remko caprio


home home
home aboutme
home writing
      dull boy jack
      ophelia's love
      the birth of ego
      theombrotus
      the shield of achilles
home music
      bs
      carackus
      blockbuster noise
home other
      drawings
home technology blog

RSS

Acheron

I crossed the river of pain. Some say it heals, for only when one passes Acheron, will one no longer fear the flesh of the body. Tightly clenched in my fist, I still hold the coin. This is the realm of the spirit, where I hold angels dear. For many this is the realm of death, where they feel nothing anymore, know nothing. This is a time to greet, for joy, for welcome. The water is a stream that nourishes the dead who only sense emptiness, they, Lazarus, pray like baboons. But I fear not, no need to fall on my knees. I do not shiver, but frivol. Those who think of death as life, those who fear, they pay a price when they cross, they cannot return. But to me, death is in life, with the spirit in which I joy resurrected.

comments (0) | category: poetry |

The Cave of Zeus

from the breath of Cronos
is born the island of the goddess
where the lemons grow
departing from the spring of aria
a string of sheep bells
rings from the steps
fleeing before me
leading to the cave of Zas
white steps reflecting the light
the sun rays slide
along a wall of virgin stainless marble
the narrow path of worship
abruptly merges with rough stone ahead
simple limestone
from here to the spring
following the stream
via shrub and rock
that lays bare in the pass
i oversee the southern plain
still below the uniformly gray face
of mountain Zas
that sternly watches down
and guards solemnly
treaded by gods, refuges and sheep
the gorgeous marble crown
like a garment hewn
of metamorphized lime
in the common stone
formed over ages before men
fitted for the god of gods
to the virgin of women
a throne that reaches deep into
the bowels of the mountain
charred in darkness
into men cannot see
unlike the translucent breasts
of the venus of milo
born in this womb
its beauty ravished
limbless now on display
in a vulgar salon
but the virgin
born in this blind cave
the spring of life

comments (0) | category: poetry,the ikarians |

Mer de la Nuit

a dragon’s beak fixated
the eye shrapnel
like the moon without black iris
light whose day never expires
ill defined green night
medusa gazes down
anxious bursts of flaming mushrooms
on pedestals of shadows
only the after effect ever occurred
these walls of mighty troy
rise like the flood

voyeuristic angels stare
from within the windows
not from the inside out, but outside in
like whores from behind the freedom of their curtains
at the horizon
columns of gold
burnt down like ephese
horrendous shrieks
seconds in eternity
stream below these windows

vega single star all stars fallen
the melted day
stains like car horns
heretic shrouds of milky clouds
the whores again behind their windows
i cannot torn their ass apart
these mussels of goodness
remain closed
i here in the enclosed open
on my chest, on my back
fragile with forsaken gesture
alone in spasms of nothingness
their nightmare
their delivery

oh pray for civic chivalric cybele
to escape me and my nightly cruelty
the clouds drift by
like sand running through my fingers
measuring time
but i leave nothing standing
i alone and one star beneath me
the water’s rush of traffic
blind and burning windows
flickering amber
the sea awaits me
for ten long years
the siren’s song sings
in the ruffle of leaves
her naked breasts i suckle from
the maenadic orgy of the bronze night
i the orphan

Tom Baker, Village Night Song (for Langston Hughes)

comments (2) | category: poetry | tags: ,

Les Pensees

Ashes to Ashes

the Atlantic is not that romantic
instead, scatter me in the Pacific
a lake?
what is nice about a lake?
well, the fresh cold springs of course
but you will be dead no?
i will be there for the people left behind
it is for them that I die

Thomas Wolfe

He left pages on his desk
while he wandered, paced around his room
until the scene got to him like a mad dog
he would jump to it
and pencil the vision down
maniacally

after his death
a pile of papers was found on his desk
they published them
it made him instantly famous

He felt a rare fire in his bowls. The paintings by D.H. Lawrence are not very erotic, are they? I mean, not very racy.

cheesy little picky songs

I cut myself a piece of mooncheese.

pushing up the mountain
rolling down the hill

Harlem Renaissance
Langston Hughes should have been the Laureate, cause he has more rhythm, since he is black.

chicken on pizza

don’t give me those toy eyes

I left the vagina in my other pants.

Without being pretentiously stupid, you gotta backup!

Chicken Leg Lady

chicken leg lady on the B46
sucking on my chicken leg, lady
on the B46
your fat black hand,
groping down my pants
deep in the brown paper bag beside you
your thick red sucky lips

chicken leg
chicken leg lady

commentary:
you’re making a racist song
you’re not supposed to mention
chicken legs or water melon

hey hey we’re not a pretty nation
you’re down and out
down and out
down and out
hey hey we’re a lustful nation
you’re in and out
in and out
in and out

oh for fuck’s sake

comments (0) | category: poetry |

Howl by Alan Ginsberg (1956)

Howl by Alan Ginsberg (1956)

The Shitclock

The shitclock of your life is ticking
ssssh you hush your self
better to shut up sometimes
make the rules work for you
Bite your tongue, swallow
whatever words are on your cowish mind
if you can dumb yourself down
just for now and dont be seen
to have it shoved up
this cornucopia of crap
never silent truths
it keeps beating in your chest,
it drums in your ears
it pumps around in your head
yet you tie yourself to the mast
you resist the lure
you resist yourself
because there is so much to think of
a stuffed womb burning with your poignant gism
if not in mind in flesh
to disappropiate her belly
a house to house that stuffed cooking
of rinkled flesh of cries
the years 401 lightyears away
to extend, preserve a drained life
to keep regretting
to depend upon fear
but now finally free!
and so there is the endless path
narrow and steep of sacrifice
oh of course
to the golgotha of civic voided compliance
and you listen to the ever ticking
of the shitclock
but one day
till your rectum shits it all
in a long sigh of relief
a final jerk at last of carelessness

comments (0) | category: poetry |

Devils


John Dear Mowing Club ft. Daniel Johnston – Devils

Sorrow there is for the devils
In one self that run too hard
To love and to smother from
The bottom of the heart

Could any body love
The madness of the mind
That is stronger than the goodness
Of the devils kind

The child that speaks to me
Has never told the end
Of the story that I was to tell
Of the angel and the man

Sorrow there is for the devils
Stronger than the goodness
Of the angel and the man

comments (0) | category: poetry |

The Many

I look upon the many
the multitudes they make
I look at the whole of herd
the huddled masses engrossed
I see these people packed
canaille with their faces cast
spickled with their vulgar eyes
thin lips that form uncertain lines
weak and bleak expressions
of hollow hollered words
that wallow willingful
a force of the merging many
a motion moving mass
I look upon this swarming hope
astonishingly full of filling
and I feel emptiness

comments (0) | category: poetry |

Pièce de Résistance

we
are animals
that know
we know
beasts that mumble
rumbling ants
crumbling on the skirt of the universe
matter of volatile imbalance,
reluctant, resist to movement
we
no matter
moderate
our stumbling lines of sense
sentences of
falsity in confusion
that is repressed into this subconscious,
we
formulated truths of a shallow puddle
so multi layered
we fail to see
simply direction in timeless space
there we exist, pass, last, decay
in a slow gesture of weak intellect,
thoughts like air bubbling to the surface,
suffocating words that grasp
for a breath of consciousness
so we roll our rock like Sisyphus uphill
reach to quell our thirst like Tantalus
fly like Icarus to the sun
in which we are spots
for a sparkle of enlightenment
uplift ourselves
from the muddy traces on this dirt road of life
we live this senseless time
and fill this emptiness
with half a heart
attribute meaning to its hollow caves
appearing as flickering shadows
reflecting the essential nothingness
that hoovers still

comments (0) | category: poetry |

Sigh of Breath

lies lie on our tongue
a sharp blade’s edge cuts flesh
icy crystal brightly melts
light that hovers
light that covers
our eyes be blinded
leading down
guide of darkness
the single soul
in this
deepness of our heart finds
but a shallow water to wallow
comfort in our unholy role
that plays this holy part of solitude
is another life remaining yet
at the bottom of this fate
fate with no end, endlessly
sigh of breath
that blows life into our soul

comments (0) | category: poetry |

Ouwe hoer

Ik koester een exceptioneel grote haat voor een buitengewoon klein land
Is dat nu wel redelijk vraagt een nette meneer die naast mij zit
Kut vent
Ouwe hoer
Het is altijd verborgen gebleven
Misschien wel alleen maar achter mijn rug
In absentia
Een sinister cynisme dat mijn schaduw werd
In een dovend licht flikkert er nog een vlam
Een lont dat smeulen blijft en ja dan eindelijk weer opleeft
Ontsnapt aan de hellepoort
Tegen de overmacht
Van kleinburgerlijke ordentelijkheid en de enge blikken van sardienen
Op een uitgedroogde brakke polder
Een vissenkom als waarzegger

Ontsnapt maar niet aan de haat van bekrompen razzias
Schoolmeesters en hun Katholieke almacht
Klein geluk in overtal
Gedachtenloze zelfgenoegzaamheid
Van halfgeletterde burgers en hun bijbelse tv
Aan welke zij de hogere waarheid onttrekken
In hd bespiegelen zij hun tenenkrommende gelijk
Dat altijd het maaiveld kort houdt

De nette heer zegt gedag en ik zwijg
Zo dichtbij ligt mijn weerzin voor een ver land
Ik hoor hem niet meer
Zijn voeten schoffelen uit mijn ooghoeken weg
Op het getij van continenten
Drijven twee werelden uiteen

comments (1) | category: poetry |
 
  « back   
 

The Death of Literature
Death in literature is an elementary metaphor, as the fear of death is one of our Id’s primal impulses, together with the sexual urge to reproduce and overcome it. The resurrection of our mind is the symbol for the cycle of life, the seasons, birth and death, crucifixion and resurrection, destruction and creation, night and day, there’s probably nothing more universal, nothing more primal than death and life. The article in the Guardian In theory: the death of literature is a great short essay that analyzes the perspective of the Romantics on death in literature as an elementary original perspective that lays at the root of the birth of the modern novel. It’s a very original view with lots of references in high overview, which makes it easy to make any argument, but it’s convincing until midway when the argument becomes an old man’s lamentation on modern times. Here is where the author Andrew Gallix the other essence of the Romantics in my opinion, namely the overcoming of the fear of death in favor of a naive and blind will for creation, this resurrection of the conscious mind is what represents the true power of the Romantic era. In the face of death we are not afraid to throw ourselves in the abyss and love.

Der Zauberberg (1982)
An international production of Thomas Mann’s 20th century classic about the first world war, Der Zauberberg (1982).

Divine Mathematics: George Cantor and Infinity
In Dangerous Knowledge – BBC, Georg Cantor’s Continuum Hypothesis and Georg Cantor‘s life is described. Cantor was obsessed with the problem of infinity. Cantor reminds me Pythagoras, who founded a religious school of Pythagoreans who searched the divine truth by revealing the mathematical formulas that described nature. Boltzmann defined a breakthrough in the field of probability, which is crucial for the theory of entropy and chaos.

Solve Puzzles for Science - Fold.it
Solve puzzles for science with Fold.it. Crowd-sourcing scientific problems.

The Master and Margarita - Russia TV
The Master and Margarita – Russia TV Russia’s first television production of The Master and Margarita, the novel by Mikhail Bulgakov. Vladimir Bortko is the director and screenwriter of the new adaptation. The mini-series of ten 52-minute episodes was first screened on the state television channel “Россия” (“Russia”) on December, 2005. The Master and Margarita is a novel by Mikhail Bulgakov, woven about the premise of a visit by the Devil to the fervently atheistic Soviet Union. Many critics consider the book to be one of the greatest novels of the 20th century, as well as one of the foremost Soviet satires, directed against a suffocatingly bureaucratic social order.

Hunting the Hidden Dimension
Hunting the Hidden Dimension Pt. 1 This film is about looking at the world around us in a completely different way. If you pay attention, you can see that fractals appear throughout nature. But until Benoit Mandelbrot came along, no one really understood what was there all along. more...

Benoit Mandelbrot, Father of Eternity, Coined the Term 'Fractal'
Benoit Mandelbrot, Mathematician, Dies at 85 Dr. Mandelbrot coined the term “fractal” to refer to a new class of mathematical shapes whose uneven contours could mimic the irregularities found in nature.

Comparative Democracy
Originally, I was playing with the idea that representatives should have to pass an exam to become eligable to run for political office. While listening to C-SPAN broadcasts of Congress committees, or members of Congress giving interviews to NPR, where on some shows they are allowed more speaking time than the 20 or 30 seconds, I am too often shocked by the lack of depth and the absence of fact in their statements. more...

The Tree of Life
The Tree of Life Project (ToL) is a collaborative effort of biologists from around the world. The project provides information about the diversity of organisms on Earth, their evolutionary history (phylogeny), and characteristics. Another project that visualizes the phylogeny of life for the plants phylum is Deep Green by the Green Plant Phylogeny Research Coordination Group of Berkeley University.

Litarary Word Comparison
Introduction This is one of the small research projects that I am currently conducting. I am not pretending to offer or accomplish any scientific added value to the research community in the field of Natural Language Processing (NLP) but humbly submit my efforts to gain further personal learning. While the research remains unfinished and until I publish it formally, I will keep this post as a mini-post. As a Universal Man, a Humanist, a Renaissance Man each individual man has an obligation to question and further his or her knowledge and understanding, as it lies within our capacities. Learning is a tool to humble our heart, and most of all we should mistrust brave hearts. Matt Ridley in his book Nature via Nurture says (says Richard Dawkins in his The Ancestor’s Tale in The Mouse Tale chapter) that “the list of words in David Copperfield is almost the same as the list of words in The Catcher in the Rye.” Springing from this saying, I concluded that it would be an interesting project to create a plotter diagram in which the major works in literature (written, translated or edited into modern English for reasons of ease of comparison) are set out as number of total words versus the number of different words used and another network graph that displays the relative closeness of literary works by words used. The first diagram is the easiest to create of course, so I will start with this first, then moving on to the next network diagram. more...