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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

vrijdag 29 juni 2012

Dream text about an Irish Bin Laden

Dream about an Irish Bin Laden

I enter my flat but the flat is empty! Where are all my things? Weird situation; have I been burglard?
A little man is sitting in a corner.
-Hello, he says, my name is Oscar and I am an expert in emotional blackmail. If you want your stuff back you have to make me a painting of Bin Laden.
He points with his finger to one of the walls, There is a huge woorden frame a skilled carpenter has pitched into the wall.
-Start with the frame, the little bastard orders me.
Oh well, I have nothing else to do, except catch up some sleep, so why not?
In a corner of the room I find brushes and Peint Neuf tins.
-Do they still make that shit? I ask Oscar, who does not reply.
I use all colors at once, that will teach the mongrel.
I use so many thick layers of paint I cannot finish the frame, there is simply not enough Peint Neuf.
So what to do now?
Oscar is getting excited and jumps up and down like a monkey that has discovered a sudden gold chain.
-Now you have to travel to Valletta in Malta. There is a stash of Peint Neuf hidden in the carcasses of frozen meat in a plant run by a former African prostitute who made carreer in Belgium.
-Is that the same woman who ruined the De Keyn brothers with her expensive taste for jewelry, race cars and race horses? I ask.
-The one and only! Okay, I cleaned her stables once, so their might be a positive connection.

JUMP in time. I am in Malta now but have no clue how I got here.
At the meat factory they explain me that their last shipment went to the Irish Republic but that they sold the Peint Neuf as the more expensive Carlux paint. The oldest trick in the book!
But I can take a boat to follow the convoy to Ireland.
In the harbor a brass band conducted by Peter Postlethwaite is playing military tunes. Strange, I thought he died last year or so.
-What’s going on?
-Oh, they are celebrating the return of Bin Laden to Ireland. He’ll be on the same boat as you.
-Yes, the Americans killed a lookalike and Bin Laden is not a Saudi at all but an Irish freedomfighter from the IRA and he is now returning with all honors to his home country.
I nodd my head in disbelief and board the ship.
I see Bin Laden on the deck. He’s talking with an accent like Martin Mc Guinness to a fellow conspirator. He has also shaved off his beard.
-We have to tackle the weakest link of American imperialism and that is the UK. We can murder the queen during her visit to Northern Ireland. Charles takes the throne but that’s a complete morron so this will lead to the end of the present monarchy. I marry Parker Bowles and become ruler of England, then assassinate some British generals, blame it on the Americans and the UK declares war to the USA and the nuclear destruction of capitalism can start, finally!
-That’s a far fetched plan Bin, his buddy explains. I found out that the Irish potatoe famine was caused by a voracious beetle. We smuggle these beetles into the frozen carcasses of meat to New York and start contaminating their agriculture. Natural bio warfare, that is the solution to all our problems. They will have no clue what hit them and we remain safe in holy Dublin, the Virgin Mary be blessed and Allah as well.
I am getting a headache of those 2 nutcases. In the meantime the ship is attacked from all sides by giant waves and sea monsters, whales, giant fish and octopus, even the kraken joins the party.
The ship manages somehow to avoid all these monsters and sea outrage but I can’t take the visual bombardment on my retina anymore, so I leave the deck and go downstairs.
The ship is constructed as a narrow spiral and I pass a lively pub while walking down. Because my head is spinning I decide to enter the jolly establishment.
-Ah, there you are, we haven’t seen you for a while, a waitress shouts with enthusiasm at me and she kisses me on the mouth.
Did I take this journey before? It seems to be so.
Ladies with naked breasts and no arms are sipping from their shiny cocktails.
They giggle and explain me
-We all suffer from a Venus de Milo complex and take this trip to cure us.
-We shall arrive in Dublin in 30 minutes, a grave voice announces, so please have more drinks before the final call!
Half an hour of more nightmares?
From Malta to Ireland in such a short time, this makes no sense at all, I am thinking but repress that thought at once.

I am behind Bin Laden and his mate when I leave the ship. They are still inventing more ridiculous plots to destroy US imperialism.
I leave them to their fantasies and try to find the Carlux cargo.
The harbor master explains me that the cargo is already sold with some serious profit to the Italians and is on its way to Milan. But I can take a direct train from Dublin to Milan and will be there in time to intercept the cargo.
-Italians are great business partners, they buy sardines and sell them as expensive tuna, a trade unionist explains. We all like Italians!
I don’t ask the question how the direct train ride is possible but jump on the first train going to Milan.
-Don’t fall asleep, a soft voice announces, we’ll be in Milan in 5 minutes!
OOPS, more weirdness.
-I do not get this, I challenge the ticket controller.
He smiles and explains:
-We Irish have invented a machine that contracts and suppresses time and then deconctracts and unfolds it. That is the main reason of our present welfare.
-We made a capital mistake and sold it to the Greec government who told us they would apply this to their own booming turism industry but they introduced it to the whole of their economy and that plan backfired in their own and Europe’s face. We pay them money however to keep quiet that the mystic economy contracting machine is an Irish responsibility. He refunds my ticket to keep me quiet. I accept because this is funny bussiness after all.
Man, I think, I am learning more and more about the truth about the European crisis during this crazy trip then while I am clustered to the media propaganda TV Channels from all over the world.
The train stops and has arrived inside the Milan cathedral. Now is that not amazing?!
I look to some praying nuns and see that the ladies with their Venus de Milo complex are also in the Duomo. I wave to them but they cannot wave back of course, so still not cured I guess.
It is like being in a De Chirico meets Paul Delvaux painting.
Are you in pain an angel of mercy, asks me?
Pain?, Oh I came here to collect some paint. Time to look around and resist the dragons in the cathedral.

THROW ME THE KEYS THROUGH THE WINDOW BECAUSE THE FRONT DOOR IS LOCKED AND I FORGOT MY KEYS, my neighbor is shouting loudly, so loudly that he wakes me from this dream. I see my furniture and books, no Oscar and no frame at all.
Oh well,
does anyone has Obama’s email address so I can warn him about that Irish Bin Laden dude?

Guido Vermeulen, June 2012

donderdag 28 juni 2012

gedicht bij tekeningen van Sevgul Suner

De vrouw heeft haar ogen geledigd
in de eenvoud van een aarden beker.

Het afgedane paradijs stort zijn kruis
in de gapende afgrond van weke tijd.

Zij geeft het niet op, zij geeft het zelden op,
vormt bloemenweelde met haar open lippen.

Uit de wortels van haar haren
bloeit vrede op in een luchtbel.

De vogel verlaat de getekende hel.
in de ontkenning van waarheid vermomd als leugen.

Haar geheugen blijft onaangetast, zeer zeker.
Hun vlucht wordt terugkeer in een gezamenlijk geheugen.

Guido Vermeulen
28 juni 2012

woensdag 27 juni 2012

Asemics Love Letter

Lorine Niedecker writes a love letter in code
to Louis Zukofsky

Where is the light promised in childhood?

Great new poetry edition called LIGHTING VARIABILES
from the Serbian poet IVAN GLISIC
translated into English by the American poet

Most of the poems are tributes to other artists,
Cover by Caspar David Friedrich, so as sample
I selected one of the poems based on the CDF

Note also that there was a German mail art tribute project
to CDF a couple of years ago.

dinsdag 26 juni 2012


Large painted envelope around a quote on dreams from Fernando Pessoa
Mailed to Theresa Williams, USA

Whenever I’ve dreamt a lot,
I go out into the street with my eyes open
but I’m still wrapped in the safety of those dreams.
And I’m amazed how many people fail
to recognize my automatism.
For I walk through daily life
still holding the hand of my astral mistress,
and my footsteps in the street are concordant and consonant
with the obscure designs of my sleeping imagination.
And yet I walk straight down the street;
I don’t stumble, I react as I should; I exist.

FERNANDO PESSOA (20 July 1930)
From «The book of disquiet»

zaterdag 23 juni 2012


Small painted envelope for Cuan Miles in South Africa.

A reaction on reading the novel DEATH AT INTERVALS by José Saramago.
What would happen if death went on strike in a country and men became immortal?
The church has to revise its doctrine, undertakers go bankrupt, organised crime cannot kill anymore and have to smuggle their victims in another country.
When death returns letters of warning are sent to the people who are going to die but what if those letters are returned?
Hilarious novel, Saramago on his best!


Large painted envelope inspired by a poem from Francois Villon
Mailed to Theresa Williams, USA


vrijdag 22 juni 2012


(automatic text) mailed to Sevgul Suner Dielemans in Belgium

Menacing clouds above Brussels,
above a strange looking rooftop.
Why is this stream of steam escaping now?
On the left I see 3 chimneys.
On the right of the rooftop there are 4 chimneys.

I demonstrate my middle finger to the closed skies,
shouting with the simplicity of a maiden voice:
god, or whatever, you only approve symmetry,
but I shall never recognize the wonder of your so-called cration,
your bipolar obsession for peace and harmony is leading to a blind
hatred for what seems to be according to your own standards
not to be in balance on a rooftop I am watching this moment.

The dark clouds open thru’ a sudden ray of sunshine
& god, or whatever, starts shouting back:
NO, NO, my only purpose with this creation
was that you all got a grip on things,
that you could become responsible yourself
of the order of disorder or the disorder of order.
I had no other ambition, really, this is true!
I don’t give a damn about fake equilibriums
which have NO or LITTLE importance at all in the run of time.
My brother, the devil, has explained this to you in detail, that was his mission after all,
but you have chosen to burn his voice at the stake, so stage fright were you all!
I only ask this small question through the loop-hole of your secured houses and fences:
Thunder and lightning echo that there is no difference or contradiction
in this challenge....

Of course, the voice continues, as one of the many gods
(and why did you start thinking that there is only one)
I can only define myself as an atheist,
so you morrons are able to earn the credit
of running your own lives, finally!

I bow my head & look to the rooftop
now bathed in golden sun light and I see that
3 chimneys are smoking white light,
the other 4 are spreading black light.

Steam blows from my nose, my body becomes machine!
All makes sense now.
In a jolly good mood I burn
the bible and other self proclaimed holy books,
so they can join the smoke.
I try to determine in which light they are transformed but honestly, I DO NOT KNOW !!!

Collage, photos and text: Guido Vermeulen, June 2012

woensdag 20 juni 2012

40 seconds of street poetry

From Zois Elizabeth and Lynn Palmiter Jr, USA


A collage by Bruno Sourdin, France;
published in Blackbird 10, editor: David Stone, USA

Eric Basso wrote now a new poem around this collage!

Email message:

Here's one inspired by the Bruno Sourdin collage in Blackbird.

- E.


the old woman knew there
would be blood on her hands
as she followed four paces
behind her shadow which
had taken on the consistency
of the thick grass at its feet

the shadow was dissolving
the woman thought of litanies
fit to be chanted by madmen
of the red monkey crouched
in the corner of the bedroom
she would never see again

she tripped over dead roots
murmured to the blackbird
that hovered above her head
look hard enough and you
will find the vivisection room
at the end and to the right

neither the bird nor the man
who collapsed by the chair
where the ivy wall began
could understand a word
of what the woman tried
desperately to tell them

the brief glimpses of memory
vague rumblings of marsh gas
the toothed bow plowing
the water of a moonlit lake
faded slowly as the shadow
lay down with the woman

June 20, 2012


NAPALM HEALTH SPA magazine, issue 2012

is now on line:

With contributions from a.o. Eric Basso, Kirpal Gordon, Guido Vermeulen


Napalm Health Spa, a Postbeat poetry magazine, was established in 1990 by Jim Cohn. The words "napalm health spa" came from a song by Bob Dylan, "Clean Cut Kid," off his 1985 Empire Burlesque album. The first eight issues of the magazine, 1990-1997, were done as limited editions in hard copy, hand bound, with handmade covers, in runs of 25-50. When Jim founded the online Museum of American Poetics (MAP) in 1998, Napalm Health Spa went digital. From 1998 to the present, digital back issues were available for viewing at the Napalm Health Spa Archive. In June of 2011, the original hard copy issues, without covers, were scanned and digitized so that interested readers could see the magazine's entire history. 


List of imaginary paintings

an automatic text dedicated to Yoko Ono.

Portrait of a fat lady with a fat cat.
Portrait of a thin lady with a small cat.
Portrait of a huge cat with a little lady.
Portrait of a giant bird with a dwarf cat.

Portrait of a hole in a canvas.

Selfportrait as an angry young man in a hole in a canvas.
Portrait of a bird flying through hole in canvas followed by angry cat.
Portrait of a hand reaching thru’ hole in canvas.
Portrait of flying flower seed through hole in canvas.
Portrait of flower bed in bloom behind hole in canvas.
Portrait of a storm menacing hole in canvas.
Portrait of a flooded city through hole in canvas, probably New Orleans.
Portrait of trombone coming through hole in canvas.
Portrait of ancient god, more angry than cat and I, through hole in canvas.
Portrait of a vanishing canvas through a big hole.

White monochrome painting.

Guido Vermeulen
20 June 2012

maandag 18 juni 2012


Painting and collage on envelope around a poem by ARTHUR RIMBAUD
mailed to Janine Weiss in Switzerland.

To hear the poem by Serge Regianni

zondag 17 juni 2012


Collage by Guido Vermeulen around the book PETITES MERVEILLES, POINGS LEVES by Jacques Izoard for the event that will happen on Friday, June 22, 2012 in the former house of the poet.

Small automatic island poem

Small Automatic Island Poem

For Rebecca Guyver

It is as simple as the color blue:
the isle hides in the lonely heart
without any saftey belts.

Have a safe drive
& enjoy your stay,
the hostess said.

What about that loud laughter?
I asked with a soft icecream smile.

Oh, that’s just the water
around the fish.

Guido Vermeulen
June 17, 2012

zaterdag 16 juni 2012

Looking at nature on the run in the 21st century

Large painted envelope based on a Neil Young song (after the Gold Rush)
Mailed to Spazio Studio in Italy

donderdag 14 juni 2012

woensdag 13 juni 2012

In een Europees restaurant


voor Simonne

Stoppelhaar en stoppelbaard
Een klein meisje streelt de vallende haren van haar vader
Zo hoop ik toch
Zijn stief- en stoeilief kijkt angstig vermoeidend toe

Verzwakte eendenborst staat vanaf nu elke dag op het menu
Licht valt vakkundig wit op het versleten tentzeil naast de bar
De handen gaan hulpeloos omhoog en onthoofden een hulpeloze kip
uit overgave of vertwijfeling,
wie zal het zeggen?
Zeker niet het beminde kind
De gulzige volwassene nog minder!

Ik bestel een halve liter
rimpelloze rode wijn
Een keffende hond kijkt over mijn bevroren schouder toe
alsof hij Waaslands wolf kan zijn,
een keuze heeft tussen onderduiken of verdwijnen
in de achtertuin van de keuken van ons lijdende bestaan

Het neergeschoten hert heeft bevend
zijn kop tegen de muur geplet,
pleit tevergeefs voor vrede voor
de vele kleffe aardappelen in de moordende oven,
die gaskamer van giechelende groenten
terwijl ik vrij eenzaam het giftige genot
verken van hun pijngeschiedenis, schreeuwend
«Wie niet opspringt als een kreeft, is eraan
voor zijn gedane moeite
van de Oeral tot La Mer du Nord»

Met de lippen van zeewansmaak
proef ik de woede en de armoede
van zowel prei als ui en wortel,
terwijl uit mijn worstelvoeten wortels groeien
om mij wellicht blijvend te verlammen

Een schaterlach gloeit als glimworm
op de monding van mijn mond

Onbeweeglijk zal ik sterven
maar onbewogen nooit
zo orakelt mijn maanlandschap

Terwijl in een heel ander hemellichaam
een zeemeeuw vol overtijging krijst:

Guido Vermeulen
written at The Grelha Restaurant
June 13, 2012

Small Automatic Mail Art Poem for Cheryl Penn

Small Automatic Mail Art Poem for Cheryl Penn

When Pencaster
said GOTIJ
to Pandamonium
he really meant ZALOP

Once upon a time and in a sudden flash
the borders of the world
will disappear
between people

Mail art is
a poem
without explicit

Guido Vermeulen
June 2012

dinsdag 12 juni 2012


ARTIST BOOK by Cheryl Penn, South Africa
made for me,
I am more than honored here!