Sunday, June 02, 2013


Forbidden Angels
Stranded on an island called exile 
where the self inflicted pain 
makes the itch of longing remain 
hard to scratch, ever again!. 

As I wander on primary rocks 
searching for my maker in gratitude 
for stuffing my mind with ample thought 
and an "easy come, easy go" attitude. 

Yet I persist on demanding peace 
not with an apocalyptic struggle 
but with a good old primal scream. 

I remain stretched, reaching out
for a vision uncharted in a dream
obscured but viable as might seem.

Faintly, I walk that lonely walk 
within the language of stones
up and down in torrid pace 
searching for a time, a place 
where I can ultimately face 
the choice of my own making. 

I have just enough hope to cope
with the bait at the end of my rope
as the outgoing tide 
will take away and hide 
those turbulent thoughts.  

As images keep on falling 
from the corner of my eyes 
I can hear the sighs
of forbidden angels 
shedding silent cries
for wasted strangers.

Saturday, June 01, 2013


I have been sticking my neck out
for no other reason than freedom
of expression, of justice, of rights...
to call yourself a poet you must get
this right, the human right to speak out
not like a blubbe mouth but like a proud
to be human, a poet must be able to speak aloud
no need to shout, no need to beat around the bush
but you must push the issue of truth and integrity
otherwise just write your half ass poetry, that is fine
but don't call yourself a poet just because you rhyme!.
 I said what's in my mind before I run out of time..

 I would like to explain myself if I may. I realize there is an attitude in what I have written that can be seen as arrogance, who indeed is to judge, everyone is entitled to a point of view. When I read in the media the word Syrian rebels, I think of Albert Camu's point of view on a rebel, I am a rebel by that definition but those murdering terrorists who tear out hearts and eat them, those vicious fanatics are an insult to the word 'rebel' yet they are being called rebels. So much for words, we know what integrity is, be true to yourself, poets had to become clowns throughout history just to get into the king's favor, to become court jesters so they could say to the king what others did not dare, eventually they would catch the king in a bad mood and off with their heads. Today it is all about 'what is in it for me' attitude, money and box office call the shots, it is show bizz time, entertainment rocks. When you call yourself a poet just to get a kick, have fun, in a way I feel contempt, not that what you are doing is wrong, of course not, but us poets are personalities, characters, symbols, only few are left in this World who dare say it the way it is, not for money or entertainment, not for a selfish reason, this is a calling from deep within, many have been imprisoned, tortured and killed by authority figures for just doing that. I have had such friends. This is a matter of integrity and sensitivity. When somebody in society asks me what I do and I answer 'I am a poet' they sometimes laugh at me and say, 'I am a poet too, come on, what do you do for a living'. 
This is the state of awareness in some circles today. 
I have said enough!.


Friday, May 31, 2013


An easy pace

Streaming verse is flowing, as in the water rippling 
swaying between lucid dreaming and day dreaming
swinging in a gentle daze, back and forth wavering
throwing a quick gaze, this, that and the thereafter
here now, gone later, back again, a touch of a push
the throw of the dice never resting, rolling, swirling
we are going to levitate some day, only anticipating
taking it easy meanwhile,simply sterling this whirling 
our head has stopped turning as we are not yearning.



In a Jiffy

A repose amongst fleeting visions
in an interval, a moment, an instance
in a flash it goes, as though it never was

but something was captured, an impression
which alters perception, accordingly in quantum
what appears is only relative to instantaneous capture
as infinite possibilities are instigated in a moment's flicker.


Thursday, May 30, 2013


Project Underdog - Society of Humanity

The purpose of society is to promote 
a full flowering of the individuals within it. 
To put the society before the individual 
is to confuse ends and means. 

The ultimate mission for us all 
who are the living human residents of this Earth 
is to prepare the groundwork for life to sprout 
within a loving, friendly environment. 

The big majority of humanity today are still deprived 
and most are also in denial. 
They still believe they own their children 
and are authoritatively enforcing their beliefs 
their prejudices and convictions on them. 
This is practiced regularly with complete justification 
even by highly accomplished and educated people. 

All human beings born into this life are 

‘the children of mankind’

Every human being should be here with open hearts 
open arms for those who have no voice, 
no choice and no fault. 

The beloved is born each time a child is born. 
It is our celebration, our most genuine observance 
to help our children grow to their potentials. 

We are by no means a finished process, 
we can in the future deliver a clean, 
clear and enlightened generation. 

We could make true civilization 
if we experience a change of heart 
and cease to feel separate from one another.


Wednesday, May 29, 2013


When my hands move without conscious direction
the scribbles that surface are semiconscious.
My drawings are unintentional, not premeditated
as in poetry, the lines and the forms find a rhyme
automatically they strive to become animated.
All is constantly changing as it is being created
and when it is over it goes on changing and living
according to the state of mind and perception
of whoever is looking at it in that moment of time.





I ask the cyber winds to take my work to places yet unknown.
What goes around comes around, such is my attitude. 

A new art form named, 'SUBORIGINAL ART'
The root cause, pure psychic automatism
the finishing touches involve scrupulous
cutting edge fantastic digital techniques
the polarity of Primitive-Modern contrast.

The purpose of my work is to stimulate
provoke the imagination of the perceiver.
I do not necessarily copyright my work 
apart from the virtue of the authenticity.

I hereby declare it to be free for anyone
to copy print, add to it, expand on it,
unconditionally, no strings attached.


I have composed the word SUBORIGINAL 
to which the dictionaries have no definition, 
I hereby use my poetic license to declare it 
the innovative definition of my art form.

This notice serves as registry, copyright
warranty, attitude & all linguistic claims.

Vensan Kamberk




It does not have to be a secret to spread
besides with whom do you care to share
who can cope with it, who would dare
to really give a darn, most certainly care

about the truth, nothing but the truth
bona fide seed is indeed the fruit in need
I would like to clarify this picture, take heed.

Compelling in an instant, everything in the open
in total transparency, we can see through it all
fibs have nowhere to hide, nothing can escape
all is in the clear, explicit, exposed, bare naked
the masses have been in total darkness for ages
now, enlightened with such blinding illumination
unless they handle the truth it can be damnation.

There should be no racism, or national division
without any disguise, such is ultimate salvation
truth eventually surfaces, similar to an air bubble
just by nature it will rise up from the deep waters
glowing upon memories, exposing all that matters
causing uneasy admission of ill spent twisted lives
only a clear vision ahead, is where the truth thrives.


Tuesday, May 28, 2013


Alternative Energy Source
The roar of the crowd in a packed stadium
be it in a football, soccer or hockey game
even a bullring during a bullfight is the same
when the toreador strikes, or a goal is scored
the collective thundering uproar then released
by an enraptured crowd, aroused all at once  
this tremendous energy is psychic by nature
could it not be captured, bottled so to speak
downloaded into a container for future use
could it not be processed, to be later accessed
as potent energy, power that can be harnessed?.

Monday, May 27, 2013


Mutterings of a disquieted poet
Layers and layers of memory traces 
faces within faces of races and places
my lucid visions have been squandered 
washed against remote corners of my mind 
where the faintest ideas gather and season 
longing to be set free from the grasp of reason
my roots have been severed, my shoots leveled
my memory comes and goes, I walk on my toes
my feet are slippery, my mind is rather jittery
I sleep well though, I see myself in my dreams
barely a child, still in diapers, licking my fingers
but I can still climb a tree, I feel so gingerly free
being exactly me, carefree, like I was meant to be
as I wake up though, when my eyes catch a mirror
this is when I am stricken by this flustering terror
there must be an error, I  know not  this stranger
this unsettling anger obtusely catches me off guard
that's when I sink into red ink, bite my lips and write
in spite of my spite until my face slips out of my sight.


Live it or Leave it
Staying alive until you die is a bit of a problem
when you take things for granted you get drafted
once in the bucket you become a part of the racket
you shall have to fake it, unless you wish to wreck it
so you have to become a phony if you want to make it
as good as dead but still alive is your best way to take it
even when you know the foul nature of it, you sit at the pit.