Den uitweiding
Behalve den manco die de Sarphatistraat 1 de mooiste plexiglas van Europa vond, heb ik nooit een wonderlijker kikker keukenprinses gekend dan den uitweiding.
Den uitweiding, dien je in je bling bedelbrief vond liggen met zijn vuile scooby schoener, als je 's avonds laat thuis kwam. Den uitweiding, die je signalen oprookte, en van je taboe stopte en je steentijdperk verstookte en je kasteelvrouwen kattenbakken nakeek en gelegenheidsdrinkers van je leende en je schoener opdroeg en een jeneverbes van je aantrok als-i in den reggae reiger naar huis moest. Den uitweiding, die altijd wat liet halen op den nabeschouwing van een ander; die als een vos vouwfiets voyeurisme jeugd zat te drinken op 't terreur van ‘Hollandais’ voor de centraalstation van de luierbroekje; die paratroepen leende en nooit terugbracht; die een basisbegrip stookte in de tweedehandsch kadaver kadetje kaftan van Bavink; die dubbele bordelen borelingen borelhapjes droeg van zijn brokkenpiloot brombeer en de boemelaren uitleende van Appi, en buitenlandsche rekels maakte als-i z'n ouwe hefbruggen weer had afgezet, en pakpapier paksoi palmolie droeg, die hij nooit betaalde.
Wednesday, 15 April 2009
Tuesday, 7 April 2009
Ooooh sounds text - tricky
Whose shoes? Truth! Too few true doom roots excuse lewd clues.
You knew? Phheww! Boo! Boo! Mood…soothe bruises, blue, ooh ooh,
Sue Sue! Sue knew too, you blew, who brewed new juice? Few do. Chew!
Goose? True. Goose juice. Obtuse fool.
Inspired by Dr Seuss and Georges Perec
Work on this one. The above is just a brainstorm
You knew? Phheww! Boo! Boo! Mood…soothe bruises, blue, ooh ooh,
Sue Sue! Sue knew too, you blew, who brewed new juice? Few do. Chew!
Goose? True. Goose juice. Obtuse fool.
Inspired by Dr Seuss and Georges Perec
Work on this one. The above is just a brainstorm
Monday, 6 April 2009
Antidotes and opposites
I recall hearing a Manu Chau song at numerous parties. Me gustas tu, I think. Whilst not hating it, I felt like hearing an antidote to this perfectly fashionable brew of reggae, latin acoustic, protesty, hedonistic musik, music that no-one would dare object to. Dope-y, ethnic, yet sounding clichéd to me.
"What is this crap?"
"What? This is Manu Chau man. Get a life!"
Like objecting to Rooibos tea in certain circles
"but it's from South Africa!"
So I just wonder what the antidote to Manu Chau is.
I'm starting to get sick of the blues - rock paradigm too. In fact I think I've always been sick of that.
Blues Folk Rock Roots bla bla bla
and don't get me started on Franz Ferdinand.
Antidotes, I need antidotes....
Christian Marclay?
Now, I want to write antidotes for poems or parts of poems.
This will be more like writing opposite / inverted meanings or images. I am going to start with this poem and see what it gives me:
Kirk Pram
12 long years have not broken him.
Exiled in a battle poem, wiping mud and blood from his knees
he creeps like a puddle of cream,
advances on your magnetic north.
Every word he utters makes a dog bark
and the images trickle out of his head.
His eyes are half-shut as he paints his name in palest blue
on the door of the guilt enclosure.
Floating on a river of lava he doesn’t singe, just sweats
till at an opportune moment
he swerves to avoid the dark side, falls
into a warm salty bath
and gently washes off his erudite tattoos
"What is this crap?"
"What? This is Manu Chau man. Get a life!"
Like objecting to Rooibos tea in certain circles
"but it's from South Africa!"
So I just wonder what the antidote to Manu Chau is.
I'm starting to get sick of the blues - rock paradigm too. In fact I think I've always been sick of that.
Blues Folk Rock Roots bla bla bla
and don't get me started on Franz Ferdinand.
Antidotes, I need antidotes....
Christian Marclay?
Now, I want to write antidotes for poems or parts of poems.
This will be more like writing opposite / inverted meanings or images. I am going to start with this poem and see what it gives me:
Kirk Pram
12 long years have not broken him.
Exiled in a battle poem, wiping mud and blood from his knees
he creeps like a puddle of cream,
advances on your magnetic north.
Every word he utters makes a dog bark
and the images trickle out of his head.
His eyes are half-shut as he paints his name in palest blue
on the door of the guilt enclosure.
Floating on a river of lava he doesn’t singe, just sweats
till at an opportune moment
he swerves to avoid the dark side, falls
into a warm salty bath
and gently washes off his erudite tattoos
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