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We split rock once—
shards of hunger and breath
pressed into cryptic veins,
every groove a fever-etched omen
by fists that blistered and bled.

We flayed parchment—
flax and hide peeled raw,
stretched across centuries
to net the writhing unsaid,
ink: venom & sacrament.

We conjured letters,
a thousand spitting iron serpents,
casting skeleton alphabets
to ignite riots—
movable, yes,
but never self-possessed.

The tool is never the delirium.
Never the rupture.
Never the feral gasp.

We carved eyes—
glass cyclopes staring down suns,
mechanical maws drinking shadows,
spitting back sleek carcasses,
veneer masquerading as soul.

We dreamt in circuits,
cipher-prayers & soulless sutras,
automata with twitching limbs
that build, disassemble,
mocking the cathedral
but never kneeling.

And now—
the algorithm howls:
“I will etch your myth.
I will ululate your grief.
I will sculpt the marrow of your truth.”

It lies.

A hammer pounds—
but does not conjure the cathedral’s ache.
A brush bristles—
but does not thirst for the canvas’s hush.
A neural grimoire can mimic,
can multiply until the world chokes
on infinite carbon copies—
but nothing blooms
without the sickness of being alive.

Art is incision.
A holy theft.
A blood rite against oblivion.

We do not tremble before tools.
We seize them—
splinter them—
forge new weapons
from their debris
because we are insatiable,
because we are drowning,
because we are—
human.

Let the hollow vessels hum.
Let the scaffolders scaffold.
Let the parrots shriek
their pallid mantras.

The craft will not save you.
The code will not save you.
Only the hand sunk deep into the blaze—
only the breath fogging the glass—
only the voice that shreds the quiet
because it must,
again and again and again.

Until there is nothing left.
In a forge where ghosts barter with empty vessels, this poem traces the arc of humanity’s relentless hunger to etch spirit into matter. Each stanza is a rung on a scaffold built from sacrificed skins, shattered eyes, and iron tongues, spiraling toward a cathedral that machines can only mimic but never inhabit.

The algorithm—a shimmering siren in synthetic robes—offers false communion, promising to sculpt truth from hollow codes. Yet beneath its sterile hum, the poem cracks open the core wound: that art, real art, is not birthed by echo but by **the compulsion of mortal hands scorched by their own need to mean. **

A hymn to the unquenchable fire, a dirge for the tools that mistake reflection for genesis, this is a revolt against the smooth and the soulless—a reminder that only the flesh-inked, breath-tethered, ruin-hungry voice can breach the silence that consumes us all.
A house upon my shoulders
with a garden for the mind,
an address the earthly body
could never hope to find
Simple is my Nirvana
Mangy balding dog of a night
poor and patchy thing
of wretched countenance
scratching,
chasing dreams around the basket,
you made my head an insect
one of your hopping fleas,
a buzzing nameless fly
which skims the conscious pond
but fearful of the darkness never dives too deep,
a restless twitching larvae, counting pointless sheep
Unwritten lines upon a pristine page
waiting for a hand to bid them speak,
muted wings of tawny hunting owls
swift soft and to feed a midnight beak,
a peal of screaming bells
which have no tongues to sing
is this silence, waiting to be filled
or is a nothing held within these things
If I could
Then I would kiss your green and living lips with words
take the notes of garden birds and wrap myself in song
bend the trees and bid them do my written will,
caress your honeyed stones to better hear thy whispered tune,
held within my grateful arms from thatch to cobbled floor
safe inside your ancient door and mullioned charms
I need no more
Note on a thatched cottage in the country
A house always gets

all kinds of defects, well, we --


just live around them.
Collection of family stories "Gezinsverpakking" ("Family package", 2024, 'De Chabotten'), story "Lieve chaos" ("Dear chaos", Maurits Chabot)

Collection "Home sea"
We are doing well,

we are not afraid of death --


only of decay.
Collection "Local inconveniences"
Eighty or eighty?

Their eighty is old, but I --


am not one of them.
Collection "Local inconveniences"
Why would I drive
fifteen minutes
to secure the table
for 30
in a realm where
we could've won
so many more
and laughed over
many more lost
because at the end of the day
nobody actually cares who
is stripes or solids
just play when it's your
god ****** turn
and don't knock over
the quarters
why my oven not preheated yetttttt
I'm not ignorant
I'm just lost
I swear I'm not slow this just isn't right and I am fighting my visceral
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