The Smile of the Unvanquished

langs de kliffen... ik vlei me neer aan de rand, koperen schilfers wiegen een stil intermezzo op de wenken van de machtige dirigent: de overjaarse zilte bries die het grauwe land bestiert. tijdloze roest, de schitterende dood van industriële fossielen, verwelkte ijdelheid dat lacht om het cliche van de lotus-bloem en het gewrocht van duizend ganzeveren op perkament die haar schoonheid en onpeilbare wijsheid bezongen. onpeilbaar, een diepte zo nauw en toch bewoont door kolossale gedrochten die je stom aanstaren. uitzicht op een eindeloze witte vlakte van aangekoekte zandkorrels, dat knersend een polyfonie aanheft, waar ik mijn bastaardnaam in herken. ik hoor hier niet thuis, maar dat ene moment van lucide zinsverbijstering stevent reeds van me vandaan. verankerd op deze plek, versteen ik met het landschap - een doorn rust op het slaapbeen van de granietrode koningin.

dead of night: a town cloaked in sensual velvet a soft whisper of wind rustles up the debris of a season fading and  sweeps over the unruly waste of mass-produced instant gratification eternity tainted by perpetual twilight a man walks by: his gait is fluid and his mime, inaccessible  he prowls on phantom menaces,  lurking from behind any street corner his thirst for wild endeavours matches their hunger for blood and loot as per dialectic chemistry muffled sounds wave in from distant highways the neighbourhood, though, hears only his solemn military pace - a metallic cadence grinding rain-washed pavements vapid opinions stopped death, sensations purged he shears across a mileage of blighted patina -  footman to his stream of consciousness.

eyes dwell upon the restless sea and the blind wall of the sky the heart drums up its will to take up authority which strides towards the pulsing core of its yearnings the soul endures the parched and idle earth amidst towering coffins and the sewers of our pretension when, at last, will our light find the brilliance to unlock the inscrutable wild blue yonder?

There are people who suffer the consequence of a moment of neglect, the tiniest mistake. Overall, when they win with hardship three moves in a row, their action is felt like an act of provocation, and are send every which way but at least six moves in reverse. I gather a long time ago, that I belong to that category of involuntary sinners. Fair play is an abstract notion, the shadows are larger than ourselves and we're outrun by them. Like the haunting of a Black Hound, following the track of its victims, outsmarting their bid for a safe den. And so we're left with this existential crisis, wondering if that's all to it what we call life, do we have something to show for. Are we condemned to reap only the leftovers, in youth and old age, then wither, til no memory about us lingers forth and everyone else just continues with the order of the day. Move over, sucker, you're done for!.. We yearn for peace and serenity, and it hasn't happen yet and if we tas...

White blossom seated in a wreath of gnarled fingers; a prim lodestone harangued by the glaring moans which in haunting waves run off from parched thirsty mouths. Their predatory desire brewed from acrid pain skews her lofty aspirations and turns her ringing laughter to an idol of shame. To wistful humility devoted, she withers and bloats til all her unshed sweet tears are collected in a cuirass glossed with the colours of her hawkish suitors: burning ardour and the scorn of the immature.

The Far North in the best of seasons tickles the gorse to unfold its cheerful boisterous yellow, rival of the often absent sun and richer than a gold ore, and later in the year, heather raises its shields   of majestic purple to imbue the shivering souls with pride and comfort, to act defiant against the vicissitudes of an inclement course of existence.  In both, floats the waif-like ghoul of melancholy, of woes unspoken from generations into more generations, saddling the heart on the back of roaring white horses, carrying it away beyond the shimmering threshold of the horizon, a destination beyond sun-set concealed from sight by that dense stole of rising sea haar, while the body reduced to dust, coats the skin of the glens and bens.  The physical appearance of the Dark Gaels emulates this ancient demesne on whose craggy rock formations laps the moody sea with its own terse dander; dark hair seething with inflammable emotions, the murmurs of a brooding soul, love-s...

a good way of therapeutic note to deal with a nightmare in the aftermath of its event as to fleece its malevolent tenure, is a shake-out by the might of the proverbial pen; the crude bits of its carrion left to simmer in the floating memory should be added to the cauldron of imagination. so here we go: Woke up with one of my strangest dreams up to now. No moans escaped to the open, but my alter ego in that stark landscape painted in dirty puce an d slate tones cried out his anxiety in a shrill rapidfire mixed with anger and disbelief. Parallel to these panic-stricken antics, detached and observing, not merely looking passively from aside or above, was a part of me intently, intensely and fired by a clinical curiousity digging into the trauma. Apparently I had lost overnight all of my teeth on the left-hand side of my upper and lower jaw, which raised more puzzlement than distress and while bad enough; in view of what came to pass next, it was merely a laughable minute ...

He straightened his collar in front of the mirror, put his hat on and made it steadily to the front door. A cold shiver run through his body: an aftermath reflex that spoke of receiving clemency for the deed done and the thrill of excitement as he had about embarked in a new order of taking up his life. He was pleased with himself, with a self-indulgence that lapped at arrogance's hem. Freedom shone on him with a beatific sheen. He unbolted the door, lay a hand on the handle, ready to drink from the fresh well of the night. ''Darling, have a good time out, but haven't you forgotten something? I want a kiss, a proper kiss before you leave the poor missus alone at home!'' Her grin stretched wider than the crack racked by the axe planted in her skull earlier that evening by her scrawny jittery hubby. Slowly she rolled and raised herself from her favorite armchair. It goes without saying that the door would remain shut for a far longer duration than his ...

He went through his paperwork, his eyes did not fail to see for what they are but his mind refused to register the matter and its contents in the ordinary way as much as he would give credence to a beautiful and beckoning mirage in the scorching desert. His mind went blank. A white infinite void where in the furthest reaches a bold question mark dangled on a thin thread that struggled to keep the heavy weight at its end upright. Ink and paper were reduced to their basic substance... oil and wood. From there it was an easy jump to denote the million years of decomposition and the rousing lark with which ancient dark woods sprouted from mulchy bronzed soil. The plasticity of organic composition struck awe in his tired numb mind. And a touch of frisson, welcome like a quickening brew in the morning. Gone were the ghostly notion of his surrounding, but when he flicked his eyes for a brief moment to the window pan and saw what was reflected on the grimed glass, he was catapulted in a har...