- Belgium -
Translated by Sarah Posman
EX DAEMON (fragment 2) / EX DAEMON (fragment 2)
The noise, chaos, has no rhythm to it.
A school yard’s emptiness in summer.
Deprive us of parataxis and I’ll go crazy.
This is an observation of utmost triviality.
There’s nothing like permaminent threat to get the political heart pumping.
Lately I’ve been feeling so possessed by geopolitics.
That I’m losing sleep over it.
Geopolitics has been keeping me from my sleep.
But that’s where capital’ll fail.
Realism and capitalism used to be holiday sweethearts.
But now winter is coming.
Remember: Fridays are for decolonisation, lads!
Wear the right outfit.
Curate your appearance, till nothing’s left!
Get Lucky Now Arno Van Vlierberghe!
Win your chance to!
How lovely all this appears!
To be so alive.
Thinking, enjoying, eating, drinking &tc.
This month you too will score, Arno Van Vlierberghe!
And remember: Experience is Essential!
Obviously, it’s always okay for you to die.
The body’s location is the shop, & vice versa.
The beautiful shiny objects in a state of rust.
The rare emotional outpouring over lame supermarket products.
Empathy, a no threshold indulgence.
Such presumptuous sentimental insidious nonsense.
I feel sabotaged.
Throw a shoe in the sunset’s radarworks.
Not at this pace!
Shit, emotion after all.
On the escalator I’m overwhelmed by the terrible feeling.
To be face-to-face with a lonely product.
Waiting for completion.
At any cost.
Joining all our wrists.
Cuffs, velcro, magnetic strips.
Ratchet straps if that’s what it takes.
Yes, a hundred pages of this kind of poetry!
Rhythm needs range.
This poem’s goal is friendly hegemony.
This poem’s a junk, addicted to its own crisis.
As long as there’s crisis, is what I mean.
I don’t trust this form.
Luckily I don’t have a choice.
If form is foe, then I choose their side.
The luxury of choice knee on throat.
This poem is a total catastrophe.
It sings pessimism’s monophonic mantras, the night side of thought.
Gagging pauper poetry hits the charts.
101 pages of searching for that OK feeling.
Nobody needs this thing.
And yet it must be written.
Anti-this & anti-that: I want more more more!
This thing is a raft.
A craftily made information stream and you don’t even notice!
This poem’s goal is anti-sociology.
This poem’s goal is more politics.
Waking up every day with extreme violence in one’s finger tip.
I’m starting to make myself redundant.
There wasn’t much Arno left.
This poem’s goal is to let the demonic enter poetry.
Fuck the boundaries between the animal, the human, the divine.
Don’t believe them.
And remember: Expiry is Essential!
Meanwhile, Romantic reflections about the mobilised class.
The mobilisable class.
The streets can take our human drama fine for now.
Help, I have newspaper in my blood.
Looking at things mindlessly.
Feeling my day’s blade on the throat, and gulping anyway.
I’m the expert on this journey.
I’m the addict.
And my mouth means its intentions.
Amplify the cell division’s sound until there’s tears resounding.
Deafening, desolate but there.
Shape it into a howling sound poem that makes every cell sing.
A viral didactic song about civic desires and crises.
Counter-revolutionary boredom that yields more than it costs.
Under a dead letter’s honor guard I crawled towards you barefoot.Translated by Sarah Posman