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Voor Emmy

Zijn het pluimen of bladeren
die ontsnappen uit je binnenste hartkamer
of is het de gloed van de kleur van kloppend bloed
hunkerend naar de stilte van rimpelloos

Als haar handen vloeibaar worden
krijgt de piano vleugels op het doek
Een boom verbijt haar vergezicht
In de diepte luisteren wortels verrukt
naar de zachte braille van haar bestaan
Tuinen hangen van de wolken
omlaag, omhoog groeien vreemde bloemen
uit een ingebeelde notenbalk.

Guido Vermeulen
14 november 2011

Muziek bij de video: Claude Debussy

maandag 26 september 2011

Kid Quiet by Lovers

zombiesemics inspired by the song Kid Quiet from Lovers

tears of white and grey fall upon your handle-bars andmix in with the rain. oh what a day. you'd never seen a brighter star,you'd never be the same. cause when we touch, the shadow of a bicy-cle is no more beautiful than us. so at dusk, meet me on old summerroad in the autumn cold to talk. kid genius, you built me a radio, saidwhen i feel alone, turn it on, and i'll find you there somewhere with atinfoil smile or like a star. with no one ever there you'd laugh eachtime they didn't care but now your sides ache and i came too late.with glitter in your eyes you'd laugh each time you would've cried butnow your sides ache. you laughed until the tears came. and nowyou've gone away, and in a little room i dream of you and the picturein my brain doesn't fade like the circles of a radio signal float out intospace. and before you lfet you came and hung a string of lightsaround my bike as i slept. a sweet planet where fireflies zoom like ahundred moons around your room in orbit is my wish, and a ten-foot-tall mirror-ball hung from city hall. and good magic. my constellationkid, i plotted the routes you'd traveled through and the line i drew con-nnecting it made a clear image of a lightening bold through your child-hood home, like the stories told on your wrist. tears of white and grey.i'll never see a brighter star.

vrijdag 23 september 2011

Breakfast Time by Adam Boenig

zombiesemics inspired by the following short fiction by Adam Boenig:

Breakfast Time for +Nina Pelletier

Waking from my eight our slumber, I cloth myself in fabrics of a foreign nature (made in China). Having dawned my armor, I emerge to face what awaits me.

It's breakfast time.

On my journey to the kitchen, I narrowly avoid death as I slip in my socks upon the tiled floor, barely catching myself on the firm support of the wall as I run and slide in the hall. Thinking quickly, I gather all the ingredients for my breakfast:

An onion. Eggs. Milk. Cheddar.

Thinking quickly, I choose my weapons from a drawer...the one to the far left of the sink, one drawer down.

A cheese grater.

From the knife rack, I remove a large knife. A blade to aid in the defeat of these monstrosities!

What can I say? They're a little old, the onions; still good, just have to peel off a few more layers.

Picking up the block of sharp cheddar (extra sharp, the most dangerous kind!) I us my trusty edge to chop off a large hunk. This, I take and put aside.

I realize I competely forgot the prison for my creations. I go open the cupboard and pull out two bowls. Contemplating for a moment, I pull out yet another bowl.

I had decided to add... ham.

I open the fridge and dig through the drawers in search of the elusive beast. I find a bag of the lunch meat and take out two slices.

It will do.

I take the slices to the chopping board, next to the stove. I make one pass over it, chopping it into thin ribbons. I repeat this again; now it's cubes. And again! I decimate this ham!

That being done, I realize there is nothing with which to cook my defeated enemy. I lean down, open a lower cupboard, and pull out a pan; a shield to match my blade. I put this on the stove, turning the heat to medium.

Things were getting hot.

While things were getting hot, I put the now atomized ham into a bowl to keep it contained. Otherwise, God only knows what it would be capable of! I then shred the cheese, enjoying it's imagined cries of agony as I...

What the hell. I put aside one bowl and just grate it directly on top of the ham.

I then take three eggs... that's right, three: I'm high enough level... and crack them, one handed, into the other bowl.

It is only then that I realized I am unequiped to deal with this danger. With fast reflexes I grab an egg beater, and before they have a chance to attack I quickly mash them into a bloody pulp! Then, I add milk and seasoning, mixing them all together, enjoying this small victory.

But this was no time to rest, o no; there was still a foe left behind, and I, much like my predecessor, take no prisoners.

I take the inion and quickly chop the bottom and the top off. I smile grimly as I peel off it's skin, then the first layer of dermis lying underneath, throwing them all into the trash. I then slice it; one cut at a time, one slice at a time, making sure it suffers; and suffer, it did. I then repeated the procedure I had with the ham; chopping it once, and again, and thrice!

The pan was now hot.

I spray pam in the bottom; butter flavor, for buttery death. I then add the ham. It sizzles with a glee echoeing my own as the smell of burnt flesh fills the small kitchenette. Grabbing a spatula, I stir it; I want it cooked equally, with no part left untouched.

I then add the onions, poring them from their prison onto their banished comrade. It knew what was coming; you could tell by the way some flakes clung to the side of the bowl, which I deftly scooped out with my finger. A new smell now entered the air; a scent of charring, cooking onion. I revel in it as I stir them all together.

And now, the main ingredient; the eggs.

I pour them in slowly. I want to revel in it; my vanquished enemy, now ment to serve as a means to feed my growing hunger. I begin to stir quickly, knowing how fast they cooked, how easily they could rebel. The eggs cooked into white sheets, made fluffy by the milk and delicious by the it's allies.

Waiting until the last moment, I seized the bowl of cheddar and pored it on top. It bubbled and melted, it's essence covering the foe in delicious cheddary flavor.

When it had melted, I scooped the contents of the pan onto a plate and prepared to sit down for my victory meal. Then, I decided this meal deserved toast.

I look. The bag is empty. Noooooooo!

And so it is that rather than eating my victory meal, I instead have to mount my stead (A bluc Chrysler Conchorde) and go to the market for a very important item. I will not stand such a travesty as being toastless! For this, I will need extra gear, which is located in my den.

Stealing away back down the hall whence I came, I open the door and grab my Bag of Infinite Holding (My backpack). All I need is contained therein; my wallet, important papers, magazines, newspapers a length of rope, an oil lamp, lamp oil, a bow, a satchel of arrows...

...I may or may not have made some of that up. You decide.

That said, I exited my den, passed through the kitchen and the living room, and exited out the door for my fetch quest.

The weather outside: brilliant. Just chill enough; a light breeze coming off the river. There are trees everywhere, so it always smells of greenery; lots of gardens too.

Passing through the treachery of sticks and stones that is our driveway (and realizing I must weedeat again, lest the weeds get out of control and I have to use magice to clear them), I unlock the door with a key I paid much gold to have. I slide into the driver's seat, throwing my bag into the passenger seat. I alide the key into the ignition, turning it. The creature roars to life.

Guiding it forward, I steer it along the path, avoiding the grass where monsters may lurk (and so I don't anger the creatures known only as neighbors). It glides past them disturbing none. My steed can outrun them, but it is not them I am worried about, for they have the ability to summon blue uniformed creatures who cannopt be beaten with sword or bow, and my negotiation skill is not nearly high enough to get out of a ticket.

I come to an intersection, where herds of steel beasts trundle buy; many of them exceeding the posted speed limit. I wait until there is an opening, before gliding deftly through to join the herd. You must pretend you are one of them, you see; it's the only way to survive their treachery.

I come to a traffic light, which turns yellow and, and causes me to slow down; for, occasionally there is a guardian at these posts, and they can be ornery when angered. I move on as the light turns green, turning left and following the road up to the market, using the back entrance rather than the foront, because only beginners used that. I am no beginniner.

I pull in and park the car, grabbing my bag and walking to the area known as Publix, where many strange cultures congregated in their quest for the important items usually listed on a Grocery List. I did not have one, for I am a forgetful being and such things to not interest me.

I step through the glass door as they slide opn, grabbing a special item known as a cart and going out in search of items we may need. Within these hollowed walls lies a never-ending supply of important, health-restoring items, all lined up on shelves and tables.

I knew where I needed to go, so I went and got the necessary items, making sure not to get distracted by my gowling stomach. Hunger makes you do stupid things in stressful situations; being surrounded by food and other hungry beasts much like yourself is one of those situations. Gathering my items, I put them withing the cart's protective walls, guarding them against foragers and thieves, watching them closely.

The goods were delivered and scanned; I paid the NPC using a debit card. Epic class.

Having attained my goods, I went to deliver them to my steed. I popped open the trunk and transferred my loot therein, quickly, before I am noticed.

My quest complete, I climb back into the front seat of my transportation. I turn the ignition; once again, it starts with a satisfying growl.

My necessities attained, I return home.

Rod Summers' Helgi Saga I

zombiesemics inspired by Rod Summers' Helgi Saga I

woensdag 21 september 2011


Painting by Guido Vermeulen on the table where it was realized.

Poem by Amanda R. on the death of her 4 year old son.

First it was necessary to loosen gunk
from his eyes
so he might see again (that he was blind was no matter)
then came the peppermint-flavored mouth swabs
to moisten and freshen the
morning tongue

listen for the beep
of exhausted pediasure supply
whirring motor of enteral feeding pump
keeping my son alive

petroleum jelly on the cheeks
help to reduce the chafe
of precious woolly blanket

phenobarbital sits nestled in
whimsical viking lunchbox
against crusty plastic syringes
dose of relief to constant
seizures of the brain

one arm holds sinister stuffed black rat
the other hand is harnessed in a thumb splint
futile attempt to prevent
the skin from breaking down

sometimes he has a crazy striped stuffie
with mp3 attachment
that plays a constant rotation of Okkervil River
because that is what we like
him and I

blue eyes stare into my soul
no mallady can reduce
the intensity of such a gaze
I understand everything
and nothing
and all things in between

now I have an empty bed
stained with mucus and blood
and an empty soul
stained with tears and regret


Great poetry book by Guy Beining published by Phrygian Press in New York in 2008, a gift from David Stone (thanks David!)
Rue is the French word for street, so you can read title as "in the street"; the book contains 24 observational and introspective poems. Here is a quote from the last one:
"We are there at the edge of shade, cast by in rue. With resolve we solve nothing, as we put pencil lines along question of where we stood"


Everybody makes list, so Toon Joosen asked members of the mail art network to send him lists or to make art inspired by lists. He produced a full color book as documentation, beautiful with a great cover from Perlette Adler (Belgium).
Starting point was a quote from the Italian writer Umberto Eco.
His next project is on art in schooldays, another good idea;
The whole catalogie is also on line:

dinsdag 20 september 2011

maandag 19 september 2011

A season in hell

Large painted envelope I made inspired by one of the major poetry books by Arthur Rimbaud; collection: Sophie Vangor, Belgium


Art from Cuan Miles, South Africa, tribute to Patti Smith, USA, who was inspired by the poet Arthur Rimbaud, France.
Above the postcard from Cuan is a scanned handwritten poem by Rimbaud

zaterdag 17 september 2011

Jitterbug Bookmark & Poem

Pointed fingers tracing out instructions.
Fending Questions.
Asking Questions.
But mostly avoiding Questions.

I'm tired of asking myself why.
I'm tired of the talking, I'm tired of the lies.
I want to be left alone,
Cloistered in a box.
And I don't want to care.

I want people to stop demanding.
I want myself to stop demanding.
I want whatever fucked up insecurity I have,
To go. Away.

People talk so much about stress,
So much that it's become a cliche.
We complain about it in our every day lives,
We acknowledge that any time, we can get out of the system.
For a price. For a heavy price.
So we don't.

So we keep on complaining,
And we continue our facades.
We cloak ourselves in hypocrisy,
Under the table, we hide piles of cards.
We dream about being free,
About estrangement from status and money.
And then we wake up, and it's gone.
The only dreams we have are shattered.
Or wet.

Chastity belts.
Economic prosperity.

At one point in our lives,
We all say, "Fuck them all."
We fantasize about suicide,
We paint pictures of starry night skies.
And we replace the little part of us that dies.

Then we rise up from the dead,
We resume our cycle once again.
No pain, no gain, we say.
And this is where we are.
Always complaining,
Always waiting.
For that glorious day,
That will never come.

At least not for me.

collaborative artwork by:
poetry by  Lemons Don't Make Lemonade

vrijdag 16 september 2011

JPod by Douglas Coupland

zombiesemics  inspired by Douglas Coupland's JPod.


Papercut by Guido Vermeulen, sent to Cathérine Petré, around a poem by Emily Dickinson. This is how I commented the papercut on the Art & Lit group on IUOMA (join; it's a fantastic group!)

I made a papercut Wednesday (because of the positive reactions on the papercuts, I do them occasionally, almost therapeutic, they calm me down because of the concentration but hard on the wrists!). Also I wanted this to link with an Emily Dickinson poem, a conversation between life and death and that's a major theme in the oeuvre of ED as well as a classic theme in Lit. altogether.
First I made the papercut, will post the image later and then choose a matching poem:

That such have died
Enable us
The tranquiller to die
That such have lived
For immortality

Or one dead makes us accept we all have to die (bye bye ego)
But the twist is the second stanza where ED opens the door to immortality because of the life the dead has lived, and it's of no importance how long that life was.
Shocked me after I put everything together, cried a bit and made another note on the back of the papercut "thinking of Gabriel again"
One of the most powerful death poems I know:
In a + sense: Renaissance by Edna Vincent St Millay (a young girl wants to die, buries herself in a coffin under the earth but is lured back to life by the tapping rain on that same earth, Edna wrote this when she was 17)
In a more negative sense: a dead poem by Joyce Mansour that ends with the desperate cry "oh God, how lonely I am in my grave".
Mansour is a major poet by the way, Egyptian, wrote in French and part of the surrealist movement but like so many wonderful femails in that movement completely overlooked and overshadowed by her male compadres. It's a shame!
Long live TOYEN, MANSOUR, ZURN, TANNING, CARRINGTON, MAAR, MILLER and others, you are all invited to discover their art, writings, photo's and meaningful lives.


What FRIDA saw !!!

Old collage by Guido Vermeulen for a project around Frida K.

Just a biography

Incredible! When I received the mail from Theresa (see next item) it was like magic.
Yesterday I went to an exhibition of my pall Mario Villagi in the Brussels' Outsider Art Museum and recent works from Mario were on Frieda and Diego. We talked about the meaning of his paintings, about the differences between the 2 protagonists, our love for the KAHLO movie and this biography, a gift from another "buddy", the Belgian poet Liza Leyla; all artists seem to come together in the same framework of "mind" , or is it "heart"?


From Theresa Williams, USA


By Henning Mittendorf, Germany, quote from a letter by Hermann Hesse (author of Steppenwolf/ Siddharta) to Thomas Mann in 1935.
I read the German text and started crying (the title says it all ...)


From Henning Mittendorf, Germany, around a letter from Goethe in 1832 to Soret


From Theresa Williams, USA



Arguments in the distance.
Books piled high in his study
and the postman delivering more.

He always wanted more time
and there was never enough of it,
never would be again.

The endless loop of her sister
cycling in the close and
the drums echoing next door.

She remembers planning
how to remember, what
she might save from now for then,

remembers realising she does not
want to be here in this place
where they have chosen to live.

She would rather be at home
but this is her home, the now
and the when and the why.

It was nearly a revelation.

© Rupert M Loydell


徐志摩 by Lemons Don't Make Lemonade

Saying Good-bye to Cambridge Again --- by Xu Zhimo

Very quietly I take my leave
As quietly as I came here;
Quietly I wave good-bye
To the rosy clouds in the western sky.

The golden willows by the riverside
Are young brides in the setting sun;
Their reflections on the shimmering waves
Always linger in the depth of my heart.

The floating heart growing in the sludge
Sways leisurely under the water;
In the gentle waves of Cambridge
I would be a water plant!

That pool under the shade of elm trees
Holds not water but the rainbow from the sky;
Shattered to pieces among the duckweeds
Is the sediment of a rainbow-like dream?

To seek a dream? Just to pole a boat upstream
To where the green grass is more verdant;
Or to have the boat fully loaded with starlight
And sing aloud in the splendor of starlight.

But I cannot sing aloud
Quietness is my farewell music;
Even summer insects heap silence for me
Silent is Cambridge tonight!

Very quietly I take my leave
As quietly as I came here;
Gently I flick my sleeves
Not even a wisp of cloud will I bring away






donderdag 15 september 2011

woensdag 14 september 2011

From birds ...

ATC by Anke van den Berg, Belgium around a fragment of poetry by M. Vasalis.
Her reaction on "Running Wild"! Translation:

"From birds only feathers
or the finest abrasives
of singing or the sound
of dry little feet under the dark rooftop"


A collage I made for Anke van den Berg around a fragment of poetry by M. Vasalis
"My eyes became wild women & wandered away
& returned nevertheless to the place where the king came"

A tribute to the Dutch poet M. VASALIS

A mail art work from Cathérine Petré between the collected poems of Vasalis and a biography on Vasalis in one of my book cases.
M. Vasalis (1909-1998) wrote the most gripping and finest, elegant poetry in the Dutch language. She refused to publish poetry any more after world war 2 and the loss of a child. For her a personal loss connected with a general historical one (the holocaust). While Celan and Adorno were debating "if it was still possible to write poems after the extermination camps of the nazis", she answered this by absolute silence and a non publication of her poems. The last poetry book was published after she died (in 2002, a collection of poems under the title "the old coast line") and contains some of the greatest poems I've ever had the privilege to read in my life!



Large painted envelope around the opening lines of a poem by M. Vasalis, for Cathérine Petré in Belgium

Zombie Encyclopedia Page

my own addition to the zombie encyclopedia,
this work inspired by Philip K. Dick's A Scanner Darkly.

Secrets of hurricanes, stage 1

Making the background by pouring dilluted inks on a wet paper, washing them away, adding some splashes of non dilluted ink on the surface, waiting till the surface dries and watching it from all sides to see which images emerge; this stage can last for days before continuing because of the multiple readings and possibilities; here are 4 photos of the results, the last ones give you a clue why I continued like I continued but other interpretations and visions of the same images are possible: it's our own brain that makes these connections and images, like I explained to KDJ

Secrets of hurricanes, stage 2

Drawing some of the figures I see in the cosmos.
I insist on this, other figures are possible, from the same background you have almost an infinitive way of interpretations and drawings!

Secrets of hurricanes, stage 3

Adding colours on the background surrounding the figures

Secrets of hurricanes, stage 4

Stage 4:

1) adding colours in the figures

2) adding signs & dots in figures and backgrounds

3) watching the finished work against window; up for the first time, I always paint flat on a table or on the floor

The link with stage 5 (the poetic letter to Theresa) is obvious; the daylight of the sun invades the night to murder it, a slow process shown by the invading colors, a bit in figure 1, more in figure 2, and a lot in figure 3.
That we are blinded by the light is a main theme in my poetic work, it's a major theme in my poetry edition "The forest pledged my shadow" of which I mailed the last copy to Theresa earlier. I prefer the night, it stimulates you "to see differences" while in the spotlight we are blind fools (also a Springsteen song IF I'm not mistaken!)