally based on works by William S. Burroughs. Originally written February 13th 2005, small revision November 5th 2005.
Tortured metal typical leak out Know eventually be relieved
Blocks of SOS heavy metal state
"I don't remember" love with whom? The Reality Film blurred. Reformed, transformed as reports from the Grey Veil The crust from the beginning to understand
The calculating music, the distant voices Shifted and reformed through alabaster fingers
Iron claws of authority quash the old area
Mined guards everywhere in the Sex Shop
In the Ovens and behind the muddy waters of Norway It's the same everywhere: Reality Film broke
Across the sky there is a smell of Sodom who can stab the window
It is a day like any other Programs run to cover "Nothing is real" eggs Bring together the state of fiction Condition: wait for smile? over the void!
Tonight we might start - yes?
Erik Vloeberghs, 13 februari 2005
cut-up poem, principally based on works by William S. Burroughs
thunderstorm by Friday and love crumbles in working on the blue tip: rotate, rotate at normal speed during the sex act in order to accomplish the purpose
pretend an interest if I could again... of Sodom who can stab in the Ovens and behind the mined guards everywhere know what buttons to push
wet mouth to word static living under such limited circumstances - including orgasm ("smear it on!") we learned also something about the technicians who faded
a continuous round of control system the "criminal" was strapped purple rasp tongue moving in: "you win something like mucus" and a dishonorable charge
Another cut-up poem by Erik Vloeberghs, principally based on works by William S. Burroughs. Written February 13th 2005, revised July 31th 2005.