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*
ik houd de inleiding even heel erg kort.
men ziet en voelt en schrijft.
ik zet hier een van mijn meest recente poems neer,
hebben jullie ook iets *V A N-------J E Z E L F * in deze kunstvorm.
zet het ook neer.
*
cursed, curse it, destroy cause we deserve it,
all stand and open, shout your day's your lies,
for we have never had our eden, we cannot find dilmun
we masked while the world cries,
tones shatter trough our lives
bonds break when we believe
sides take what once was mine
love hates for everytime.
cursed, curse it, destroy cause we deserve it.
pronounce your complication
act and tell me you cant fake it,
hello jail, subdue me your satan
prizes for your rape
i dont live here, i am fine
heads talk on the molly tape
love hates for everytime.
[ Bericht 1% gewijzigd door BaajGuardian op 17-02-2006 17:39:32 ]
ik houd de inleiding even heel erg kort.
men ziet en voelt en schrijft.
ik zet hier een van mijn meest recente poems neer,
hebben jullie ook iets *V A N-------J E Z E L F * in deze kunstvorm.
zet het ook neer.
*
cursed, curse it, destroy cause we deserve it,
all stand and open, shout your day's your lies,
for we have never had our eden, we cannot find dilmun
we masked while the world cries,
tones shatter trough our lives
bonds break when we believe
sides take what once was mine
love hates for everytime.
cursed, curse it, destroy cause we deserve it.
pronounce your complication
act and tell me you cant fake it,
hello jail, subdue me your satan
prizes for your rape
i dont live here, i am fine
heads talk on the molly tape
love hates for everytime.
[ Bericht 1% gewijzigd door BaajGuardian op 17-02-2006 17:39:32 ]
Vraag yvonne maar hoe tof ik ben, die gaf mij er ooit een tagje voor.
het ware land van de goden van sumerquote:Op donderdag 16 februari 2006 16:08 schreef Lienekien het volgende:
Wat betekent 'dilmun' en wat 'molly tape'?
mollly is een verwijzing naar schapen, tape een verwijzing naar de tape van de onthoofding van ene berg.
Vraag yvonne maar hoe tof ik ben, die gaf mij er ooit een tagje voor.
Ik snap er nog steeds niks van.quote:Op donderdag 16 februari 2006 16:55 schreef BaajGuardian het volgende:
[..]
het ware land van de goden van sumer
mollly is een verwijzing naar schapen, tape een verwijzing naar de tape van de onthoofding van ene berg.
The love you take is equal to the love you make.
Poems is engels voor gedichten.quote:Op donderdag 16 februari 2006 16:54 schreef BaajGuardian het volgende:
[..]
dat is gedichten , dit is poems.
Ik snap dit topic niet. Is het voor Engelse gedichten? Of is een "poem" dan juist iets specialer ?Wat onderscheidt poem van een gedicht?
?Wat onderscheidt poem van een gedicht?
Al die willen te kaap'ren varen, moeten mannen met baarden zijn.
Hoogachtend,
Erik.
Hoogachtend,
Erik.
Ik schrijf dit voor een vriend van mij want die heeft geen zin om zich nu zelf te registreren en ikheb hem net Fok! laten zien
Komt ie:
vrijheids zucht;
t zachte gepuf
van wat net onsnapte lucht
uit mn thermoskan
de stille schreeuw
van de echo;
n vallend blaadje
raakt
mn parket
t versteende broodje op mn tafel
mn teennagels zijn te lang
Komt ie:
vrijheids zucht;
t zachte gepuf
van wat net onsnapte lucht
uit mn thermoskan
de stille schreeuw
van de echo;
n vallend blaadje
raakt
mn parket
t versteende broodje op mn tafel
mn teennagels zijn te lang
Ik adem in en kalmeer. Ik adem uit en glimlach.
dat laatste molde de sfeer moet ik zeggen.
Vraag yvonne maar hoe tof ik ben, die gaf mij er ooit een tagje voor.
O, We Are The Outcasts
ah, christ, what a CREW:
more
poetry, always more
P O E T R Y .
if it doesn't come, coax it out with a
laxative. get your name in LIGHTS,
get it up there in
8 1/2 x 11 mimeo.
keep it coming like a miracle.
ah christ, writers are the most sickening
of all the louts!
yellow-toothed, slump-shouldered,
gutless, flea-bitten and
obvious . . . in tinker-toy rooms
with their flabby hearts
they tell us
what's wrong with the world-
as if we didn't know that a cop's club
can crack the head
and that war is a dirtier game than
marriage . . .
or down in a basement bar
hiding from a wife who doesn't appreciate him
and children he doesn't
want
he tells us that his heart is drowning in
vomit. hell, all our hearts are drowning in vomit,
in pork salt, in bad verse, in soggy
love.
but he thinks he's alone and
he thinks he's special and he thinks he's Rimbaud
and he thinks he's
Pound.
and death! how about death? did you know
that we all have to die? even Keats died, even
Milton!
and D. Thomas-THEY KILLED HIM, of course.
Thomas didn't want all those free drinks
all that free pussy-
they . . . FORCED IT ON HIM
when they should have left him alone so he could
write write WRITE!
poets.
and there's another
type. I've met them at their country
places (don't ask me what I was doing there because
I don't know).
they were born with money and
they don't have to dirty their hands in
slaughterhouses or washing
dishes in grease joints or
driving cabs or pimping or selling pot.
this gives them time to understand
Life.
they walk in with their cocktail glass
held about heart high
and when they drink they just
sip.
you are drinking green beer which you
brought with you
because you have found out through the years
that rich bastards are tight-
they use 5 cent stamps instead of airmail
they promise to have all sorts of goodies ready
upon your arrival
from gallons of whisky to
50 cent cigars. but it's never
there.
and they HIDE their women from you-
their wives, x-wives, daughters, maids, so forth,
because they've read your poems and
figure all you want to do is fuck everybody and
everything. which once might have been
true but is no longer quite
true.
and-
he WRITES TOO.
POETRY, of
course. everybody
writes
poetry.
he has plenty of time and a
postoffice box in town
and he drives there 3 or 4 times a day
looking and hoping for accepted
poems.
he thinks that poverty is a weakness of the
soul.
he thinks your mind is ill because you are
drunk all the time and have to work in a
factory 10 or 12 hours a
night.
he brings his wife in, a beauty, stolen from a
poorer rich
man.
he lets you gaze for 30 seconds
then hustles her
out. she has been crying for some
reason.
you've got 3 or 4 days to linger in the
guesthouse he says,
"come on over to dinner
sometime."
but he doesn't say when or
where. and then you find out that you are not even
IN HIS HOUSE.
you are in
ONE of his houses but
his house is somewhere
else-
you don't know
where.
he even has x-wives in some of his
houses.
his main concern is to keep his x-wives away from
you. he doesn't want to give up a
damn thing. and you can't blame him:
his x-wives are all young, stolen, kept,
talented, well-dressed, schooled, with
varying French-German accents.
and!: they
WRITE POETRY TOO. or
PAINT. or
fuck.
but his big problem is to get down to that mail
box in town to get back his
rejected poems
and to keep his eye on all the other mail boxes
in all his other
houses.
meanwhile, the starving Indians
sell beads and baskets in the streets of the small desert
town.
the Indians are not allowed in his houses
not so much because they are a fuck-threat
but because they are
dirty and
ignorant. dirty? I look down at my shirt
with the beerstain on the front.
ignorant? I light a 6 cent cigar and
forget about
it.
he or they or somebody was supposed to meet me at
the
train station.
of course, they weren't
there. "We'll be there to meet the great
Poet!"
well, I looked around and didn't see any
great poet. besides it was 7 a.m. and
40 degrees. those things
happen. the trouble was there were no
bars open. nothing open. not even a
jail.
he's a poet.
he's also a doctor, a head-shrinker.
no blood involved that
way. he won't tell me whether I am crazy or
not-I don't have the
money.
he walks out with his cocktail glass
disappears for 2 hours, 3 hours,
then suddenly comes walking back in
unannounced
with the same cocktail glass
to make sure I haven't gotten hold of
something more precious than
Life itself.
my cheap green beer is killing
me. he shows heart (hurrah) and
gives me a little pill that stops my
gagging.
but nothing decent to
drink.
he'd bought a small 6 pack
for my arrival but that was gone in an
hour and 15
minutes.
"I'll buy you barrels of beer," he had
said.
I used his phone (one of his phones)
to get deliveries of beer and
cheap whisky. the town was ten miles away,
downhill. I peeled my poor dollars from my poor
roll. and the boy needed a tip, of
course.
the way it was shaping up I could see that I was
hardly Dylan Thomas yet, not even
Robert Creeley. certainly Creeley wouldn't have
had beerstains on his
shirt.
anyhow, when I finally got hold of one of his
x-wives I was too drunk to
make it.
scared too. sure, I imagined him peering
through the window-
he didn't want to give up a damn thing-
and
leveling the luger while I was
working
while "The March to the Gallows" was playing over
the Muzak
and shooting me in the ass first and
my poor brain
later.
"an intruder," I could hear him telling them,
"ravishing one of my helpless x-wives."
I see him published in some of the magazines
now. not very good stuff.
a poem about me
too: the Polack.
the Polack whines too much. the Polack whines about his
country, other countries, all countries, the Polack
works overtime in a factory like a fool, among other
fools with "pre-drained spirits."
the Polack drinks seas of green beer
full of acid. the Polack has an ulcerated
hemorrhoid. the Polack picks on fags
"fragile fags." the Polack hates his
wife, hates his daughter. his daughter will become
an alcoholic, a prostitute. the Polack has an
"obese burned out wife." the Polack has a
spastic gut. the Polack has a
"rectal brain."
thank you, Doctor (and poet). any charge for
this? I know I still owe you for the
pill.
Your poem is not too good
but at least I got your starch up.
most of your stuff is about as lively as a
wet and deflated
beachball. but it is your round, you've won a round.
going to invite me out this
Summer? I might scrape up
trainfare. got an Indian friend who'd like to meet
you and yours. he swears he's got the biggest
pecker in the state of California.
and guess what?
he writes
POETRY
too!
Charles Bukowski
ah, christ, what a CREW:
more
poetry, always more
P O E T R Y .
if it doesn't come, coax it out with a
laxative. get your name in LIGHTS,
get it up there in
8 1/2 x 11 mimeo.
keep it coming like a miracle.
ah christ, writers are the most sickening
of all the louts!
yellow-toothed, slump-shouldered,
gutless, flea-bitten and
obvious . . . in tinker-toy rooms
with their flabby hearts
they tell us
what's wrong with the world-
as if we didn't know that a cop's club
can crack the head
and that war is a dirtier game than
marriage . . .
or down in a basement bar
hiding from a wife who doesn't appreciate him
and children he doesn't
want
he tells us that his heart is drowning in
vomit. hell, all our hearts are drowning in vomit,
in pork salt, in bad verse, in soggy
love.
but he thinks he's alone and
he thinks he's special and he thinks he's Rimbaud
and he thinks he's
Pound.
and death! how about death? did you know
that we all have to die? even Keats died, even
Milton!
and D. Thomas-THEY KILLED HIM, of course.
Thomas didn't want all those free drinks
all that free pussy-
they . . . FORCED IT ON HIM
when they should have left him alone so he could
write write WRITE!
poets.
and there's another
type. I've met them at their country
places (don't ask me what I was doing there because
I don't know).
they were born with money and
they don't have to dirty their hands in
slaughterhouses or washing
dishes in grease joints or
driving cabs or pimping or selling pot.
this gives them time to understand
Life.
they walk in with their cocktail glass
held about heart high
and when they drink they just
sip.
you are drinking green beer which you
brought with you
because you have found out through the years
that rich bastards are tight-
they use 5 cent stamps instead of airmail
they promise to have all sorts of goodies ready
upon your arrival
from gallons of whisky to
50 cent cigars. but it's never
there.
and they HIDE their women from you-
their wives, x-wives, daughters, maids, so forth,
because they've read your poems and
figure all you want to do is fuck everybody and
everything. which once might have been
true but is no longer quite
true.
and-
he WRITES TOO.
POETRY, of
course. everybody
writes
poetry.
he has plenty of time and a
postoffice box in town
and he drives there 3 or 4 times a day
looking and hoping for accepted
poems.
he thinks that poverty is a weakness of the
soul.
he thinks your mind is ill because you are
drunk all the time and have to work in a
factory 10 or 12 hours a
night.
he brings his wife in, a beauty, stolen from a
poorer rich
man.
he lets you gaze for 30 seconds
then hustles her
out. she has been crying for some
reason.
you've got 3 or 4 days to linger in the
guesthouse he says,
"come on over to dinner
sometime."
but he doesn't say when or
where. and then you find out that you are not even
IN HIS HOUSE.
you are in
ONE of his houses but
his house is somewhere
else-
you don't know
where.
he even has x-wives in some of his
houses.
his main concern is to keep his x-wives away from
you. he doesn't want to give up a
damn thing. and you can't blame him:
his x-wives are all young, stolen, kept,
talented, well-dressed, schooled, with
varying French-German accents.
and!: they
WRITE POETRY TOO. or
PAINT. or
fuck.
but his big problem is to get down to that mail
box in town to get back his
rejected poems
and to keep his eye on all the other mail boxes
in all his other
houses.
meanwhile, the starving Indians
sell beads and baskets in the streets of the small desert
town.
the Indians are not allowed in his houses
not so much because they are a fuck-threat
but because they are
dirty and
ignorant. dirty? I look down at my shirt
with the beerstain on the front.
ignorant? I light a 6 cent cigar and
forget about
it.
he or they or somebody was supposed to meet me at
the
train station.
of course, they weren't
there. "We'll be there to meet the great
Poet!"
well, I looked around and didn't see any
great poet. besides it was 7 a.m. and
40 degrees. those things
happen. the trouble was there were no
bars open. nothing open. not even a
jail.
he's a poet.
he's also a doctor, a head-shrinker.
no blood involved that
way. he won't tell me whether I am crazy or
not-I don't have the
money.
he walks out with his cocktail glass
disappears for 2 hours, 3 hours,
then suddenly comes walking back in
unannounced
with the same cocktail glass
to make sure I haven't gotten hold of
something more precious than
Life itself.
my cheap green beer is killing
me. he shows heart (hurrah) and
gives me a little pill that stops my
gagging.
but nothing decent to
drink.
he'd bought a small 6 pack
for my arrival but that was gone in an
hour and 15
minutes.
"I'll buy you barrels of beer," he had
said.
I used his phone (one of his phones)
to get deliveries of beer and
cheap whisky. the town was ten miles away,
downhill. I peeled my poor dollars from my poor
roll. and the boy needed a tip, of
course.
the way it was shaping up I could see that I was
hardly Dylan Thomas yet, not even
Robert Creeley. certainly Creeley wouldn't have
had beerstains on his
shirt.
anyhow, when I finally got hold of one of his
x-wives I was too drunk to
make it.
scared too. sure, I imagined him peering
through the window-
he didn't want to give up a damn thing-
and
leveling the luger while I was
working
while "The March to the Gallows" was playing over
the Muzak
and shooting me in the ass first and
my poor brain
later.
"an intruder," I could hear him telling them,
"ravishing one of my helpless x-wives."
I see him published in some of the magazines
now. not very good stuff.
a poem about me
too: the Polack.
the Polack whines too much. the Polack whines about his
country, other countries, all countries, the Polack
works overtime in a factory like a fool, among other
fools with "pre-drained spirits."
the Polack drinks seas of green beer
full of acid. the Polack has an ulcerated
hemorrhoid. the Polack picks on fags
"fragile fags." the Polack hates his
wife, hates his daughter. his daughter will become
an alcoholic, a prostitute. the Polack has an
"obese burned out wife." the Polack has a
spastic gut. the Polack has a
"rectal brain."
thank you, Doctor (and poet). any charge for
this? I know I still owe you for the
pill.
Your poem is not too good
but at least I got your starch up.
most of your stuff is about as lively as a
wet and deflated
beachball. but it is your round, you've won a round.
going to invite me out this
Summer? I might scrape up
trainfare. got an Indian friend who'd like to meet
you and yours. he swears he's got the biggest
pecker in the state of California.
and guess what?
he writes
POETRY
too!
Charles Bukowski
Who's the leader of the club that's made for you and me?
mischien is het je ontgaan , ik zal het even in caps in mijn OP neerzetten zodat iedereen, zelfs mensen diie wat moeite ermee hebben, het kan begrijpen.
Vraag yvonne maar hoe tof ik ben, die gaf mij er ooit een tagje voor.
Kan je mij uitleggen wat het verschil is tussen een poem en een gedicht in het engels?
Al die willen te kaap'ren varen, moeten mannen met baarden zijn.
Hoogachtend,
Erik.
Hoogachtend,
Erik.
Nou, ik heb drie jaar geleden alle auteursrechten van Bukowski opgekocht, dus ja; 't is van mijzelf.quote:Op vrijdag 17 februari 2006 17:37 schreef BaajGuardian het volgende:
mischien is het je ontgaan , ik zal het even in caps in mijn OP neerzetten zodat iedereen, zelfs mensen diie wat moeite ermee hebben, het kan begrijpen.
.
.
Who's the leader of the club that's made for you and me?
een poem is een gedicht in het engels.quote:Op vrijdag 17 februari 2006 17:40 schreef Tha_Erik het volgende:
Kan je mij uitleggen wat het verschil is tussen een poem en een gedicht in het engels?
Vraag yvonne maar hoe tof ik ben, die gaf mij er ooit een tagje voor.
Andijvie, andijvie
Lamsbout, ragout
Drie aardappelen
en een ijsje toe
Broccoli, broccoli
Pindasaus en suikerspin
Een vers glas melk
en vla met een kers d'r in
Zeker weten doe je het nooit
Maar hopelijk tot morgen
Ik zie je in het Land van Ooit.
Dus.
Lamsbout, ragout
Drie aardappelen
en een ijsje toe
Broccoli, broccoli
Pindasaus en suikerspin
Een vers glas melk
en vla met een kers d'r in
Zeker weten doe je het nooit
Maar hopelijk tot morgen
Ik zie je in het Land van Ooit.
Dus.
Clementine: Are you nuts?
Joel: It's been suggested...
Joel: It's been suggested...
(bijna) alle onzin verwijderd.
Poging 2 En nu in het Engels, Bupatih.
Poging 2 En nu in het Engels, Bupatih.
En nu in het Engels, Bupatih.
"Dear life, When I said "can my day get any worse?" it was a rhetorical question, not a challenge."
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