IV - march 2017
ik wil, ik ben
I want to know.
We want all. Now.
Ô, Moloch. Just take them.
If it gives us absolute knowing,
They want pictures.
Let us see through.
We went to church,
It was new.
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,
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.
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.
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.
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
Un ventre de vanité.
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