[LIVING TEXT / LEVENDE TEKST]
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[fragment: SADBOY]
RED TURTLE: Pardon me, but you’re sitting on what I consider my shell. It’s nothing against you personally. I don’t like anyone sitting on my shell like that. SADBOY: Whoah! I’m sorry, turtle-person. I thought you were just some oddly looking rock. RED TURTLE: No need for apologies, I do look a bit like some oddly looking rock when I’m within myself. It’s my head, tail and legs that make one realise I’m actually a turtle, you see? SADBOY: I see. What’s your name? RED TURTLE: My name is RED TURTLE. What is your name? SADBOY: SADB- … SQUIDIUS. RED…
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[fragment: KINTSUGI POLTERGEIST]
Tijdens zijn reizen met de Wild West Show gaf hij zijn geld aan de armen. Tatanka Iyotake vroeg zich af hoe er zoveel armoede te midden van zoveel eindeloze rijkdom kon bestaan. Zijn aandeel in de tot vaudeville vervormde geschiedenis ter vermaak van het Amerikaanse en Europese publiek: Tatanka zag toe hoe de armen zijn aalmoezen aannamen en het publiek zijn performance met Buffalo Bill met groot applaus ontving. Chaos, bloed, kogels, pijlen, geschreeuw en gejammer. De slag om het vettige gras, Little Bighorn. Het visioen van Tatanka en het einde van George Custer, indian fighter. Zijn medicijn was ooit…
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on poetry [fragment: FATAMORGANA—gata]
Often, I prefer the poetry that delves into the depths of our existence by trying to find a language to describe it that’s both beautiful and equally brutal. I rarely like poetry for its smart and well made layers of meaning— that’s often just there to make the writer feel intelligent, and give bored people a sense of accomplishment in understanding them. I usually like poetry for its ability to slaughter the petite; the fragile picture carefully constructed [by the poet]. I like a poetry for its daring to be grotesque, explosive, raw. A poetry willing to sacrifice itself. A…