Poetry

Ceci n’est pas un poème déprimé
The hatred of my hatred vindicates me: I am still a consciousness in and of the world, death foreshadowing in all of its tissues My body tortures itself I must watch, I watch pain is no measure as my spirit is gone this is not suffering: I am an automaton I don't want to wait ...
Maledicendum
You want to stare into the abyss. You imagine you will discover something there, a boisterous polysemiotic laughing that reverberates against your high temples. You want to plough into new and unique territories uncontaminated by other intellects and you realize it is the fervor of your fear that strangleholds you: the others! the others! They ...
I will be ninety-five
I will be ninety-five and I will play my violin in the shade of a tree I will play from memory for you, for the people for being under a tree I will be ninety-five leathery, hunched, but alive this is my pension plan: know me as the violin man My violin will be three ...
Cum granu salis
There is the commitment of a slow suicide inside my mouth flaring nerve tissue makes me a beast of seconds foregone my extravanganza, the wordsome Walpurgnis Night of wild hue candelabras burning into the popliteal intimacy of progress - relinquished Swearing and sweltering I lock myself in debasement reddish eyes sore at glaring screens a ...
Eroticism
Early on, I have eroticized being driven somewhere. In a vehicle I become a healthy corporeal thing sweating excitement along its thighs Do you know that experience when your body agrees with everything when it has only friendly exchanges along its periphery and there is no need for pain?
Pain and its absence
great health is like the fullness of a symphony orchestra playing a great ballooning crescendo as if in the next moment it could devour the maestro but still play on can you, if you are in great health, feel this absence of pain and would it be like a silence, an deadly empty musical score? ...
Incitement
I hear the frequency of my kitchen the deafening sound of appliances that killed the wind, the quiet murmur of the grass and the cicadas and the death throes of little animals I try to remember the smell of the earth her dirt, her ashes, her streams, her stones her forests, her oceans, the long ...
gaze
I observe myself with scientific precision: a large-brained primate manipulating an artifact with dexterous fingers. I have gone to bed with blackness lately for those who know how that feels. Time's racing. Imagine you are the only one in the universe you are its grimace and everything is suspended Perhaps we need words that last, ...
Plastic Jesus
Among the finalists of the yearly Dutch 'Turing' poetry competition was a small notable poem by Raph de Haas, that should have won the first prize. I suggested to have it translated into a number of languages, so I contacted the relevant literature funding programs, who put me in touch with publishers, who in due ...