She
She opened her ear and
let the ants out. Parts of
her leg were decomposing
rapidly. Who would carry
her away from here? Who
would touch her now and
take her away from this all?
A pair of legs
I've got two legs.
I tell them to walk.
I tell them to stop.
A soldier stood
on a roadside bomb.
His legs exploded,
frayed, splinters,
needles
pointing
North, East, West, South.
Old lady
About this old lady
sitting on a chair watching television.
The lights in the house are off.
Her face, its shadows are
constantly changing, depending
on the amount of light
the tv gives.
Now she gets up,
makes tea, something to eat
and returns to her tv and chair.
The lights in the house are off.
Her face, its shadows are
constantly changing, depending
on the amount of light
the tv gives.
22.April.2007
In the train
I was thinking
about life,
travelling to work
another fifteen years.
On my days off
writing stuff
nobody needs nor asks for.
What bullshit.
I began breathing
attached to a cord,
and will stop,
that day.
In between
scared to love,
scared to live.
Scared to die,
inside, outside.
Flesh and Bone
It is the way it is.
Still, I think it's amazing
that two buckets of flesh and bone
wrote music by Mozart,
painted van Gogh paintings,
de Kooning, Rembrandt,
invented telephones, radio's,
airplanes, rockets and such.
Just think about it
when you walk past your local butchery.
Amen.
Flying
I feel safe
in the sky;
no taxman,
gut wrenching
birthdays.
An airport
a panic attack,
no matter what movie,
breakfast.
The branding goes on.
I belong to gas,
water, electricity,
fun and laughter.
29.April.2007
Still Life
The world is small;
fifteen inches computer screen,
and on this table my dictionary,
watch, cd-rom.
Big pile of papers.
Photo' s on the wall.
I find it a mystery;
war and violent peace,
my coming and going
to anything at all,
and where from?
I write a few things down.
What else
is there to do?
Hospital grounds
I haven' t seen my daughter for quite a while.
She is always busy.
She says she is happy to see me
but I know she is not.
She slows her car down
not to overrun a cat or a dog.
*
Are you feeling better she asks.
She visits me because once
I was her dad.
Now I am her guilt.
*
I saw dust on the windowsill.
I saw it and I saw it.
I saw where they tried to clean it,
a mix of water and dirt, now
dried up, running down
from the windowsill.
You have to press hard
to remove it, moving your finger
to and fro, really leaning on it.
*
This is the room where we have our coffee.
I know a few piano chords.
*
When I go for a walk I
take their photograph with me.
This here is Dean, he is fourteen.
This is Tessa. She is seventeen.
I talk to them.
*
I told the others that I have found the photo
somewhere in a street.
Why do you keep it they ask.
You don' t even know who they are -
Then I don' t know what to say.
' 05
Slippery slope
Gliding down the mountain
and into the bay where I
drowned though lived as I
swallowed that bay whole,
a bottle holding
14.000 glasses.
Nowadays
I hold on to my
image in the mirror,
the first cracks,
rust inside the doors
of the gliding limousine,
this painting can do
with a coat of varnish.
The grandfather clock
needs an overhaul. Who
will get my watch? I want
to know, where will I go
the day I turn my back?
The longer I write
the less I seem to care.
Returnees - Iraq or Afghanistan or
They all return home,
the distress disorders.
Kill back at home; he
couldn't remember
killing that man
on the ground.
On auto watching
tv
till their hearts stop.
Nothing to collect, no
boots.
Responding to a
sound, wrestling
someone to the ground.
Each voice an explosion
with mouths in the sky?
Each sky mouthing
explosion without voice?
The doctor says
depression is caused
by an unhappy
childhood,
not by war.
Recycled they return
to their shit hole,
while in the USA
not allowed to carry
a weapon;
the combination
'unhappy childhood'/M-16
a lethal one.
Welcome
The enemy are not
good soldiers. They spray
with AK-47's, blindfolded,
no good soldiers
vice-president SIR,
mister president SIR.
A head full of blood
about to explode
day and night.
A flash of lightning
caused by the
anti- depressant.
Sweet Jesus wipes
saliva
from mouths
shot to pieces,
a grin,
a few teeth,
no helmet.
Trigger twitch /// // // / //// // // ///
Trigger
twitching
trigger
finger
twitching
constantly.
Was, was
People and voices
are worth nothing,
no thing.
Slightest whistling sound
a rocket propelled
grenade
down
down
down
and up they go,
pieces high
in the sky.
Let's see who
they are.
Look for ID' s.
Cat
She lies on her couch.
She sleeps,
looks, listens.
Fully asleep.
Fully awake.
How does she do it?
She does it well,
mastered it
with eyes closed.
It must have something
to do with
Zen.
And I,
I don't get it.
A different place
I almost made contact with
an old friend
I hadn't seen for
nineteen years.
When push came to shove,
I left it;
the alleys are
gone,
demolished.
Temporary
friends,
temporary me.
Ok Corral
He was standing in the
middle of the road shouting:
'What the fuck is this all about?'
to no one in particular.
The pale faces behind
the curtains knew that
it was a question
no one could answer.
Perhaps he couldn't get used to
the itchy feeling of two eyes
staring at his back,
trigger happy.
The apple tree
Take off their straightjackets
and they'll start hitting the
walls with their hands, arms,
till they bleed out of bruises.
They want out of their skin,
release from the claws,
drugs, needles, booze.
No doctors, misfortune,
bad relationships, anger.
Somewhere, deep inside,
between veins or where,
there is something vibrating,
screaming against being alone.
They'll never bloom,
bear fruit,
like the apple tree
just on the other side
of the fence.
12 seconds
1995,
the Rugby World Cup final
(New Zealand - South Africa 9-9),
12 seconds to play
(my memory)
Joel Stransky
het die bal gemoer!
He kicked, ball
climbing, between
the posts. Time up.
That kick.
New Zealand player
trying to stop him.
Too late.
That kick,
that ball,
that moment,
the 12 seconds -
Where can you get it?
Is it for sale?
No, not for sale.
I try to find it.
Who doesn't?
Poet, priest, candlestickmaker -
About to drown, 1 second.
Try to find 12 seconds,
a pen in my hand.
Visiting mom and dad
It is all about coming and going.
Waving when we arrive,
two figures behind the window,
still a three minute walk.
'Yes, it's them. They are here' I can
hear them say; their body
language is loud and clear.
We kiss, hug, talk, coffee, tea, talk
about the world we know,
'bout everything and nothing really;
dad's latest drawings, the book my
mom is reading,
Jessica's marks at school.
Sandy's work. Busy?
I tell them about my geraniums,
how well they are doing:
'We have had flowers,
all winter!'
We eat, sit a bit, feel sleepy.
It's time to leave. We kiss, must catch
the ten past train. Two figures
behind the window,
smiling and waving,
coming and going.
'Bye bye.'
Talking about my geraniums
They are doing well inside.
I cut off the dead flowers
so they have to grow new ones
to produce seed. That way
they keep flowering, budding.
It's the same with poetry.
Is the poem finished?
Is it flowering?
Pretty?
Cut it off and put it away.
Then a new one will grow
and soon
you'll have another one, a flower.
However, the plant
does get old. The flowers
remain nice, but the plant gets ugly
with some of its leaves totally dried out.
When you remove them they sound
like a bag of crisps crackling.
Isn't it amazing that
such an old plant, so ugly and grey, can
still produce such nice colours?
The plant hasn't got much choice. Hasn't it?
Ask it something
and it will answer,
its nice flowers, red,
the rest of the plant getting stalky,
as if it uses walking sticks
to walk the circle of the pot.
Circling the dustbin.
Juicy in the sky
The dermatologist was busy
removing a wart,
burning it from my right ear
with some kind of electric tool.
I saw a trail of blue smoke
going past the bright light.
I could hear the wart sizzle .
There was a foul smell,
more light blue smoke,
the colour of the sky.
Burn a car and the
smoke is black.
Burn a forest and the
smoke is grey,
blocking the sun.
When I left, a big plaster
on my ear, I realised
that when they burn me completely,
one day,
summer or winter,
sun or rainy day,
I am going to make the sky
all blue.
I'm just made that way.
Wedding day (an observation)
Soon, tomorrow actually,
sixteen years ago,
I married.
Still am, to my first wife.
During those years
the world divorced,
the famous and infamous,
rich, poor, red, blue,
'I love you'
a fraction of a second,
torn photo's, broken cups, flying saucers.
The reasons legal, 'not compatible'.
No one is.
They find others,
climb mountains together,
visit exotic places.
'I could never have done
this sort of thing
with my first wife.'
I don't climb mountains.
A bottle of chutney
is exotic enough for us.
Besides, we're always broke.
Can't afford a divorce.
Telly Savalas
I was considering
writing a small something,
about Telly Savalas,
the Kojak actor.
But then
I couldn't think of anything
to write;
I have never met him,
never read a biography..
The Wikipedia says that he died
in 1994, when he was 72,
of bladder cancer.
Married three times.
Five kids...
You might as well
read the Wiki.
Just ... thanks Telly.
Hey, since you're here Telly,
the rumor goes that
after you heard about
your death sentence,
you supposedly said that you
would reincarnate, return
as a lollipop.
Bad idea! Sometimes I,
or should I say my wife,
watches these reality hospital series
and you
don't want to know
where the doctors
find
and have to remove
lollipops from.
Some arsehole with
a sucker up his ass.
Who loves ya baby?
he must have told the
lollipop.
My wife, she fell
Broke her arm. Freak,
no one to blame.
My initial seeds of
anger growing sad, weeds.
Boiling water invading
an ants' nest,
crawling around in my
head and chest. Chaos.
I meant to say that
she is in a lot of pain.
Art lesson number one
Some say that the paintings
by Willem de Kooning are
absolutely rubbish, trash.
That you can turn them 90
degrees, 180 degrees, 270
degrees and still they don't
make any sense.
Then I tell them: look out
of the window.
Does that make any sense?
Dammit!
'I am going to wash my hair,' she said.
I was seventeen -
'Are you coming?'
Moment of my life.
She ran up the stairs.
Dammit!
Go for it!
Then her brother
walked in,
small talk.
Dammit!
'I have to go to your sister,'
croaky voice, 'upstairs'.
He ignored me.
Kept me on his leash.
Stupid arse.
I was nothing more but a bunch of flowers
on a table, some glossy magazines
admiring themselves,
not the matador, torero,
too freaking tame to show my
capote de paseo.
She thought that I ignored her
(found out later, too late).
She was right of course
In the olden days, girls
I was on my bicycle, waiting for her to come
out of school.
There she was, on her bicycle.
All the courage I had,
I waved at her,
cycled after her:
'Hi.' 'Hi.'
'Are you interested to come over
this Saturday? In the evening?'
'Sure.'
'See you tomorrow then.'
She smiled.
A fifteen year old boy flying his plane.
The engine roaring.
The wings all red and its tail blue.
It had a lucky number on the side.
Happy, nervous and confused,
dream that came my way and
that body,
my system, energy, pimples,
hormones, central heating.
I made a left turn, crashed. Not a
scratch. I was waiting for my first scratch.
Hers. Hoping she would crash and break up.
That her splinters would touch,
fall into my lap. Each
and every shard, blood
on my back.
It ended bad,
a crappy stage play,
sordid, plants creeping my walls,
cardboard deeds,
cardboard love.
Often.
Often.
14.May.2007
Lennon, John, Dec 8 1980
... signing an album for a fan.
Worked in the studio until half
past ten, going home.
Outside his home he was
shot, four, five times by someone
with a smudge on his face,
an ink stain,
his filthy root crawling against the
walls of the building where it
would stay forever and ever.
A child's voice coming from a bridge
Without a temple.
Without their pillars.
No safety net.
Without arms.
Without a chest.
Without a snotty nose.
Without a snotty noise.
Without any armour.
Without a sword.
Without the waters to drown in.
Without the strong arm of the law.
Without the crutches of a sick person.
But with the presence of others,
the vomit stains,
the pills,
the infant god on the cross
who would not return to his land,
who could not take his own hand.
Who gave food and a bed.
Who did not hide much
as I drank towards night,
always and forever in the grime
you can't wash away, remove
with a red hot iron,
creatures crashing left and right,
bottles, pills, psychiatrists
drunk as well, shocking,
me banging on the wrong doors,
crushing sheets of paper,
the deformed poem children:
hole in a head,
one arm,
spina bifida,
two heads,
no eyes,
just a bit of brain,
all nailed to crosses.
In their agony
breeding more people screaming
out of hotel windows
as they see too much,
the first sign of a new day,
the birds almighty
locking, unlocking
the blood in bedrooms,
the endless waiting of the restless clock,
nerve endings dying off
in hospitals, funeral parlors,
the moon entering the room.
It is good to know the area you live in.
16.May.2007
Wooden ships
She is black.
Not that it matters.
I thought I'd just mention it.
But of course somehow it does matter.
We all know that.
Black is always a bit, just a tiny bit or a huge bit, less superior.
We all know that.
That is how the world turns.
It makes the world go round,
all this more and less,
and the most and the least.
An arm or foot missing.
When you are black
you are handicapped. And people pretend,
very hard, not to notice it.
A circle is supposed to be round.
But in a way it isn't.
It is a curved straight line.
Anyway,
her face is changing all the time.
She is tired.
She is leaning, heavily,
against a hard pile of mud.
No this is not Africa
with all the starving names we know so well,
the world turns, is still round,
and the world suffers
because of itself. And the rich,
worked for it or not,
will die and return
with all the others,
all of them
to the other side of the moon,
Zimbabwe, Angola or Sudan
and Ethiopia, Chad, Nigeria, Libya, Botswana,
Zambia, Namibia.
New Orleans which has almost disappeared.
A blank spot on a 300 year old map.
It's for grabs. The wooden ships leave their harbours.
18.May.2007
Been gone
It is true.
It never is what it seems to be.
I may be sitting in this chair
but I am also somewhere else,
thinking about people and places,
long gone. They are a part of me,
like my toe or my nose.
People come and go.
Some go to the shop and come
back. Others don't come back.
They go to another shop, job.
Some die. But they are not less
alive.
These people brought me good
times and the bad times.
Some went to the shop for cigarettes
across an ocean, wind swept fields.
They have no money to return,
don't want to return.
Spent it all on cigarettes.
I left as well, for cigarettes and
something to drink. Returned after watching
elephants and lions,
lying on my stomach on the dry ant grass
for almost ten years. Wild dogs.
Returned empty handed.
No cigarettes.
'They didn't have
that particular make of cigarette,
the one you always smoke. I kept
on looking.'
'Doesn't matter,' friends say
at the airport now much larger.
'We quit smoking years ago.'
20.May.2007
Cats and dogs
I am a dog.
I am a cat.
I am an animal.
In Africa.
In Amsterdam.
In Austria.
I get sick.
I get better.
I get cancer.
Dogs and cats get cancer.
The cancer is
surgically removed.
They feel better.
Look, he is eating again.
Yes, her appetite has come back.
The cancer returns.
The vet puts the dog down.
I drown in morphine.
The cat is catching mice,
sleeps, is messing about,
sleeps around.
I go to work for money,
like a whore.
The dog sleeps.
What is the difference
between me,
a cat and a dog?
Carefull!
Dogs and cats
have feelings too!
I lick the masters' shoes
with my faithful
tongue.
He has sixteen pairs of shoes.
I've done them all.
And he knows.
20.May.2007
Black horse
If you don't succeed as a writer,
are waiting for fame in vain,
you can always do
something else
that is extraordinary.
You could for instance
drill a hole
in your head,
stick a funnel in the hole
and fill it
with some ink
(you don't want to stop
writing entirely),
also that stuff that you sometimes
use to clean the sink,
and perhaps
a bit of bleach.
The people in hospital
will talk about you,
the ambulance folks,
nurses,
doctors,
the police,
the undertaker,
priest,
your family,
people who know you,
your real friends,
if you have any real ones,
your fake friends,
people who don't know you,
and the newspapers.
It will spread like spam,
like windows software,
or a hyper active virus.
And no one can stop
you
as you travel fast,
gallop
naked
on this black horse,
its burning mane
touching your fingers.
Everybody tries to catch it.
That horse.
What it would be like.
Now that you're here
there is nothing
to write about;
it's all perfectly normal.
21.May.2007
Travel country
It is a warm day.
Why is it so warm?
I'm not in Africa.
I lie on my bed,
feel the grace of the fan
I bought second hand.
Who would sell his fan?
When you have a car perhaps,
all windows open or airco,
and no intention
to stop driving.
If I had one, a car,
I'd go hunting.
Spear in my hand.
Looking for a buck.
A warthog.
Or shall I get take aways?
Signing a check.
Giving away my creditcard.
I mean,
you can't travel
and spend money
at the same time.
So let's first spend,
and then,
then I will travel
to the end of me
in the street, the rooms I live in,
the sound of people
and things in my ears,
flushing toilets,
creaking beds
crawling with life.
I wipe my sweaty hands
with a damp cloth.
My notebook has fresh ink on it.
The fan purs like a kitten.
22.May.2007
Echo
She stood beneath
the fan
hanging
from the ceiling.
Her long hair
was moving
as if something
invisible
walked past her
again and again.
Pity
that she was drunk.
She was good company
after only a few;
then her arms were still
functioning, grabbing me
by the throat,
performing operations
on great parts
of my body.
She was bad company
when drunk;
she would start to sing.
It put me off.
I just walked out.
Needed some fresh air.
There would be other men.
Their hands touching her
as if they were washing
their shiny car
on the driveway
of their
happily married
homes with daisy bushes.
'Dad, it's on!'
a child shouts
through an open window.
Its voice echoes
through
the streets.
23.May.2007
Visiting a museum
I see my mother
on the other side
of the window.
She is about thirty.
Five years before my birth.
She's in a desert -
The heat must be unbearable.
There are sharp rocks,
spiders, lizards,
snakes, scorpions.
She is wearing
a bikini. Her skin
is full of blisters.
She ages full blast.
Then she explodes
as simple as
a soap bubble.
There is a rattle
and her bleached
bones fall to the
ground.
What is all this?
Someone tells me
it is closing time.
I walk towards
the exit, get my
coat and hat.
It is almost dark
and a drizzle spoils
the walk home.
23.May.2007
The poet is supposed to be the writer
I am through now, finished
with the way it was.
I have tried very hard to be like a
monkey, very funny, a parrot, a
student, writing poems the way
it should be done, by the book,
holding my pen like this and like that,
writing with my left hand,
experimental.
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!
It worked!
I've had work published
from Africa to Brazil and India.
I am happy about that.
But I am through with this now.
The 'succes' is that they publish
the poems you write.
If your poem connects seamlessly
to certain idea's and theories.
But theories must not rule the waves
of ink and sweat and glasses
filled to the brim, almost drowning in it.
These days I write to enjoy myself.
My wife likes some of them.
I like them, so what more do I want?
'I do not like
that word,
and what
does it mean,
what
do you mean?',
editors write.
Look it up, I'd say.
It is somewhere in all those
poetry books
on your shelf.
24.May.2007
Taken for a ride
It was cold outside,
it was cold inside.
And the gale force,
real Cape Town style,
locked most people
inside their homes.
We had no heater
in the house except
for the one blanket;
we stayed in bed.
Then we discovered
that we had nothing to eat.
We got into the car.
On Main Road
corrugated iron fell down
from a roof onto the road,
right in front of the car.
I was thinking how
lucky we were;
those sheet metal things
can cause a lot of damage,
scratches.
When the word 'lucky'
entered my head
the rest of the flat roof
came crashing down
and fell on top of the car;
huge beams with nails and bolts
destroying the windshield,
bending the steering-column
and the cracked, sunbeaten
dashboard. Beams that came
vertically down sliced through
the metal as if someone was
cutting a birthday cake.
One piece of wood really dug in,
managed to break the clutch pedal.
Another went crashing through
the drivers' door, the window
exploding in our faces.
We sat there frozen in case
more junk would come down,
perhaps the grand finale,
to kill us off; a huge scewer
going through both our heads,
or something dramatic like that.
And we were waiting
for the funny bit to happen.
There had to be a funny bit,
the roof of a house
falling on top of your car
has something funny about it.
No funny bit happened.
Or?
I opened the door and
wiped the glass off of me.
This would have been
the right moment for
Oliver Hardy to say
'Well, here's another nice
mess you've gotten me into!'
Sure, we were lucky. But
having that car fixed,
it was fixed and don't ask me
how they did it,
cost me an arm and a leg.
26.May.2007
The days
I cannot count
the days
I walked
your name
beneath
my feet
the silent
graves
of words
fallen
like soldiers.
There were
ugly wounds
and knives
ripping
faces apart,
my watch
calling your name.
My name far
away from you.
I wish I
could
worship
you
in those days,
gone.
Now I die
with you
and I die
without you,
every spring.
Where are you?
I understand
why war
can never
end.
People
slicing the earth
and each other
until
we are all orphans
with bleeding
knives
in our fists,
longing endlessly
for the
unfulfilled
dripping
memories.
26.May.2007
Setting the palette of war
Shooting and killing
during wartime
has a lot to do
with colours;
the faces smudged
with black and green,
shit colours
between the bushes,
place where you
can find shiny
needles,
green and brown
bottles,
the colours of vomit,
black of gangrene,
the strange colours
of the dead,
in different stages
of decomposition,
and last but
not least the
brown and red
of organs
and fresh blood
gushing out of
wounds, wax bones,
intestines exposed.
So when, werever,
a new war starts
we already know
this: it is really
going to be
very colourful.
Colours are waiting
for those who
return in a box.
Colours are waiting
for those returning
with a fake smile.
The pills they have
to use are in so
many great colours.
The blankets
they sleep under
in a park, doorway
are made of
different shades
of blue, green, piss.
We love colourful.
Their colourful lives.
Their colourful deaths.
We love colours.
Be bold.
Be bold.
27.May.2007
Holiday 1
I must have been tired,
from the journey,
sleeping in the car,
a sore back,
a headache,
finally in France.
I fell off the barstool
onto the floor.
I tried to get up,
fell against a small table
with old men.
Glasses and bottles rattled.
The men didn't pay much attention.
I tried to get up again.
Again I fell against the table
with the old men.
'Oh la la' they said.
Finally I got up,
swallowed some puke.
'I have to...', I said
to those I was drinking with.
I went outide,
sat down,
put my head between
my knees and puked.
'Damn'.
I looked at the beer
and pieces of food
floating
between my shoes.
This is not how a holiday should start.
27.May.2007
Holiday 2
'Merde', she said. 'Merde.'
I didn't know what that meant,
not speaking the language.
My friend was in the toilet.
Let's go to France he said.
He knew a little bit of French.
Well, I just had to wait for
him to finish his business.
But no, she said 'merde' again,
that old scarecrow, and now
the others also said it.
'Merde!'
All I came for was a bed,
breakfast
and then the next village!
The scarecrow made handsignals,
as if she was removing a long
piece of string
from her throat.
'What do you want?'
Again that 'merde'.
Then I realised,
she wanted me to say the word!
I tried 'mer...de'.
No no that was not good.
One word!
'Merde', she said
'Merde' I uttered.
Now all these arseholes
started to laugh and laugh.
I heard the toilet flush!
'Hurry up!' I shouted.
'Let's go somewhere else.'
My friend came in. 'Why leave?'
'They want me to say a word.'
'What word?'
'Merde', I said.
There was a thunderous laughter
as if a canon exploded.
'What does it mean?' I asked him.
'Something like 'shit.'
'Let's go,' I said.
On my way out I walked past the old scarecrow,
smiled at her and said politely:
'I hope you won't make it through the night.'
"Merde' she said, and laughed and laughed.
29.May.2007
More cars
All those bloody cars!
They get old and then replaced.
Look at black and white photo's
with their spooky,
nearly empty streets,
those old model cars.
And the people on bicycles are smiling.
People and their cars are smiling.
Today the roads are suffocating
with metal and fumes.
I don't have a car,
and I haven't used my bicycle
for at least six years. That's
probably the reason why
I don't smile a lot,
and have seen a psychiatrist too.
28.May.2007
Walk the dog
I walked the dog.
Was it my dog?
Or was it her dog?
Was I the dog?
Was she the dog?
Was everything the dog?
The earth a dog?
My life a dog?
Sometimes we all are a dog.
Some go to sleep,
some bite a dog,
and others go for a nice piss
against a tree.
My tree or her tree?
After the piss it's my tree.
Then she takes a leak
against the same tree
and it becomes her tree.
And then ... You can't
run away, tied
to a leash.
Hers mine hers mine,
even if we never meet
in the flesh again.
31.May.2007
How to submit your poems
Don't use the frontpage of the ms
to wipe your car after a bit of rain.
Never start your letter with 'dear';
the publisher/editor is aware that
he/she is not always that dear.
Never tell the publisher to go and
'fuck yourself'. The opposite
might happen. Although, this
might be prevented by using
a cork in the right place.
Never piss in the publishers'
face and laugh at the same time.
Most don't like that.
Never use the word 'arse-eater'.
It might give someone the wrong
impression.
Eat some vegetables or an
orange before you send the
manuscript. They might not
know that you took some
extra vitamines, but it won't
harm anyone.
Let the publisher know that
you think of him/her everytime
you wipe your arse. It is
a small gesture but it works!
Be creative!
But don't overdo it.
They receive enough shit
as it is.
And self-publishing is bad business!
It is a sign
of defeat!
Nobody likes that in his face,
all those bad poems.
Some might be really bad.
I hope you can use some of the
information.
Good luck!
31.May.2007
Hospital waiting room
This is the third time I'm here.
At the moment there are:
11 men,
6 women,
and 1 child.
That is a total of
18 people including
me.
There are no tiles to count,
no windows either.
But I brought my writing pad.
I start writing.
A man with the face
of a donkey
walks in,
then a girl on crutches,
her right foot wrapped
in white stuff.
A nurse with a clipboard
calls a name.
An old wino is
on the wrong floor.
They are always too high
or too low.
He is probably on his way
to the cirrhosis section.
I can see from the expression
on his face that he is not
going to give it up.
He is a craftsman.
It took alcohol years
to sculpture that face. The
blistered, crusty lips
touching the smooth glass.
I hear someone call my name.
I leave the room.
My seat is gradually getting cold.
1.June.2007
The beginning
I sat in my parked car, behind that of
a family returning from a picnic,
or something with food and coffee
in a thermos flask. There was a
fabulous looking girl, and while the
parents put the things in the back
of the car she gave me a glimpse
which I returned with more interest
than any bank.
There was a younger man who
obviously was not her brother,
the way he touched her with
his eyes, the way he talked.
His movements reminded me of a
grey, steel desk with three drawers.
The parents had died a long
time ago, were well groomed, got into
the car and put their seatbelts on.
Then, then, just before she opened
the car door there was another glimpse.
The hot glow of her mouth right there,
in my hands, and that even bigger
miracle of the wind (timing!) lifting
her skirt, lifting all darkness in the
world for a fraction of a second.
2.June.2007
Update
There was a whole bunch of angels or
something of the kind flying my way.
I heard one of them say: 'There he is, get
the upgrade ready.' I had no idea what
they were talking about but felt flattered
that I was suitable to receive an upgrade.
They didn't have to touch me or anything
like that, but to give me a good feeling
one of them opened a small hatch in my back,
pretended to work on me, closed the hatch
and they continued on their way. So if any changes
occur in my writing, you'll be the first to know.
3.June.2007
Q & A
It was Sunday.
I took my daughter for a drive,
a burger and a milkshake.
'Look', she said, 'there's a bird
lying there. Is it dead?'
It looked very dead.
Its wings spread, broken.
'Yes, it is dead.'
'Why?'
'I don't know why. Perhaps it was old.
Or it might have been hit by a car'
'Are we also going to be like that?'
'You mean dead?'
She nodded.
'Yes, but without wings,
and we are put in a box.'
'Why in a box? When you are dead
you are not going anywhere, are you?'
'Well, it has always been like that. Or
because they have to put you in a box
because it is the law.'
'What is that, the law?'
'A set of rules.'
'What happens when you are dead?'
'You disappear.'
'Where to?'
'Nowhere.
You fall apart. Like the dead
seagull.'
'Who told it to fall apart?'
'No one. It is nature's law.
It just happens.'
'You must stop! The light is red.'
4.June.2007
Dear John,
Congrats
with your 50th birthday!
As they say, it's
wonderful to become 50.
Life begins at 50!
You have all that knowledge,
maturity and gentleness
to understand, love,
touch and cherish life
and those who are
near and dear
to you.
Next year
I'll be 50
as well...
My god,
I want
to die.
6.June.2007
Suicide
Sometimes I wish I was
like that young woman in
jeans, t-shirt, from the article
in some fucking magazine
with text and photo's
of her somewhere in the
United States walking
towards the border of
rest and speed,
of
living
and the other
dark impact, the slow splash,
concrete, her inside purple,
hardly making an impression
on the water where divers
will find the restless
expression on her mask
called suicide by jumping
off a steel bridge.
Sometimes I wish I had
the guts, but they say I
look like my mother; she
could never make up her
mind. But say, one day, I would
take the plunge, you'll see
that there will be no one
there with a decent camera.
And not a single magazine
would print it either.
7.June.2007
A hot afternoon
Me, not even 50 yet but with
a white moustache and a beard
which consists of 65% white hair.
Not grey.
White
which is the colour code for
old and fragile, a parcel
containing tea cups from an
era
no one can remember.
'Do you want to sit?', a girl
asked me. She was about 20.
'No thank you. I don't like
moving about when the train
is in motion.'
My last sentence was rapidly
releasing a huge text balloon
in the over-crowded train coach
filling up rapidly with true stories
from almost all of my fellow travellers
about the elderly and their broken
hips, replacements, and bags
of urine hanging from beds with
tubes and monitors and things.
I can also remember that it was very
hot that day.
10.June.2007
Ending it
The man who jumped off that
building used to be like you and me;
baby brandnew, loved, milk,
birthday presents, fever, more
Christmas presents, a cat, a dog,
school, first kiss, first hangover,
first job and other chapters.
Then a fuse blew.
Will that ever happen to us?
Blowing a gasket?
Who thinks about that
when walking around in the
showroom full of shiny cars,
the smell of rubber and interiors?
This car is going to last.
Forget about the gasket.
The engine blowing up.
That baby jumping off a roof?
Don't be crazy!
Police ribbons are gone now.
11.June.2007
Dogs cats and flies
Driving along Epping Avenue I often see
dead animals,
wanted unwanted pets
killed by the heavy traffic.
There are always cats and dogs
lying around.
The majority dogs,
too slow
to cross the street in time.
I see the flies crawl all over them
their eyes tongues
natural and unnatural exits,
the heat of the sun buzzing
changing them
into what looks like
bloated rubber gloves
covered in dirty fur.
I am often forced to watch this,
stuck in traffic,
waiting for those damned lights
to change to fly green,
staring at the guts spilling out
and always those flies,
those miniature vultures
cleaning up the place, removing
the animal by eating them,
eating in front of everybody's eyes,
slowly but surely.
A bit further down on the corner
where I take the left turn
is the undertaker.
The sign 'Undertaker' looks
as if it is in need
of last rites,
weather beaten
and as rickety looking
as the whole wooden construction
the undertaker
lives and or conducts his
business in.
There is often
someone working
on the hearse,
an old model, economy version. It
has purple drapes
and is in need of a good polish.
You'd almost feel sorry
for the lousy dead
ending up in this thing,
smoke pouring
out of the exhaust,
the engine backfiring
reminding us of the continuing
day to day realities.
12.June.2007
Left/right?
What is
all this
about
right or wrong?
Right or wrong
according to
the masters
from the East
or South?
According
to the one
who pays
you
your salary?
To the one
called
you,
as long as
I can do
whatever
I like
and
whether
I am
aware
of that
or not?
Right and wrong
according to
the laws
of your
country?
Your feeling?
We all live
together?
Work!
Don't
steal.
Is that it?
Yes.
Don't tell me
there is more to it.
A soldier
getting shot,
dies.
That is wrong?
That is right?
Depends on
what?
Being the goody
or the baddy?
Right or wrong?
Left and right
in the eyes
of
the beholder.
Dear plastic
surgeons,
What will
become
of this earth?
Turning and turning.
Dying and fucking
like each leaf,
insects, lions, dogs,
she,
my love,
we met in a tram, yesterday.
The smell
of her words.
The excitement
13.June.2007
A bit of maths
Poets A1 and A2 and A3 and A4
are good friends.
Somehow
they
love each other
very much.
They invite,
kiss, lick wherever
they can,
write
love letters
to each other,
stating
that they are
great poets.
They admire
each other's poems.
They have to
as
no one else
does.
They don't like poets
B1 and B2 and B3 and B4.
Poet B3 told someone
that poet A3
writes crap, is doing well
as a failure.
Poet B3 is right.
But poet A3
is cross and
must punish poet
B3
by ignoring B3.
'B3 will never
read a poem in public
again,' A3 says.
A1 tells lies
by saying that poet
A(x) who died,
was a great poet,
we will be in A(x)'s
shadow for a long time
A1 writes.
But A(x) couldn't
spell properly,
made a lot of
grammatical errors.
A1 is very poor.
Lives in a
tiny house
with his tiny brain
and thinks he is
an important poet.
That is because
those who tell
him he is great
can't write a
decent poem either.
So his greatness
is a cheap lie.
He hides the truth
inside himself
and it hurts
so much
but he feels
not a fucking thing.
14.June.2007
3,2,1, gone
Publishing house company ltd
XQI has recently launched a book
with poems by ABC.
The titles of his previous publications
can be found on page 6.
I didn't buy it;
flipping the pages in a bookshop
revealed that it was a
break-neck of trial and error.
Not even the auhor himself,
with his well known name,
could change my mind by editing
the words in my head while
I read a few pages.
Sometimes I compare these books
to an airplane
lost in the fog;
if you try very hard you might
even locate it after two years.
But no one is really
interested in trying to find it
because the plane was empty.
It flew by remote but the
batteries failed miserably
so there's the reason why it got lost.
And the launch?
The launch of the space shuttle:
a lot of noise and fireworks.
Then slowly the book disappears
beyond our reach
until only the trail is left.
A gush of wind and this will be
gone too. Now they
have to fix the platform
for the next launch, sending
another mission into the clear
blue sky.
16.June.2007
Energy saving light bulbs
I don't understand it;
I'm using the max dosage
antidepressant and some Xanax
but still feel like a zombie.
Or is that because I use
those pills in all their colours
and sizes, capsules, sugar-
coated M&M's?
This pill industry is floating
on my dark clouds making a fortune.
It's better business than Bill
Gates and his Windows.
Why do people use so
many pills to kill pain,
depression? Where does
the pain come from?
Inside?
Inside because of outside?
But we are also part of
outside, we are the outside!
It is really that bad you know.
We are killing ourselves
with drugs, medicine
and our planet too!
We destroy whatever we can.
And we can destroy almost
anything until some kind
of instinct takes over, self-
preservation. The human
race must survive. No matter
what. So we all start buying
energy saving light bulbs.
16.June.2007