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PAINTINGS BY EMMY VERSCHOOR

VOOR EMMY

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
Water?

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

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.
Crying.
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.
Religion.
Economic prosperity.
Self-command.
Self-esteem.
Art.
Art.
Art.

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

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