funki boeks


funki boeks

IV - march 2017

ik wil, ik ben

I want to know.


We want all. Now.

Ô, Moloch. Just take them.

Keep them.

If it gives us absolute knowing,

They want pictures.

Let us see through.



We went to church,

It was new.

Ik wil.

He is talking.

He takes a human appearance.

The vault was high.

I was under the crossing lines,

No light through the vitrals.

At this moment,

Ik ben.

In 1972, my grand-father left my grand-mother’s house, in Strombeek, on the hilly outskirts of Brussels, for the first time. Just before his departure, he poored Pisang on the balcony, sealed  with dead plant leaves and broken pieces of glass the apertures in which the different rooms were discussed and assembled, made alterations to the provisions of shadow cells by taking 100.000 Belgian franks, and left a feeling of sultriness and a trail of ashes on the radio, bookshelves and the countable ruggs and carpets, making these regions of the house the most fertile for the following thirty years. But it was only during the last act, the act of inserting a silver object in a vexed area of a piece of wood, that he pronounced the terms of condition, while exposed to the strange and morose rendering of

the orange light.  They are the following:




A day run astray but not lost. A dried-up carpet stain, a spastic vibration, taken faraway.

A closed sometimes, while the sun comes in, a new.




A choice that at high temperatures glows in environment of nitrogen and/or carbonmonoxide and disposes, by means of evaporation a ceaseless flow of microscopic particles, which settle themselves on the inside of the house, whereby the house,in time, dusks.



La Honte:

It is either a military tactic or an ululation (klaagzang) that has it’s origin in the first sounds.

It is a particular, grievous mode of weather which is converted into language upon it’s death.



Brasschaat, Belgique

A form of rain that is neither poor nor stubborn. Theoretically, there’s an occurence of acuity when approched, but acuity is relative and subbordonate to the songs and the smoke of the sea, pluie,

lake and the melancholy which is cherised by a diffusing sky.

Il       en       va        de       la       fragilité      destructrice.

D'une                       passionnante                        fatalité.

D'un        vide       pénible.       Un        lavabo        tâché.

À     ceux    qui    nous     dérobent,   qui   nous   veulent.

Nous     faisant     miroiter     une      hivernale      félicité.


Il         est         entré             dans           la          piscine.

La                                                                               nuit.


Ses    jambes    déformées    par    les    arcs   de   l'eau.



Par ce que le reflet dans l'eau n'avait  rien d'un souvenir.

Saoul,                                il                                        vint.

Miséreux            et           plein         de           poussières.

Comme     coagulées     sur     l'arrête     de     ses   poils.

Il                           a                         fait                      froid.

Accoudé  sur  la fausse  porcelaine  de  la  salle de bain.


Imbibé  du  carrelage,  et de   ses   rainures   de  crasse.

Un                                  sale                                    fléau.

Son                  attente                    en                      écho.

Réfléchie          sur        le          creux       d'une        ride.

Comme                   une              vieille                souillure

Coincée                  sous                la                 phalange.

La                                  porte                               ouverte

Pour                                                                      ventiler

Un                   ventre                      de                    vanité.



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