Frank Decerf (Belgium)
Frank Decerf (1958) is a Belgian poet and writer who lives and works in Ostend. He has published 10 volumes of poetry, a book of short stories and a novel. He regularly writes literary reviews of new poetry publications. His work has been translated into different languages. The poetry of Frank Decerf is mainly centered around the condition humaine .He is the chairman of the Flemish Writers Association (Vereniging van Vlaamse Letterkundigen).
He likes to work with other artists and has participated in many exhibitions of paintings and/or sculptor. Many of his book-covers are produced by well-known artists.Testimonies
Elsen Henri 86953
The town was full of baneful influences and lost souls,
their heads as hollow as their hardened stomachs and
if they could have eaten the smoke they would have done so.
They lay on their wooden beds imitating sardines.
They realized slowly, most certainly that they had
been had having boarded the wrong train.
Their return ticket was lost.
The world didn’t care or faked sublimely.
The chance of rescue became distant and slim.
Counting the days was a silly waste of time
Fabry Léon 48925
The New Order, this latest fashion statement
from Berlin, was hideously ugly.
The reinforced concrete kept in all shame forcefully,
the ventilators were pretty and the filters which
let in the murderous magical sugar cubes were smart.
The booted Prussian superiors were willing and able
keeping a close eye on their productive capacity, night
after night they studied new ways of increasing their efficiency.
The New Europe was fantastically beautiful
according to the deranged minds of the derailed leaders.
The acceptance was forced upon.
The common herd was resigned, the guards were savage like.
Gabreau Albert 93242
Many escaped, vapour-like, through the crying chimneys
not leaving a single trace.
Their suitcases filled with silent truths.
Broken birds heading towards an unknown nest
lost in a delusion of vague fairytales
conned in a sly way by degenerated prophets,
beaten to a human pulp.
Only the barbed wire stayed tensed.
Only the curse within would not be surpressed.
Only those travellers would move on eternally
trying to leave behind a silent testimony
a futile attempt to renew the memory
always finding a poet who would fight the denial.