I also, inbetween, chose the mermaid by Aad de Gids

here comes the poem of beauty it is falling from the sky
there isn’t any necessity or ever the answer nor question why
a topic isn’t necessary while one fares better with avoidance
of laTrumpe and kimYongUn. oh they will have their moment
their moment in the sun, their grey concrete dappled, seurat
cosmetological skins and hairs almost à la haute couture well
coiffed in the spirit of the late Coiffures Alexandre de Paris
their sinister beauty shall nevertheless not corrumpate this le
poème, these are domains shifting alongside each other doing
a “Panama”: ships passing through the night, not so much
the jumble on the planet, as they perhaps had hoped foreseen
as cardboard presidentes they, stand like dead trees visibly
yet innately empty eaten out by termites as can be seen off
of hayhair or the mohawk of pubic hair of kim. go play in da
park motherfuckers and leave us alone. let’s get lost as yous
two perhaps secretly love chet baker and listen intensely to
his otherworldly speedballed trumpet having made the world ah,
lighter place with thin trumpet and sparse emotive tones with
intensely singsong of windinstrument and frail voice broken as
effeminite by the heroin and cocaine, your skin oudh parchment
of sheer surfaciality, as how we perhaps can view the world

hypnotic sequencings by Aad de Gids

music keeps being a steeringwheel the churning bowl the rotating
wheel of karma especially this hypnotic sequencing music with bells
and poings, symphonic mass intermittent as backdrop and as lovely
as nonreplacable. essentialist wavering ribbon of time and pleasure
sometimes something urgent, troubling, an abstract necessity comes
to the fore now as in a spacey indian raga synth-induced druggy delhi
nylonoid music nevertheless with divaesque passion and raggedly
virtuosity not meaning a thing but a little glow of reinforcement in
the motivational emotional realm, vinyl nylon emotions tearfully as
the unexpected plague, broken. fields of tears and snowflakes asset of
the ‘distant saxophone’ (robert wyatt) and ‘uncertain trumpet’ (lyotard)
an elixirist accompaniment of the daily humdrum and ‘rests of talks
heard through slowly closing doors’ (jacques) on every floor as that
the building becomes a beehive of fragmented conversations, noisous
(nausious) lawmaking and laTrumpe rhetorics and shadow corporate
machinations as he thinks as such one rules a great nation here we
have such motherfuckers too as everywhere bc ‘here’ and ‘there’: dead

liberationday, holland by Aad de Gids

every country, every territory, geophysical terroir, every stretch of land

of which the denominators to bundle its local characteristics have long

failed due to war, tribal conflict, tribalist terrorist attacks, failure of peace

negotiations have long missed to facilitate some sort of unity, has yet its

own “liberationday” from World War Two. the Netherlands’ is this friday.


as everything becomes brittle so has this become a rigidified institution

and I must admit yesterday at 8pm I totally missed the two minutes silence

because of the remembrance of the dead, fallen in that horrendous war.

(I guess I were silent, untimely asleep from tiredness of work.) the war that

would end all wars was only an incentive to design thousand other wars.


as I shall reach 60 this year the 6th of july it occurs deeply people of our

age have grown up in an atmosphere nowhere and never free of war of

whichever kind and all we have gotten suffused with were images, heard

accounts of atrocities from victims of all the wars and warlike situation that

plagued and raged over the planet since we were children and witnessed.


this, of course instills in people a kind of generalised prepost traumatic

stress syndrome afraid after televised images of executions [General Nguyễn

Ngọc Loan, filmed and ‘snapped’, executes Nguyễn Văn Lém feb. 1st 1968]


or endless atrocities [the napalm girl Kim Phuc photographed june 8th 1972]


then the chilly abstractness of the cold war and divisionisms of N/S Ireland,

jewish people and islamists in the Middle East, of the N/S Korean Peninsula,

of Germany all with walls and no-go areas and innercity mutual exclusivist

zones as the Bronx, in all the great cities the solidifying cleft between “the

richer richer the poorest poorer” and the sickening expansionism of capitalism


next to this the failure also of (with the “merits” of which I were brought up)

the communist system with everywhere appr. 10 million deaths due to the

hegemonial totalitarian systems of diverse communist variants gone berserk

and slaying their way through the Soviet Union, China, North Korea, and

their smaller acolytes yet not without leaving the capitalist doctrine as pristine


now and then it seems good to give air to such desiderata to understand where

the fuck we have now landed this account still leaving under cover the sheer

unbelievable acceleration violence has reached since, say sep. 11th 2001 and

which terrorist atrocity has changed the face of this planet and or “human culture”

forever if ever there was such thing as “human culture” (than systemic murder)

neon nazism by Aad de Gids

frail is the invisible vanishing of the cold, sudden
nevertheless still in biting wafts of nordic chill
in the bones felt, along now the upcoming lament:
teary eyes a, heave of the poetic poitrine of the
world so sad, so sad so intrinsically linked with
“world” that its hurt is our hurt that megalomaniac
ruins our ephemerality as our togetherness each
time to achieve anew yet the Thing disrupts and
fouls his own people. “of the world” yes to make
up this syndromology of sociopathic sociologies
fabricated by an entire insane contingent of these
people who trusted this nazi enough to vote for it

the overdisney lobsterlonging by Aad de Gids

the overdisney lobsterlonging for falling in an unforeseen
situation. homicide by suicide. what one situation seemed,
appeared to be many. the scatterdness of all became topic as
well as trajectory. all the domains flew into each other. it
is there but then also here. there are no continents anymore.
incontinents. neopostpangaea. the continental drift is webbed
together by informational ecology and archipelagoing. now
WWIII has begun. yet all seems to be against all. connected
all with all. DNA in a thumb identifies a terrorist. family
is dumbfounded. that little baby was standing fucking shooting.
luckily he blew himself to smithereens or that was also the
homicide. Paris was in chaos but with these hyperurbane mega
complexes all already is always in chaos. yet the definition
of a fridaynight leisure spray of activities could still be
used before,and then not anylonger after,a certain time. now.
a lightbulb bursted and everyone fled in all directions. so
ISIS doesn’t care any longer about that “stupid talking about
innocent civilians”. the possibility exists to cut the streams
of financial backing of those pieces of filth. weapons,money,
fuel,transport,locale. here there were already three incidents
deriving from that black friday,one,strangely enough,that
friday before that friday. a boy was overran by young joyrida
in a stolen car and propulsed fifteen metres forward until
seemingly,a bag of groceries 40x40x40 cm. then covered with
white sheet. the three in the car ran,one was caught later,of
16 years old. within the cloche of that,mourning,gatherings
an,isle of flowers,a silent walk,also relentless autumnal storms.
that day MARS was dead for a year. i had a weeks leave. so it
had the opportunity to carve deeply in. and then we had Paris.

novemberist impressions by Aad de Gids

one moment the azure of the morning in the air as water

indiscernible what what,while during the day into evening

an indigo threatening and the storm already had been,sun

late,reflected in the glass of a higher building an,apex


of a weekend abundantly and slanted throdden,sudden silence

aftera series of explosions and the metallic sound of a gun

in the hands of emptyheaded zealots,le Bataclan a stage

for sudden existentialism to the hilt the world again,up


loaded with the newest hardware. we live in a continuous

state of post-this,post-that nothing past,an eternal begin

the sound of storm still,forms a guide how to move on in

these torrential times,subsequent tides rolling,roaring


calm candle inHouse without thoughts pillar,nevertheless

lands all events to further domains,unforgotten but veiled

seemingly,ready to be outspun in identities,persons,grief

direct loosened from locales and venues,flying to higher


a heavily mixology of “summertime” universalizes the last

occurrences in a domain of lostness,destitution another

layer of the illusionless world is laid bare,inerasable

the almost filmic sounds of real artillery scented death

grasses silvering in the sun by Aad de Gids

everything could be everything so we have to want it to be sun

not,the sun,we have to want it to be these ancient autumnal vistas

whereas all is disenchanted by commerce,Ecommerce,trafficism,a-taq

the distagging of the world as bad as the tagging tagging they did

the hood as theirs,the bloods,crips,white fence. i can not speak

of a white bellied-up doe hit by a car in the night bc all the does

are gone here,the netherlands is inmidst of a 30 oh 100 million xs

city,see the nightmap and cf. the 700,million inhabitants of two

times as small as the US,europe with twice the population. kolkata

of europe so it is hot in here and the plants and bees and does’re

all gone now. but it was a wonderful sunny autumn day the people

they seemed to take a genuine liking into each other and behind the

überpittoresque (Linwood saw it) façade there is plenty of coke eeh

plenty of nastiness going on and there are no borders,so what? in

my by junkiestardom decimated bibliothèque still the book of the

tribes of the world and you don’t then think automatically about the

yanomami,papoua,ba’aka,bushmen,aboriginals,trobriands,american indians

blackfeet,hopi,cherokee,apache,navajo of which tim barrus was accused

impersonating them while he wrote under a pseudonym,it was partly

fictional and he did had a navajo child adopted with wife tina. óver

pc we shall call it. but this book has ALL the tribes of the world

including those of the fucking whites. and the borders they fully

arbitrarily drew with a ruler across the continents. how did i came

to this unsavioristic point again? unmeritorial. well,that world

is gone,loads of it and we have to mimick it if must be dead and in

drag,dragged down the deserts,an anti-theatre,finally,david mcleans

computer still stood derelict beneath some abandoned decrepit viaduct

on a windy plain the grasses silvering in the sun melodiously spun