Chicken

A missing ‘t’.
I joined the kip
on the slab.
I did pull-ups
on the wish bone.

As the vlees
slid off, I fell in love
with my own face,
ook ook ook.
The breast bone,
ongekleed, shone.

The chicken had ranged free,
Komisch, stom
maar niet dom,
spijkerbroek en pet.
As a climber, I ascended a drumstick.

Wings of desire,
the sexy skin.
My shirt is pink.
I sit on the Buddha spot
and graaf kippenverhalen op.

The joints lie neatly on the board,
breast, thighs, legs, vleugels.
Let’s do this.

Treadstone

Full-grown lambs loud
bleat from hilly Jason,
and wit, too pissed
to scream “voilà la guerre!”
attacks few-winged cookies.

Bug the hanging heart.
Lack, your name be known,
breaded, stripped, lip-clicks.
Sunken foal, flailing in pungent cider,
happiest lynch – you left
the door of care worms
where such salty sprayed-on style be open.

Same-named compounds
eat out a living,
blue shrugged off with jigs;
bottles in the distance,
stone me if I cared less,
dampen must-see laws.

A
tooth seared mum would do.
At ease, fellow mod;
ology, ology widows widest.

High Tea

So, Sesame Street, return of the silk vessel. Big.
Out, damned spot! Out, ice age!
Ijsvogels book of French France, zweet in de namiddag.
Ijsvogels knikken hun hoofden op de muziek. High tea.
Buiten bereik van ratten. Miniscule goddelijke koekjes.

There is no place for humorous incidents or love affairs.
This is no place, no time. This is pure hop, bursting
with the wild, rich with scattered child.

So almond-shaped were her eyes that she became
an object of worship.
Ontsnappen op haar kleine tepels? Zomer en sla. Onnozel.
Zodra de Ijsvogels smelten wordt massa toegevoegd
aan schilderijen van de oceanen van bier.

There is no place for humorous affairs or love incidence.
There is place and there are times. This is purified hop, bursting
with wilderness, rich with rooted child.

Highest tea priestess, suburban wizardry of rural witches.
Bigger birds. Ijsvogels, helicopters, burned gebeuren. Whose hilly bourne?
Een multi-muziek van de middeleeuwen, opgediend
op gele borden, met Darjeeling en
miniscule goddelijke koekjes.

High Tea met dappere ijsvogels en Persian pickles.

Sketsen uit Loven, kus


I

Vampire bats;
Ze bewegen zich gemakkelijker door het leven,
Grillig, verslaafd en vers als veldsla.

Ze voeden zich met koeienaders waar ’t Benidormeffect
De meester overmeestert.
De onderlinge artistiekelingen plakken aan elkaar

Logistics – do you crop up in Asterix?
We do our thing on place-mats
And Rick had sweet swans.

II

Bomenvreters; de wirwar van huilbuien
Elke kweekt een aardappel,
Grillig en onverschillig, open als wireless.

Lovende trio’s van geiten komen met een voorstel,
De kroegeigenaar ziet ze graag elke week bij
Broeierige avonden.

A sirocco whistling thru a camel’s skeleton
And a dance hall air horn
Spread the icing on the cured salmon.

control

I think the problem lies
vuile vuil, hele donkere jurk
with the use of 'control'
in the original English sentence,
slakken en hamsters

It literally means to have power
over how others see you,
so not to allow people free will
ambachtelijk to have their own
opinions about you.

This is not, I think korst, what you mean.
In the Dutch and the subequent back-translation,
Tilburg boven Keltische ochtenden,
you seem to arrive at a better sentence
i.e. Ik ben zeer gemotiveerd om anderen
te beinvloeden hoe ze over me denken.
(I'm highly motivated to influence
wirwar how others see me.)

Is that what you want to say?
I mean, I gelukkig gelukkig, Gulag
lagen assume you are not seeking powers
of mind-control!
So the back-translation works, right?
tik

Dream 5

Walking north through the bombed-out city of my birth,
lighting my way with a mobile phone, searching for Magdala Road.
Distances seemed greater than I remembered and was Nottingham
bombed out or being maniacally redeveloped, bulldozers and cranes amok?
The flat had wide theatrical stairs. Benjamin was in the living room and the central heating was on full.

HET HANGVERLEDEN

Er hing iets in de lucht.
‘Think Twice’ van Donald Byrd
zweeft op een briesje;
zijn trompet kietelt gevels in de Roggestraat
wrijft langs de stoep in de Cappucijnenstraat.
Hij is ontsnapt, zonder commotie, uit een ochtend raam
in de Roggestraat,
hij sjouwt zachtjes het hele liedje mee.
Drijvend langs stoffige kozijnen van dorpsachtige woningen, ‘Think Twice’ zoekt andere muziek op, komt een stukje Steely Dan tegen in the Lievevrouwplein, Dean Park z’n talk box manipuleerde guitar solo uit ‘Haitian Divorce’
Wooah wah wearh ha hooo wah
en ontmoet hip hop uit 1989 bij Cafe Langeboom (‘Footprints’ door Tribe Called Quest wat ‘Think Twice’ herbruikt).
More is more, more is more, not less is more.
Samen flaneren ze verder.
Fietsers en autos en voetgangers hebben wazige contouren. De wegen zijn time lines.
Andere solos en choruses vullen de ruimtes tussen gebouwen en huizen: rondos,
intermezzos, bleeps and feedback, achoestische muziek en Bulgarse vrouwen, de kreten van Lemmy uit Motorhead, micro-house van Ricardo Villalobos, ‘Easy Lee’, Boef en de Gelogeerde Aap.
In het Wilhelmina Park, a magic bottle never empty always full, samples and solos share the air with overtures and concerts.
Borne on smoky breezes, the city spaces are crammed with human time and muziek van telloze instrumenten, stereos, radios, MP3 spelers en stemmen,
een spinnenweb, waarbij het verleden niet verdwijnt maar rondhangt,
het hangverleden.
Vibraties van de stad zorgen voor ons.
Er hangt iets hier in de lucht
wat blijven hangen zal.
Wij zullen blijven hangen,
aanhangers van de tijd.

I’ll find snow for her

Ik, de pro-vingerskateboarder, ga indroppen,
nie zoals King Kong
(trouwens, geen love song),
maar Batman, een bakker, Icarus
dropping on sticky her like icing sugar from the ceiling,
covering her, smelting into her,
abseiling down onto her, from some cliff of love.

Ik vind het wel sneu voor haar maar ik ben
tangled in climbing ropes and I have baggage
maar ik ga indroppen, dat zeer zeker.
Met dub in mijn oren en een zakje scheepen, sleep ik haar
naar de grotto of love, tanden zwart van liquorice
Daar kunnen we lachen om mijn emmer lippen,
daar zullen we bidden om een goede behandeling
en een oude mysterie beleven.

I’ll find snow for her.

I heard my imagination loud but not clear

A jack-in-the-box is a very fine thing
And a very fine thing is he
These guys’ mothers’ tongues are normal-sized
This morning I heard my imagination
It was a drunk clearing his throat
Rather than a rosy singer, with climax
On her horizon
Jack’s head jumped through all the layers
As if there were no layers and conflict between them
No cop raising his truncheon
All of this took place before a heavy purple curtain
And there was precisely timed clapping

odd's shopping list - at its foot an expensive
and rare item - THE VISION THING
his heels clack clacked on each pavement he trod
as he went in shops like a lizard scooting under rocks
searching for THE VISION THING
whose colour, shape and price were beyond imagining

AS

tilt your eyes, as
to my restaurant
there you may enjoy love
lobster
complicated, red, and grotesque
carrying a briefcase

as has an unsurpassed elegance
that comes with snow and chocolate
the heat of enthusiasm and passion
drawn pure from pools draws blood

her giggles ripple my surface
her depth allows my wrinkling to sing
her is delice d’origine
loveable

I CAN ONLY SPOOK FOR MYSELF

I’m stronger and fitter and faster at night
I’ll show you things to melt your soul
The blood of giants spread thick on hope toast
We drink the coffee of crisis, sweetened with chaos

I am falling for you with a parachute made of old dreams
I’ll hit the ground hard enough to break my wooden leg
But there’s no pain, just my ambition and fear and my pistolet
Filled with the hideous uncertainty of iceberg lettuce

What? Is this world coming too?
Volcanos ejaculating, floods gushing, winds screaming
We’ve fucked the earth for too long
And now we have ordered a carpaccio of climax, a global orgasm

I’ve got my goose and you’ve got your giggles
And so we will attack the Palace with bread rolls of Mora
Spek en spek en spek en nog eens spek
Spetterend soms stotterend nep netvlies

Glad en galjoen, poep en pop en poen, en groen groene golven
Tussen vooruitgang en Letterman ga ik
Mijn personality nuttigen
Om vervolgens mijn karakter uit te kotsen

Verhaaltje in je oor? Orgels en orkanen – luister, ik fluister
Terwijl wij klakkeloos vallen en aanvallen
Als baby draken, zonder plan, zonder vuur
They just breath in and out like fart cushions

Did you catch that, butter fingers?
If you’re not gonna stay for the show, fly away
With rotten teeth, a toetje heks
I’ll follow you in a low-speed car chase

Like Marlon Brando
I’ve nothing left. Hun hebben alles, ik heb alleen tiks
En de bips van de kassa bij de Apie Heijn
Wat ik na aap: bip bip bip

Mijn jasje wil vliegen. De mouwen zijn vleugels
Het opwaarderen van mijn zelfvertrouw is gelukt
And I’m outsourcing decision-making to my twitterfollowers
Terwijl ik inadem, uitadem en geniet van de uitzicht.

Ach, het is nie anders

Gangsters hebben mijn huis opgeblazen
Thieves have eaten my bread rolls of Mora & pissed on my ducks
Spruitjes hebben mij in de maling genomen met piepstemmen
En ik heb een klein velletje papier gevonden met m’n naam d’erop

My computer is closing down and I’m alive

Toetje Cliff (a made-up bedtime story for Willem)


After traipsing through the desert, they came to a huge black cliff, stretching on right and left to infinity. They had no climbing equipment, only teaspoons. “Can you change this into a Mona toetje?” one of their party asked the wizard they had kidnapped from Cordoba. He uttered a magic incantation and the cliff turned into chocolate blancmange. Their spoons were to be put to good use. However, whilst they did not know how thick the rock/blancmange was or whether indeed it too was infinite, they realised they would be there eating for a great deal of time. The spoons were very small, smaller it seemed, than the average teaspoon. Furthermore, time would have to be put aside for digesting the Mona toetje and vomiting it out if it proved at times to be too sickly. As the sun set, they began scooping away bits of wobbly, gelatinous brown cliff and putting it into their mouths, occasionally with a smile, most often with a resigned and rather sad look on their faces.

Toetje heks

Dit is misschien wel iets, iets, iets
Een stille stem stem stem
Maar nog niet alles, spek en spek
Spetterend soms stotterend nep netvlies
Glad en galjoen, poep en pop en poen, en groen groene golven
Tussen vooruitgang en Letterman ga ik
Mijn personality nuttigen
Om vervolgens mijn karakter uit te kotsen want hier zegt men
Niet ‘uw majesteit’ maar ‘uw distels, uw distels’.
Pass me the universal remote, laat me alleen met mijn geheimen
Want ik heb er niet zoveel over.
Tussen spons en fronzen weet ik het niet meer
Maar ik ben stronger and fitter and faster in the night,
Ik de toetje heks, de toetje heks.

Nice

A woman stole her husband’s pasta.
It was farfalle.
Is that butterfly or bow tie?
Wife smiled and said,
“Look at the ceiling! Birds are falling out of the sky.”

Son of cuckold looked and froze,
The prongs of his fork twisted.
Wife took pasta and did a dance on the parquet floor
Frogs crawled out his mouth and up his nose.
In the dining room, James Brown lowered his eyes
To his dancing trouble.

“This is a four-day long dinner, floozy” said he,
“I’m treading gold” said she, “it’s so nice to see
You using your talents to express your feelings.”

Get rid of

the dishwasher it's been broken many a moon now
install in its place a whole new world of loveable
characters, among which pairs of yappy tiny ones
with big, weary wise ones who suffer fools only barely
place the lot on a beech shelf and dust them
dust them and they'll trust you but whatever you do
don't stack 70 pairs or you'll be a twit now do it
go on get rid of that family dishwasher, do it now

Night Vision

I’m stronger and fitter and faster in the night
Try as I might
I cannot for the lives of me drag my steaming eye
From Dogfights on Discovery
Not pitbulls pitted each to the other
With pitch of giggling rage and stupid blood
But Spitfires and Hurricanes
Above Albion’s butterflies and wet hedges,
Shadows swooping over
Railings and churches on a hill
And so I gaze at sunbeams of past
With a branded telescope. I imagine it
But it’s real.