'I seek the brightest star in the universe' say he. The morning glow of the planet. The universe undivided. All of that.



Fed up with the bunch of morons who think they know best. You can't even tie your laces properly. Aren't even fit to shine my shoes, shoeshine folk wherever you come from. If you're reading this then feel concerned.



'I seek godliness through the times, the heavenly on earth' say he who I desire. Not social crap



I don't need your care.

You're money.

Or you're opinion.



To me you just want my attention and you all tire me. Get a life.



I seek what you cannot find.

My ambition lay beyond even your wildest dreams. My ambition will lead me right through the center core of the earth and beyond.



By the time you're dead I will have seen the four corners of the earth.

I will have met people, civilization you have never even heard of.

I will have engaged in matters you can't even dream of. I will know what's it's all about.



Who rides what bus in what district of whose country.

I will have met every beggar, wanderer, pioneer, activist, buddhist, terrorist, general and president on this earth.



Back in the real life in purest form. Just wandering about. Everyday a day to remember.



I will have felt pain, pleasure, love, rejection. All of that and much more.



I don' need you're retard opium garbage talk bunch of creeps.

You tire me with you're attention seeking approval. No exception.



'I seek the brightest point on this earth' where I can't sit back. Look back and feel the absolute dimension that can be given to me in a lifetime.



'I seek the perteum mobile' say he who writes tripe and sometimes a rhyme and sometimes just what you want to read. Sometimes just wants to spit you right in your face or just say a couple of friendly words.



You think you know anything. I can prove you wrong anyway. I don't need you're socio psycho garbage that only leads to mental retardness and captivity.



As nightfall another day in captivity. Another filling through the lines what you cannot imagine. You can't even find your bed or house or know the direction of you're compass. You're all a bunch of f*ck ups. No exception.



Nothing can retain me eventually. Patience for your garbage that's the time I am doing right now.

Zaventem Airport 1981

The Occident lay open before me,



like a ship stranded upon the North Sea.



No shoes had I on.



The Orient was gone.

Crazed pumped jam to craddle with.



Crappy memory sewage redistilled by imagination and counterfeit dollar bills drenched in blood.



Old dirt removed from the contact lens that clears the view through old mountain pathes of historical ethos and instinct predation. Give me some clear crystal drinking water from the South Pole germinated with dinosaurs and other long gone species. I must catch the next disease tonight. Mutation, morphological mutilation transmutational compromise. I must improve upon Darwin.



From purple to red and green all the colors of the rainbow. Galaxy hermit space transgender cowboy.

The sky is clear tonight. I can see in the distance the Ursa Major shinning. Yeah, that's where I am going ce soir. Odysseys beyond my imagination.



Union division states in the land of tripple tripe stars red white and blue.



Mars Jupiter the moon as in the star spangled banner missiles upon the earth in tempo of valse.



Toad drain, brim brain, hyppopotamus in the water.



Fucking creep in control.



Throw your garbage, banana skins, plutonium bombs into the Panama canal.



Don't even bother to clean up!



Soon Mars is your destination. If you're lucky. A ticket to the outer rim of our galaxy or Canada.



All others will be exterminated.



Human animals creep killers. Trees, oceans, bears, rainbows, mountains.



This place sucks anyway.





http://nl.youtube.com/watch?v=r0VUXLsBSjo

Personality engulfed by a new world.



Elizabeth Barret Browning with her eleven-points-poem.



How can I elevate my poetry-prose?



The paper stares point-blank at me.



The bullets are missing the skull.



I love thee, more than myself.



Share a wisdom uncovered by gun-powder, by share of joy and care of the barrel pointed at the moon.



Old wisdom:' The fingers point at the moon in the reflection of moonlight in a pond'



Which indicates wich?



Today encompassed in the wallpaper. Locomotive motives of unrelinquinshed thirst.



Steam engines pilled up with the pressure of the room.



The scent of wood blasted to coal and pieces of ashes , treated like pulp of cranberrie juice, sliced up for consumption.



Fighting spirit in tomahawk coal mines of grisant peace in the valley.



Common thirst for unreliquinshed wanting of earhtly things.



How can I decorate my surrounding in gourmet Los Angeles smog?



The sea I can't reach like in a Russian painting.



Where am I? Stuck to the wall flat as a tyre. I can stare at you, while you don't even see me.



Gurdjeffian landscapes in pianossimo of Arabian Caucasian ladder with mystical content in two dimensions.



You walk passed me in 3d into the planes of the Sahara. A mirage upon the altitude of my vision upon the a wall of dimensions unreal in glass sand and cement portrayed inbetween the jointure aired in the damp moist room off the wall.



Almost Apalache tracks in Apache rhyme for the immigrants who layed the tracks for me. Smoke of burned visions and unrivalled rivalry as the well of my consciousness mirrors upon the screen stuck to the wall in front of me. I can't dislcose my location. I can't differ with you. I can't but know that you have the skill that strikes me through patient moments of lack of furniture and comfort on tornado week-ends in oaklahoma at the end of the week almost.



A crime, a being, an am, conception, pre-conception, the future.



A typewriter, an unfinished poem.



Syndicates of words.



What is the order that thou has conceived?



Yes, I can write to you Great Being Spirit of the Western hemisphere as smoke morse for your burning passion of well being in vacant state through the midst of the dessert I can't find. Are you there? are you anywhere? Find me and bring back the peace to my mind.



Ah it is late and I am in coma.





http://www.poetseers.org/the_great_poets/female_poets/elizabeth_browning_poetry/2/

Another day has passed.



Seems like everything, people as if in sign language.



Railroads high through colored lenses.



The dark lenses don't fit.



A xylophone tune of old songs. Brushes are but indication of your mood as is the qwerty keyboard sometimes a peacekeeper sometimes a hammer. Twinkle star it is late already ten.



Caleidoscope vision. Old stuff. New stuff. Junk garbage. Periscope high above noon.



Creation and green colors like trees in the horizon. Pink sky purple crossroads under grey horizon among the wedge of the carved nightscape.



Chissels of real creation in random winds and runover leftovers of the weather.



Of whom to write but strange nightingales, swans, peacocks, ducks in the bassin of my memory(?). The mystery of language and computers. They don't equate.



A typewriter to remember.

Radio on! I wish Gainsbourg were still alive! and Edith Piaff, Barbara then I would go to their concert en français et Allemand - Triangle fm. I am lost while living abroad, sunken deep into shit at the moment. I am in some lost place called Heillo. So far so good. The route description I cannot give you. Even in your wildest dreams you wouldn't even come close to saving me from more predeliction! I love complaining and pain and misery such it is known. Fuck grammar, sentences, adverbials. I love universal grammar. Poetic license one hundred percent. Are you the blogger reading my fringing from yesterday, namasté! O.K. I love poetry so let's start. everyday a rhyme to southe your soul dear readers.

This morning I awoke in a rush while the rain outside pouring... A film I was remembered of. 'Underground' by Emir Kusturica. The day Balkan style. That's what brought me to this place first time. Food was served just like machine guns were fed to me. The Germans marching into Zagreb cheered by the locals. The trip continues. I am one feet above the ground. The months pass and still my freedom is grim, grey and dust at the moment. Getting a little better adjourned the summer is lost, so I must endure on own energy. I am kept in the dark fed with good intentions that make me lazy. By midday I was burnt out. I relinquish my memories of youth when I used to play in monsoon catching froggs and total freedom. Horseback on Elephants. The West is a grim place. Westerners are grey people. So am I.

Toulouse I was most happy. Great climate, friendly people. Once I was almost run over by a bus. I haven't seen home for more than eight months. At the moment Amsterdam. I miss my place. My own brainwash crap routine pain staking routine rat race run rush computer music balcony bed and all ustensiles of my kitchen cooking workbench neighbors. Dear neighbors.

Logics missing when the night has crept into the window
cramp. craving for more you.

The chair starts turning in whirl.

huricane dog. Ships around. Metal pscho institution.

Je manque.

Je sais que je t'aime. Qui ça? Elle sait. Ce n'est pas que des hormones.

Je suis un animal, un homme et viens de loin alors aurevoir et a demain.


A day has passed as birds sing a song
Has thou worshiped like them and theirs anthem
has thou let yourself guide just as them
And waken up thy highness the glorious Sun
With thy Morning Walk the river along
That before day break follows the stream
That thou has chosen.

Or be it Thou has slept the morning come
and be it nighted in a soul asleep.

Thy torch must be timely to the sun
And then will she be lit on day's break
And be it day in a soul awake.


http://www.trianglefm.net/

Wow! beforehand. Glimpse of distorted visions and unequivalent vanitude. Still great but cream crocodiles and peaches.

How to think when your mind is full of unknown options but the day is long and freedom scarce and pain is felt all through the body but the mind continues to grind and still I am happy 'cos I am gonna sleep well tonight when the stars shine and the moon fall asleep with tender loneliness all above the sky with want of unknown company and wine and dessert and strawberries and mountains and other succulents when the day ends after seven and half months of penitence and pain and distortion and all I want to be is a writer with no knowledge of self and ability beyond unknown dimensions that I seem not to find in unforgiving explosions of the grim clouds above the blues and sharp tone of the next generation of robots to come. Even a Haiku would remember my name!

ALL BRIGHT IN THE COLD,
I GLIMPSE SNOW LEAVES IN THE MIST.
GRRR! THE MOON HAS DIMMED.

http://www.in-vacua.com/cgi-bin/haiku.pl