Wijs

Ik ben wijs als een kraan.
Als ik mijn kraan opendraai komt plotseling
een Atlantische oceaan van natte ideeën (woossh),
dankbaar ben ik, maar ik pleeg toch diefstal.
Pleeg diefstal. Steel een flamingo,
kleurig en onhandig als geen ander; evolutie van
mijn vogeltrekjes
maar, (and I say this in all seriousness of green grass
and asses) jat geen pasta; zij heeft pasta nodig, niet wat je smeert maar wat je
kookt in tranen in koperen pannen.
Ontrouwe flamenco danseres,
faithful to my promises,
langzaam vuur over mijn ‘s’.
Boks brouwer schouder CCHHHOUMMMMM
luidt de deur van de auto; ik ben de pit in de perzik,
stevig, rood, door naar de volgende ronde, gedurvd.
Mijn beloftes, mijn lippen van Adam, ormolu,
glijden glissando langs dokter duvet,
Vlieg en mug, ondersteboven taart.
Pasta of vrouw? X is niks, een verpeste zee
grenst aan tevredenheid.
Ik ben een zachtaardige reus want ik voel me thuis in ramen
waar spinnenwebben kunst zijn, waar de spinnen sporten.
Ik zal betalen met een kromme munt.
Mijn boek is 51 pagina’s leeg en sappig,
onwijs wijs.
En jij met je regenjas, bent door naar de finale.

Ride it out

Sint, you are slimmer
Than cousin Santa,
Bishop in a ship, gifted and uplifted
On a handsome white horse
White beard, wise white male
Topped with a mitre’s glimmer

O Sint I perceive
Much less believe
The dreary yearly
Fairy feast goes on
The kids are hooked
Just like on sweets and treats

And when those anxious adults
Like my bad self
Venture to undress
The Heart of Darkness
Of this outmoded show
It’s as if we’d ban milk
Shit on silk
Or piss on the flag

Please change with the times
Old fellow; forgo the black faces
With affro wigs, the jolly slaves
Our schools are awash with
Thick red lips and demented glints
In captive eyes of Moorish devils
Sustained by commerce
And sentimentality

Give the lie to the chimney conceit,
A less convincing story you could not meet
Hang the hysteria of populists and reactionaries
Dare to scrap a crappy throwback
Reinvent yourself
Take strength in your imperfection
And should there be an insurrection from
Wilders et al, ride it out, ride it out
Ride it out

Do not let this question trouble you

Are you sure you want
To send me to the recycle bin?
Zeker weten? zeker weten?
I typed the word ‘what’
As hwta
HWTA

Point your nose in the direction
Of your dreaming fingers
Grub
No I won’t back down
Don’t send me to the recycle bin
A world that keeps on moulding me around
Feeling me into shape
Like a whacko gropes a church

The results of your dreams
Will be sent to you
In a letter, internally
Back down your spine
And curling round you like a snake
To disappear down your cake hole
Where you stuff stuff
Waar, jongen jij je mond volpropt
Met dreams
Should you need to dream further
We have courses available
Depending
Naturally
On how much you need
And what it costs
To get stuffed

The owner of this car is a grub
De eigenaar van deze auto is
A grub
A grub

High Wind Tears AnAsshole in the sky
Dreams pass like dogs through
A pink burning hoopla
Held by your daydreaming fingaz
Like a Johnny Tambourine

What’s that Daddy on the horizon?
A recycling bin boy

jamón y queso

The balcony in our apartment; its natural sweetness didn’t stop me throwing a fig, which landed in front of the black slab of car park. Roller-blading Gandia youth used it in the evenings, as we sat building and the orange groves grew. Or we ate ham, jamon in Spanish, something like a phenomen, the mountains like a fluffed-up pillow behind us. We built up a pan appetite, bueno appetito; balcony city, our enchanted forest, graffiti skulls as far as the we could see, each day a safe adventure, topped with booze. Off daily to lifelong learning and clickety corpora, the bus of pensioners going one way, the joggers another. We made notes and no notes through a sheaf of presentations, some with feathers on, some blunt, some on target some, uh, not. It’s like a jungle sometimes. We absorbed various bouillons of CALL, suddenly back at school, a gang of kids sharing a joke and tentacles. The sand got everywhere, even cyberspace and our dreams; Ibiza was almost within spit distance. The dancers crawled up Spanish stairs, wonderful surreal affront to the literal-minded. American women we observed casting lines of lust like fishing lines. Steve Thorne said “we go forward together” so we developed a framework for implementation, bricolage and baby dragons, the patatas bravas parallel session. The pastel tints and buxom balconies, beer on the beach Yoshiki Muraki Sake Jager Fernando Rosell-Aguillar Kurt Kohn Aga Palalas, us, using these days, wringing out the flavour, extracting the nutrients, we are good we'll be better jamón y queso

Church:

Built out of stone, it was groped into shape
by the congregation. Anger I sense in you, proof bone
Grand Cafe Jus. Approach love and cooking
with reckless abandon.

The word-dabble. My child modelled a woman
in the sand, his fingers sculpting nipples
the salt of stairs

We are alone, we mermaids.

I rolled a lion poster in a tube, blew my name
over sea spray, rejoiced my anime.
I rejoiced at non-urgency, anarchy's
ornate pagan cave.

Catherine. You you of all people, of all Autumn cottages
have kneaded, punched and pulled my hairs
into free directions and funky weakness.
Aided by white horses I am stronger
in the building-as-instrument's notes.

Dream - real

A colleague had bought a vibrator, shaped something like a cross between a TV remote control and a toy car. How surprising, I thought, how mildly shocking even. I shouldn't be surprised actually, I thought.

It had several buzzing nodules on it.

It had been left in the fireplace (there are fireplaces in most of the rooms of our parental home). Later, I saw that my mother had placed a pile of burning coals in the grate.

The vibrator! I thought. I have to rescue it! I dug the dildo out of the coals, without letting my mother know what I was salvaging.

I brushed the coal dust off it and blew on it to cool it down. It was largely undamaged and it still worked.

I believe it was a Nike vibrator.

Love story

Is it a cheap publicity stunt or is it real kung-fu?
We’re publicity cunts, AND ERM we live and thrive in
Crackling maraccas of static, we’ll attack
Like a polar bear in the queue at the Hema
We stare off the stares
Aways next in line
Riff: “Deh deh dair de deh deh deh-dair deh
C’mon c’mon c’mon touch me babe
Can’t you see that i am not afraid?
Are you being over-kissed? I started off sculpting you
Now there’s more
More sense
The bedroom invites us to terror
I’m torturing Carly
She’s coming early
So I won’tOh I won’t
This is where the magic happens
Where? What magic?
Spam e-mail advises me that there are 3 distinct ways to ensure that my partner has 'earth-shattering' orgasms.
What was that promise that you made?
Neither of us wants to shatter the earth in this way. Leave the earth out of it.
What's with "give your partner earth-shattering orgasms"? It's not a gift in the same way that a book about gravel gardens or a CD by Johnny Cash is a gift.
Though generosity plays a role, orgasms require collaborative effort, not just what Woody Allen referred to as 'astonishing sexual technique'.
Why won’t you tell me what she said?
Blunt passions sweet big little friend
I started sculpting you, the curve of your hips, the carve
Of your lips, then I laid you on the table, ham slam, fatherfucker man
Sucking on your titties
Make a whining noise as you hold the mosquito in the air
Thick with chocolate smoke and zoom it in and around the audience of art students
It makes an eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee noise
You know there’s a tunnel from the Stedekestraat all the way
To the digital age, the snot, the rage, the bubble rap days
I started off sculpting you, my Pygmalion, my awesome sum of awe
I will finish the job with a Republican tantrum, hacking up
Kots koninginenUw majesteit, uw frisky distels
A hissy-fit, the screaming abdabs
You're pissed, let’s settle this with pistols
Now, I'm gonna love you
Till the heavens stop the rain I'm gonna love you
Till the stars fall from the sky
For you and I
Yay!!
Cinderalla becomes Sexyrella, the deep-fried wife
The bubbling Dopamine from sexual intercourse
Running thru my veins like nightmare sheep
My brain a glass of free range pigs
Our shoes melted, fused to our feets
As we swim in tomorrow’s daylight
Oh you, you..you

Iemand verroerde zijn bord


Hij greep zich vast aan de wastafel terwijl hij een fragment van een gedicht van Christina Rossetti zachtjes fluisterde, zijn stem hees:
In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys
In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys
Hij zag de woorden voor zich terwijl hij ze uitsprak.

Elke avond declameerde Cas poezie om dromen op te wekken. Hij vond deze methode beter werken dan kaas of drugs. Het was sneller en goedkoper maar het allerbelangrijkste: het was precies. De woorden die hij gebruikte werden de fysieke achtergrond van zijn dromen.

Een week geleden was “One reared his plate” trouwens ook van Rossetti, de catalysator voor een rozige ober in een drukke tapas bar. Hij hield zijn bord met tortilla omhoog in een parodische vlaag van agressie, boven de hoofden van geschockeerde directeuren die aan het lunchen waren om op een zojuist afgesloten deal te proosten. De manager van de bar schreeuwde naar Juan en wenkte naar hem dat hij het bord moest neerzetten en terug naar de keuken moest gaan.

Begin december maakten de manager, Juan en Cas een uitstapje naar een dennebos. Juan wees naar een aangemeerde boot in een vijver aan hun rechterkant. Cas begreep dat hij moest instappen. Eenmaal gezeten keek hij naar de andere mannen. Hij vroeg zich af waarom hij niet eerder had opgemerkt dat ze allebei hun hoofden hadden geschoren. Ze waren hun wangen in aan het zuigen en maakten slurp geluiden .

De vijver was maar ongeveer een meter diep maar de bodem lag bezaaid met etensborden.

Emoticon

Emoticon is pissed, perplexed; he cannot read the poetry
of the blue jeans, must remain a one-way street, a Tsar,
a numb queen.
Cannot read the weather or the moods of trains,
the intention to climb Everest or the suburbs of Milan with their riddling attics
and open air pizza hills.
He’s deaf.
He laughs out loud but can’t taste it.

We can wear our ears inside out, double-seamed trousers
and there’s no telling how far we might follow
the trains of thought.

Emoticon crashed his bike – no other bikes
or cars were involved.
His skinny arm in rivulets of hot blood held out
from the mangled metal and rubber
a glorious tart of red currants
not even slightly cracked.
Each happy berry,
a puckered all-knowing surface.

A book has fallen on John's foot and a book has fallen on Mary's foot

Tijdens het arm-bungelen
onstond er een soort ape-in-a-cage
en toetjes? die werden voorbereid volgens de regels
de regels van 'hostage-taking' en blinde passie.

Zes gloeiendhete dagen van 'dinners'
zes munten waar gelijkenissen op stonden
van mannen
wiens vrouwen vreemdgingen op de wreedste manieren
en op de vreemdst mogelijke wijzen.

Translate into Dutch

Where last night's dream
of protestant gangsters in Brixton
teaming up with skinheads from Queens came from
is a mystery to me.

They all lived in a house. I was allowed
to see the room of one of the gangsters,
with it's iron grille window.
He had some stereo equipment in it.

Another gangster was educated

Boilers

The tin has rings; Zeus implores physical efforts from our team,
the team that invites ridicule and will not argue,
but would prefer to dance and smile.
The tin will be our icon.
Our pyramid.

We want originality or complete authenticity.

Binding the indecision and lubricating our resolve is a substance we call sprinkler silver ((GRAND METROPOLIS)).
It looks poisonous but is unstitchable and crumbles easily. It has a complex and subtle taste.
(Subtlety is to be re-spelled 'sulbtety').

On one of our walks, a farm dog walked a way with us, led then followed, then veered off
to the side, into a different valley.
It met us again at the end of our walk.
I said it was very ugly but Kim pointed out its eyes were beautiful.

We head on into the afternoon, as falcons.
The tin bridge and Zeus's words in our ears, a warm old wind.
We dangle, we are grapes, we feel like a dust layer in a tube.
A chestnut monster that has been threatening us with blank face
and spikes
will vanish when we scrub the tin clean,
and wash it in mountain water.
We all want to drink the mountain water. We are prepared to drink it
though in the end we don't.

Should we have?
Is there some other way we can drink it now?

Waiting for us in the bay is the yacht of the moneyed people.
It has a stem. Science.
We become erect and our hearts heat up like boilers.

Perhaps the water would only have been good for us, and nothing more
like some holidays.

skirt

deep in the wood a face of trees ascending layers, run away, get away
words floating above a stony stream 'c h e s t n u t'
to make things flow
the tiles, always coffee

a yellow letter; the smoked smell of the gradient, suggested fruit,
the French call 'dog's arse'

crunch

Cubes

When you are busy
cheese takes a back seat.
Trout tickling can only be envisaged
(with another’s hand)
((and black and white)).

The fall guy inundated us
with tears.
She took a fence in a leap,
like a skater grabbing air.
Yet kept smiting
with screams.

We passed in a French car,
laden with butter and cream.
The sound was a cat
demanding milk.

Sue sew his socks
and paid her dues.
A pike stretched an emotional argument
out to her on the bubbles of a Duke’s wood,
the sticks of slang and golden syrup walking upright
for the first time, casting a late and lasting glow.

Now, we’d like to tell you how we inserted
K(s) in our name, at no little cost.
And we’d like you to pop up.
Your table is beautiful; on second thought(s), leave it,
it is alive.

BABAABAB

brand a dream, come brand a dream
and real man bram, with brandy screams
“sand, real sand, humble rampant
we b ram-raiding for tricks and treats
and dream boats ram sandy reams
of rambo’s randy cream floats my queen”
and sandy breasted andrea rambles
“mambo, real mambo and real madrid
and cram my hopes, my real bread man, my squid
my tram, my wham bram thank you dream
team, and dream-time, mine with wine, my brain i am”
and andrew’s angel-food cake bra-less, manly dreadfully
sticky-sweet, like this branded dream
hand us a piece, reach for a seam of breathable mmm
a dandy manual, breath test, real deal, drama queens!
oh let the bubbly marriage, music and reefers teach
reanimate boys and well-read rampant men on the beach
brazen sweet maidens and bread-tree women
for we break the day, the trance, real dreams
aaaammmmdreambranddreambrandmmmmaaaa

FRESH AND DUSTY


As the sneers drift windward
from Hotel Metropolis I ask myself
am I what’s outside of me?

was Nick’s affection for the Koningsplein
and the ugly corners of the city ironic?
or absurd?
of serieus?

alles
uglicity, ons bezit
our cattle list

the Duvelhok man
Sam Sam’s boots of ages
which stay crisp in rain

Tilburg
no monument to itself
people make the most of it
people make the city? / or the city makes people?
this we shall not determine
zonder een Glock 49
op onze slaap gericht

spiritus tankless – it’s a rehearsed battle

we’re dreamers
we’re an eight-year old with some decks
we zijn Chris de stapschrijver
im
-media
-see

we’re monks on skateboards doing sacred kick-flips
nous sommes la poubelle
een stedelijke lentetuin
fresh and dusty
we’re an alpine scene on a chipped mug
what’s outside of us and inside of us
we’re Australia
we’re Anakin Skywalker’s doubts and Lolita’s pouts

as I cycle reverie-slow down the Lancierstraat
I notice
an
unkempt
. . climbing
. rose,
. . . angular
. . and
. . . . wiggly - like
a techno dancer

I see through invisible buildings Moerenburg’s golden tree

het is ‘s nachts
slakken leave trails
from the short hill
to the fivespring

is this pride I smell my own?

Oe oe

Willem z’n grootvader, double-dad begroet z’n kleinzoon Willem
“Hey? Numb Nuts! You cheeky monkey! Come
And give granddad a kiss – it’s father’s day.”
“PPLLLPPRRRRR!!” zegt Willem.
“Wat? Wat zeijde gij? Did you just give double dad a raspberry?”
He speaks in the thick Rhode Island brogue of Peter Griffin
from Family Guy (showing daily on Nickelodeon).
Willem replies as Stewie, “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,
double-dad. Would your apeness care to explain the etymology
of raspberry?”
Peter legt keurig uit dat ‘raspberry’ afkomstig is uit de
Cockney Rhyming Slang uitdrukking “raspberry tart” die rijmt
op fart, het Engelse woord voor scheet.
Mother mother, dubbel moeder laten wij haar noemen, fluistert naar haar vloeien,
“Kom hier kleine beestjes; we gaan een daisy ketting maken. Mijn vingers zijn te dik om de kleine bloemekes aan elkaar te breien. En ik heb straks jullie bloed nodig om verse fristi te maken. Oe oe”
Zij las onlangs op internet dat luizenbloed of luizenpoep, word gebruikt om bepaalde voedsel een mooie rose kleur te geven
Ze heeft een erudiete tattoo op haar rug, net boven haar kontje, wat de Britten ‘butt antlers’ noemen,
‘butt antlers’, an expression, in ink, of our higher destiny, a lyrical correlative of our civilization.
Twee andere jonge apen hameren op de toestenbord van een vette schrijfmachine,
Intuitie, intuitie, dog, dog, infinite monkey theorem.
Bescheidene kleine intelligent somewhat arboreal apes
of equatorial African forests,
lucky to be given the chance to write,
the chance to create some fortunate rhyming slang
some schitterende ongelukken
amongst all the flying shit.

essence

a house to hide in
four floors for dreaming
grounded and surrounded
by the ceiling
stuck to the walls
we
slumbering wriggling boarding a train
glitter in the primordial soup

nothing can stop
the power of a real dream
not even a chain-smoking midwife
and so, we were born
with or without karate
some of us, even
with kung-fu

mother’s muscular arms
are the direct result
of carrying children, plants in pots, lambs
suitcases and butter

papa
een kirrende dwerg
leerde ons jongleren
papa
zachtaardige reus
diens gespierde armen
direct afkomstig van het behang

wij woonden op de bodem van het paradijselijke zwembad
bloedrood geschilderd
bij nader inzien
waren er gradaties van kleuren
en kindness
aardbeien
gewikkeld in caramel
om te voorkomen dat ze in het duistere water oplosten

we received the heavenly
gift
of crème brûlée
which we perfected
with a blow torch

this was no expensive cook’s blowtorch
but a simple paint stripper
bought from GAMMA

British chefs invented
the crème brûlée
divinely inspired
British cooks
strong-armed and carrying the blood of nations in their candle-like veins

yet all food evolves
from wolves to waffles

the proof of the pudding was
the aquatic dance
krokodillen worstelen met zeemeerminnen

in een onzuivere plas
stijgt een envelop zonder venster (met lak verzegeld)
naar de oppervlakte

seeming to promise the bumps on the crocodile
yet when we emptied it on a warm rock
we saw a confetti
of tickets to dreams
and performances
by Kris Kremo
and when we tried to pick them up
a wind blew them in spirals
out of our grasping claws

Kremo, born in 1951
legendary juggler
son of Béla
who taught his boy to juggle by mail

for quite some time now
we have been fascinated by kindness
and would wish for it to become
a default quality among humankind
may mermaids take de facto control of kind-essence within differ-essence

crocodiles are not kind
but they are ‘kind’

we wish to perform a study in degrees of crocodility
or is that crocolessence?
at what point does the child recognise this creature
fellow and bellow

CROCODILE!! KROKODIL!!?
we await a crocodile with wheels

Bela Kremo had a long bumpy body and 60-80 teeth
Kris Kremo’s mother was not a mermaid
and she was, kind of

Pineal Gland Wriggling For Joy

In front of friends or family, I assembled a model ship
(overseeing the adding of layers
and the spraying of a sticky sand coating)
then went on its journey.

I placed a cruel man on the snapped-together deck
and chickens and crows in niches.
The captain, feared, left his shadow in all the streets
of the ship. Even the living cabins weren’t off-limits
to the pony-tailed tyrant
though my guests did their best
to recline and act comfortable with cream clothes
and class.

The streets were deep and showed off the moon
like a stage.

The ship’s priest projected images of a dude past,
him sitting cross-legged in the audience for 1970s gigs
like Steely Dan and Captain Beefheart.
The crew ganged up on him later and accused his sexuality.
They were scapegoating him
for something.

His calm under pressure was a thing to behold
as elsewhere men were tortured on flimsy pretexts, one
of whom chewed off his tongue to survive.

The ship never arrived at its destination.

Sold - dream 4 (false)

Number 31 in our street has been sold. A family of penguins were moving in yesterday. There were a lot of them milling around outside the front door and it occurred to me that it might be difficult to remember all their names.

I helped them unload some of their gear and carry it into the house. The windsurfer proved particularly tricky to carry but we managed.

Sung, Dug, Danced, Planted

(for Mum and Dad)

Sung by things dug up,
the clay pipe with harp,
as natural as oil.
No destroyed civilization, no shocked discovery
of bust statue of liberty on the sand.
Rust on an old broach,
sweat on summer’s ancient evenings,
the spattering of brown optimism

Danced by planted bounty.
Black plant pots of leeks,
ant highways and aimlessly industrious beetles
ignoring like calmest parents
the lanky greens plopped in dibbed holes
after Mr King, à la veteran
of killing and growing fields.

Eight-tined garden fork leant by gate,
warmed and polished handle,
living stem
muddy, magnificent,
moulded to the rhythm of vegetation
and allotted growth.

May Sketches

From Simon’s 7th floor we see fullness of trees.
We send our precisely cautious understanding,
the balance of our mind
like a paper plane towards creamy smoke
from 2 chimneys over near Dongen,
distant other-industry.

17 letters are branded on the skyline above Koopmans,
logo in the sky with dyads, dripping graffiti, crucified for pride
and bucking under-renown.
On the site of the Chile mural, FEB letters,
indestructible,
like the stuff the bad cyborg was made of
in Terminator 2.

Prisma glares sagely at Warande, insect-frame roof aerials tickling
complex air, smell of tyres, cheese pastries and oak leaves
in the atmospheres.

Plains of pebbles unite UvT roofs.
but unique debris defines each
(a smashed coffee cup or two on the roof of the SSC
and Mr Fantastic’s long dried-out husk).

At ground level, medleys of jeans
and this season’s boots and Birkenstocks,
student hairstyles in evolutions not revolutions,
gentle plagiarism of genres.

The wheelbarrow man wears denim too but he’s a hole in his left thigh
from hauling sand from the side door to P’s koffiekamer
to the entrance to the Univers.

In C17, Marga opens a brown envelope with a class list
but the sender has forgotten to sign it.
The fountain holds its note though;
its tripping splashing warms faces.
It’s May.

Free Ranging Pig

The teddy bear is from the 1950s,
rescued from a rose garden,
judiciously pruned,
softening the trotter trail,
bellowing false laughter,
piglets hanging onto teets
for dear life
and for the sake of blooms.

The trimmed toothbrush
is caked with salty paste,
granular as river water
glinting in the new digital dawn,
capital lettering branded
on its muscley blue stem.

The jeans you're wearing hide satin,
waxed tints and a damp low tide
dangled from the mouth's numb kisses
and eleven o'clock oaths,
the disappeared haunts of monthly mayflies
and pushers.

In America, they have cheese from a spray can
(100% pure Tilburg emotion)


I
Wood carved friends dance
around the Moerenburg gold tree; it’s one
of Tilburg’s many rituals.
They drink silver soup with straws,
and spit it out in Moergestel on the stoop
of the shoe shop.
The owner comes outside; “Now I’m cracking heads!” she says. She has no idea how valuable silver soup can be.
“It’s a slow burner. You’ll get hooked by episode five or so,”
they say, “let it dry and scrape it off. You can store it in a beaker,
which you call a beker.”

Sam Sam in de Noordstraat are selling pizza boots; the crust stays crunchy
when it rains on them.
Café Loca went the way of the warrior left home
alone while the battle raged. Now she visits the wooden man
near Duvelhok and tells him her woes, invites him
to keep her lonely red walls company. He can’t dance but he listens,
creaks eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrr.

Acclimatize in the Cul, hang by the wall, watch, like
the zoo or the kermis but Studio wants a penny
for your thoughts.
It’s high on its reflection
in the ceiling mirror.
The dancers show off
and if you are alone, the energy will strike you
dumb and dumbells and tie
your modesty in a Gordian knot,
a Dumbo trunk of show show you are dismissed.

You can remove your golden fleece, night hound,
and go back to the Kuil at the Cul and hear song after murdered song.
Happy Birthday, pissy pissed toilet,
10 years of vaasjes, jas and Brandt,
afterwards skiing into Wilhelmina Park on smoke stacks
and the blaasinstrumenten of the nachtburgermeesters and the Tilburgurdists.

Spiritus tankless; it’s a rehearsed battle. Only Peter and the wolf
and Bob Dylan’s mum, stamping ping pong balls flat, will save you.
Thelonius clip clock, oh the music in his jerky leg da deh de deh der derrrr
Wolves travel in a howling car round midnight
and sniff the air out the window,
hang their tongues to clean the fietspad.
Bob’s ma, dressed in tea towels from de Textielmuseum, hums
“Zimmerman, zimmerman.”
And while they pass,
performance monks on skateboards do sacred kick-flips
and bakkers do cake flips.


II
Habibi Habibi, thumbsucker of the love bite stigma stigma
Babies and baboons crawl
through the double-doors of La Poubelle; they swerve
at low speed so they don’t squash anybody or bruise
antique zucchini.
And they shell out peanuts for boots in bags, the wood, the metal, the paper,
the monks and the monkeys you don’t need now, but you are time travelling,
and the 1960s and 70s and 80s are piled up like reality pimps.
Pimpburg.
There’s a buzzing sound as I cycle slow as a dream down the Lancierstraat
into the sunset and the heavenly sweet trees at the end of the Wulla Wulla.
I want some junk; for I am going back to my new roots
and I need a scratched long player
and an ugly cupboard and beer glasses commemorating JFK’s assassination
and nameless yellow stuff with Swiss history, an alpine scene on a chipped mug.


III
The Midi Theatre is sweating so heavily the police can’t take fingerprints,
so they run a wire tap with a vlinderstruik, trap butterflies in the lobby
and release them into the Dansacademie – free lessons from vlinders!
Back in the Cul, the crowd recognise each slaughtered song
like a cheese tosti.
De gekke gast with his karate kicks is removed into the alley
near the entrance to De Nacht, and the Belgian band play on.
His mae geri and mawashi geri mingle with the cum shots of jellyfish.
Sexy squid climbing up ropes of smoked eel
to the hanging gardens of Goirle, loop
tracks for cutting edge dance music.
“Kijk, Bosschens!! The Hanging Gardens of Goirle!!”,
where the balconies are drip-fed Viagra, and folks
buy into the blurb. They wear
straw hats to cover their cocks,
and carry their cunts in baskets, with Paturain en Boursin on the side.
High and low, to and fro. They have no need of gardens in Bosschkens.
Tilburg’s Napoleon Dynamite asks,
“Hebben de kippen grote klauwen?”
Adje dances sitting down. It’s a sit in, a funky protest;
we all wave our hands in the air like
octopuses and Jan Schellekens builds a rope bridge
between the cafes. He is paid in halve euros and verse tonijn.



IV
And now my diary is full like a bag of anchovies, salty and leathery
anecdotes and pizza enriched nights Peter Parker
and it’s time to dance so sweetly that the ceiling weeps,
il neige sur Liege and nachtslakken and watchmen suck
words from our mouths like the thrashing fish
in the Beekse Bergen. They’ll suck
our faces off too and our sproetjes will taste
like Anakin Skywalker’s doubts,
and Lolita’s pouts.
Time for Lolita, muscular provincial coquette. She lifts de Korte Heuvel up with her pinky fingers and shoves it into her mouth
to the piano of Ligeti and the clicks of minimal techno.
She begs us to strip her, take her to Moerenburg
tie her to the golden tree and squash hele mooie aardebeien all over
her body, but it’s quicker to spray cheese on her,
though we are crying into silk handkerchiefs and
emoting into a greasy Tupperware tub.
PPPPPPSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHSSSSSSSSSSSTTTTTTTTTT

Paragraph 3

Black bamboo revolutionised the American way of life.
The earliest significant change was for farming klick
families, who were no longer isolated.

Black bamboo enabled them to drive
to towns and cities sweetly and comfortably.

Another important change was that people had the freedom
to live and dream wherever they wanted.
In fact, people could work in a busy metropolitan city
and drive home to the quiet tropics.

The final major change brought by Black bamboo was the building
of superhighways,
suburbs, installations,
huge shopping saucers, and theme lillies
such as Frisbee World in Florida.

Snuif Snert

Snert snert en nog eens snert;
snuif de muur van Weemoed op,
gillende muren, murmelende muren,
lyrische plee, erudiete deuren.

Onze dandy is manisch,
vervallen Amish
die de verleiding niet kon weerstaan,
drinkt, rookt, vloekt en neukt,
kwetst zijn borst met soepstengels,
naar de beat van trippel schuld,
(drie machtige lasten),
schildert groene graffiti
met ranzige kwasten.

Zaadjes op de zadeltjes,
een beker vol lol,
onze coryfee aapt Brel na.
Zonder liefde warme liefde
R vindt het maar zo.

Het spraakballonetje raakt de tijd aan,
plakt zinnen op een vervaagd drieluik.
Puin en gist en de stem van de heilige klacht,
tattoo’s op het plafond,
Puy linzen en peuken op de grond.

R spreekt wijsheden en bluf,
zaait en zwaait met zijn gelovige slurf.
Hij krast de stenen,
gooit klinkers op hun koppen,
plukt moppen uit vuil water.
Onze dandy begint door te draaien

R maakt danspassen,
R, met zijn dikke polsen, abdijbier in zijn hand,
R, manisch positief,
R, doorweekt in Corsendonk.
Hij plast in zijn broek.

Alléeee, alléeee!!
Hier komt Corrie de fee!
Haar vette vieze varkens
bewaken de WC.
Appellation Controlée.

Pocket Poisoner

Hairy Spoorlaan, you are wide and wet,
a sticky tongue rolled out
to swallow devils
and angels alike.

When words and moods come bawling
at me like toys hurled in tantrums,
you, tantric partner, whisper from a tunnel
“The enjoyment of life covers many things.”

You, Spoorlaan, smoking ribbon,
demon, the scales on your tail flashing
in traffic lightning,
you won’t eat or drink more than you really need to,
maybe a little dracula coffee,
a bijou bun or perhaps a portion of quirks.

Rail Boulevard, the city hangs on your howls,
and welcomes your comic zombies, who,
when the pigeons have scattered
like glass shards into dusty corners,
julienne themselves on bike frames.

Spoorlaan spell, drag the prey to beds,
make tea in concrete pots
and recite your curses,
while the actors stitch their parts together
with sausage casings,
because you see, aaaarrrrrrrggggghhhh,
monster pockets cause special effects.

Kirk Pram


12 long years have not broken him.
Exiled in a battle poem, wiping mud and blood from his knees,
he creeps like a puddle of cream,
advances on your magnetic north.

Every word he utters makes a dog bark
and the images trickle out of his head.

His eyes are half-shut as he paints his name in palest blue
on the door of the guilt enclosure.

Floating on a river of lava he doesn’t singe, just sweats
till at an opportune moment
he swerves to avoid the dark side, falls
into a warm salty bath
and gently washes off his erudite tattoos

Zen

do not confuse
sandals
with scandals
when attempting
to buy the former

do not rub your hands
with glee
when you think
you are disseminating
scandals
but are actually
throwing sandals
about

but if the subject
of your scurrilous gossip
is committing
unspeakable acts
with Birkenstocks
then it's ok

Snowball in my face - Dream 4

Standing on a balcony overlooking a courtyard
in which people are standing
in groups of two or three. It is snowing.
I am with…who? Can’t remember who. Friends
or family. I pick up a snowball and toss it
at someone down below
whom I know.
I miss and so try another throw.
The snowball hits a man squarely in the mush. I step back
from the balcony, cringing
with embarrassment. Then
I return
to the balcony
with my hands in front of my face
in a gesture
of supplication
as if
to say
“Sorry sorry please forgive me.”
I seem to feel that these
gestures are useless
so I shout down “You can have
a free shot at my face. How’s that?”
I scoot off down to the courtyard.
The man takes aim and chucks his snowball straight into my face.
I make an exaggerated backward fall as if I’ve been shot.

Aloud

She bent down and read a poem from the sole of her boot
as if scraping off dog shit.

The verse
was ethereal
layered
and pungent.

The audience were both
insulted
and in thrall to her ability
to balance on one leg.

When she was done with reading
she stamped her feet
making dust rise a little way
out of the boards
then fall.

Hup

She touched her toes, unrolled a map, chose a route, ate a snack, tracked a path, stopped to chat, took some twigs, breathed in sense, kept it clear, chose a spot, drew the links, lit a fire, wet the pen, won the time, laid the lines, wrote a text.

Writer's Block

I could not see the wood(s) for the trees,
I could not plot my path through the trunks.
I entered with the best of intentions
yet found myself in an unclear place thick with saplings
struggling towards the light, green dust floating down
and up in stencilled light.
My fingers itched.

I could not write on the trees, I could not make my own path,
The main path was elusive; paths were only other paths.
I found a pond and stared at its opaque cover.
Ducks went about their business,
water boatmen balanced their acts.
My storm hovered above their calm, my toes
burned with shame.

I walked three times around the perimeter,
I could not muster the strength to plunge
into the very heart of the matter.
I plucked leaves and rolled them like cigars.
I stared at the cracks in the bark.
My lower back was wet with sweat
and I had done nothing.

Help
Help
Help

The Hills

Like a tap turned on after a long absence, the release
of grateful water, as outside a car door CHHOUMM slams.
The flamingo wakes the zoo.

A flame licks the arch of the S, Luigi on Sunset utters this
warning to his single-sinned wife, “Don’t be taking my pasta
or my woman.”

She’s come to the stone in the middle of the peach. The sea
is ruined but the light off the waves promises as sieved sugar
on a tart.

Her cat’s rictus grin wins her over – “oh Jenga, come here,”
she says and clicks her tanned fingers. Jenga brushes against
ormolu, padding over.

He’s not flown for at least a year. He’s 51 pages and pure lakes,
a fly and orange upside down cake. He slicks his hair back
like Crispin Glover.

“Do you wanna arm-wrestle, stone pussy?” A balcony breeze
brings a modest erection to the hairs on her arm; her heart
is like a net.

Ingenious water-pumping systems

Yet-to-be-uncorked water prisoners
whose still patience registered on the ninth heroic scale,
worn by excuses, done to the shallowest degree of invitation, hide
muted screams.

Needles of ancient lore, loosely foundationed, the garage – its oily life.
A figure waited on the balcony, its shadow interrupting
the accumulation of the day’s themes.

From a near distant suburb comes a rumbling
as mules careen through streets of tomatoes on a long
silvery leash.

The next monent, the shower is on
and the bell-hop is gone.

Come a little closer and taste this pastry
with its big big flavours.

Which superhero is it going to be?

...the telegraph wires dip
drowsily over the garden walls and the trunks of holly trees
are wrapped in brightly coloured woollen tubes against the breeze

your fingers crack in the cold, chestnusts roast,
Chinese lanterns drift across empty lawns and rest against oaks
sand makes wormy patterns on factory windows
(or is it dust?)

take that leap of faith, as chalk powder sticks to red plastic chairs
and graffiti fades in the dawn light, scream your love into my ears
and eat Turkish pizza for breakfast, the edges of the dough a little charred
and march with ladybirds snapping around your heels

view three elephants in descending size warm teapots
by curling their trunks around them, as Frank buys pickles for his vodka parties

hand in your bollocks on a plate
say, ‘here, I’m a non-believer,
and you are a royal pain in the arse.’

Hey Hoo

Hey Hoo, we gaan los
Hey Hoo, we gaan los

Ze lopen in een lange rij
Ze maken nog een scherpe bocht
De kids worden gek gemaakt
The Blitzkrieg Bop

Een hoopje op de achterbank
Ze stomen van de hitte
Dampend op de back beat
The Blitzkrieg Bop

Hey hoo, we gaan los
Schiet ze in de rug snel
Ik weet niet wat ze willen
Ze zijn los en ze zijn er klaar voor

Spring (dream 3)

The garden’s full of spring shoots
but weeds are running the show.

On the street I meet young Jos. “You need
a haircut,” he says.

“Really? Do I?” I check my reflection in
a window. The hair indeed is long and thick, imposter’s hair.

The houses have already had their breakfast, they’re flexing.

“Take me to the barber post-haste Jos.”

Through an alley, round the back of a farm crêche. Rabbits
scattered in long juicy grass mean we have to watch our step.

I enter from the left wing.
There are red hills in the distance.

“Welcome Jos. Is this your friend? You would like a haircut?”
She is Italian and holds a rabbit under her arm.

I wait in a waiting room. Jos and the woman discuss my cut.
“We’ll give him a background of flowers,” says the woman.

Suddenly I am small
and bald.

New Vorst

So we sat on the black side
near the logs.

I looked at shy Jesus.

“Show me the way you dance
to this song,”
I asked Wim.

He span.

Els perched on a chair edge,
pad on lap.

She sketched a stiletto sprint
down the Spoorlaan.

Koen plonked a jar of ants
on the wood floor.

“Look at that,” he said.
and “here comes the queen”
in falsetto,
as his hand mimed an ant and crept
to the jam jar.

“What is Web 2.0?” I thought.

The Arctic Waltz

News flits from rock to ravine,
Sandblasts bible belts, ruins Roman haircuts,
Blunts steely scissors, rusts
Swiss army knives

Tits and guns, kicks and flames, pianos to tune,
All dumped in pools.

Cushions scatter as she, logistics,
Throws me backwards
And batters me with love and letters.

Falling rising luck of the leaves,
Dig up salsa, butter my bread, shoot
No-one in Maine, Middelburg and Venlo,
Pacific capoeira in slow mo.
New splits, toes aligned, dance krump, nights in Babylon, wine.

I was joking when I said
I’d cap my teeth and smack my lips to Lindy Hop
So I’ll wear a mask and squeeze a plaster orange between
My bony hips,
Whirl the clocks, hammer the meringue
At dawn.

And I’ll sculpt a giant pepsi can, spend
My days scamming scams,
Listening to the Dan, cook
Up fictions while the soul expands
And analogue flower machinists weep
Over Grandpa Munsters.

Work it out leave it out, Cezanne’s Mountain stands
Which he painted again and again
And again.

Let us give birth to the surface and all its depths.

ouvroir

spilled sugar puffs on cushion volumes
evil kitchens in the dirty rooms

marble devils, puffed out, strutting peacocks
even ill, dirty brass, dived Dante's plots

bled, vinegar soused, wintry seas, air loose soul
the east is still, grass sadness, glorious all fall

flop, tyres float the single force comes breezing
trait or not, it has the blend of feeling

high note in cents and crumble re-routed
true tendency, granted, plinth and sutured

smallest harboured for tricks attests
she scattered sugar, global texts

Amsterdam Tilburg Neverland

We work with the spaces
The back is quiet, the front door ajar
On the street I see a queue
Of monks on skateboards
And hear bells
While frying onions

We cut and thrust
Road-mending en-masse
I hear a samurai giggling fit
So modest but shrill
And feel metal
Stretch the fabric

In my dream I dream
I’m dreaming
Out between the starlight
I see trains shuffle sleepy
By the pale green radiator pipes

It’s as indispensable as the bread
I taste in a Balkan high rise
Or the extension cable I hug tightly
Picturing something else again

Contact my lawyer

New splits giga bytes,
I’m Kaiser Söce, Kaiser Söce, crispy bacon
TV ratings, my dog’s got rabies
Blast him with a laser beam, sing scream
Because nothing really matters to me,
Transformed into a giant beetle, it was no dream
I am Lazarus, I will rise like the sick sun
And my dog bites your bollocks, even if you have none
Contact my lawyer about it
He will see the money is transferred to your account
Welcome to my crib, I’m Major Tom
This is where the magic happens, tragic apples, tragic apples
Dancing in the dark, humming Hummer humble people
I gave birth to Bono, in the name of love
Contact my lawyer about it
We can we can wrap our legs around my bed
Can you wrap your legs around your head?
Can you, will you could you?
Would you?
Obama can Obama can Osama can’t
I am Obama
He will see the money is transferred to your account
George Dubya could make a grapefruit granita
Do you believe that?
Contact my lawyer about it
Break your mama’s back, let each person do his or her part
He will see the money is transferred to your account

The Tao that can be told is not the eternal Tao

I

Once the path was conceived
the ribbons were cut away.

There was a birth.

The grass was trod to mud, then gravel lain,
and gold leaf hammered into place under the stones.

The path is not perfectly straight,
but its intentions are clear as a seducer’s.

It bisects the rectilinear park diagonally,
penetrates the campus with inexorable forward dynamics.

Foreshadowed in all the other lines and straight routes in the vicinity,
it is the king of paths.

It’s daily crossed like London Bridge; it’s
taken again, and again, blindly, trustingly.

Because it begs its question.


II

At night the path is empty and the ends
join.
The park thinks, time
slows.

Like slugs, ghosts weave trails of
chaos too vague to
leave a daylit trace
and the pond leisurely seeks depth and depths
with complete lack of responsibility.

doubly landlocked

wore a chimpanzee mask (bright pink)
marched along
a mountain trail (bowling lawn mown grass)

from sides of the trail
from
shower-head loudspeakers heard
“something is missing! something is missing!”



at the summit, the Victorian group photo, subjects draped
over and around about each other – tangled blank
faces – flat and smooth

there were night fish, hiding their faces but not their lights
there was grasshoppers around a pool

into which dripped
lines of water
from guttering
from storms

a dirty child who tugged the air tried but
couldn’t reach her hand

said

“my dream was not magical enough”

“mijn droom was niet magisch genoeg”

he woke up but he was
wrong - he did dream a magic dream

Raging

Gordon Ramsay’s youngest child Matilda
is staging a screaming fit in the back garden.

The grand exponent of the F-word holds her
tight, tries to calm her, placate her.

No good. As he hugs her, her neck heats
up.
She cranks her volume to wailing and growling and

pours her tantrum into his ear
like bubbling hot bechemel sauce
over-seasoned with tears.

iets over niks

drie keer niks
betekent iets

ik zeg niks
betekent iets

we maken iets van niks

Best Karate Still Inside

It bothered her that they had used an adult
Actress to dub into Dutch
The lead character in TV’s Pippi Langkous
The screeching and squawking mockery
Of girlish speech
Gave her headaches
And made the paint peel

The Puritan Roundheads of the English Civil War
Smashed the faces off statues in churches
She felt she had been cheated out of art
When she got home
From her latest binge on sacred buildings
She imagined how the faces might have looked
At night they ghosted their way into her dreams
Where the 17th century Taliban couldn’t reach

She was pissed off whenever the BBC warned her
A programme contained strong language
She was as averse to euphemism as she was to cheap stair carpets

She would not let the expressions ‘drie keer niks’
Or ‘doe even normaal’ pass her lips

She had four pets:

A monkey named Idiom
A snake called Slang
A parrot, Paradox
And a pig by the name of Ham

Trapped in the web of love
They co
-existed

you're tearing me apart

he stole his mum’s car, drove it to wasteground
near the harbour

he’d a mobile to his ear
listening to his girlfriend

over-kissed, he’d still rebelled,
a familiar familial plot
but the back story was his own, (that much
he insisted to the captive audience hanging
on the phone)

he parked the car skewiff by the water and waited a long time
before jumping

it tasted of iron
he surfaced and trod water,

the buildings opposite loomed in the lamps
there was a bar squashed between two cobalt blue garages

in the window he saw an ugly yucca and mutant beer taps
it was comic, like a grasshopper

when he was used to the water he rebelled against the cold
swam to shore on his back, smelling smoke

his phone sank to rest
its battery expiring among cans and mud

Repeat The Assassination - dream 2 (real)

I work for an agency. In the previous weeks we have been assassinating Mafioso in elaborate ritualized killings, incorporating dance and theatre. The liquidations take place in a hotel / school. During the previous assignment my partner and I shot a Godfather and his henchmen. My boss wants us to repeat the assassination. It is an odd performance, as it involves an upbeat Lindy Hop routine and the presentation of miniaturized patisserie and coffee. I have rehearsed the dance steps but I worry about serving the postage stamp size food with white-gloved hands while I am out of breath from dancing.

In the previous assassination, we bought the gangsters a piece of cake and my colleague sang an Ivor Novello song before I machine gunned the Don. Afterwards I wonder how on earth we got the gun into the room. As I am going to be duplicating the assassination, surely the bodyguards will search me when I enter the room? I say duplicating but that’s not strictly true. The food will be slightly different. I have to butter a tiny slice of bread. This will turn into a cup of red coffee with a swirl of cream in it. It’s not going to be easy.

I arrive at the building on the appointed day. I check my pistol is loaded as I go upstairs. There are students on the landing of the second floor and I proudly show my gun. My boss’s room is on the left. Dressed in a sombre grey suit and speaking in a Geordie accent, he tells me that a Grandmaster has broken out of prison. He will only go back on one condition – we have to fight him ‘man to man’. My boss’s nose is bulbous and red. He looks like the actor Karl Malden. “He got me with his elbow”, he says, miming an elbow strike to the face. I hear a loud “KEEAAAIIIII!!!!” and the sound of a body hitting the floor, coming from a nearby room. “But he’ll kill us!” I say, very worried now. “No, he won’t kill you”, says my boss.

Mashed Potato

Now who’s served me this wrong drink?

It’s mashed potato, beer
and a layer of fruit juice and cream.



I have a flying machine
operated by remote control.

Saloon Door - dream 1 (real)

Tony Blair will fight a pirate chief to prove he has the mettle to be a brave inspiring leader. His fear is finding a weapon that will not break or shatter. The chains on the harbour might serve well as weapons, but he cannot detach them.

Before the fight, Blair undergoes an ordeal of eating. He must eat worms, raw fish and raw chicken. He drops the worm in his lap, enjoys the fish but refuses the chicken. His advisors are furious.

It is time to fight. Cherie Blair says she prefers his teeth before they were bleached. He nods but it is clear that he is very nervous. He walks to a saloon door whose top half he opens, just as in cowboy films. A large-breasted woman appears. "Son, you must fight" she says.

Blair dances around the pirate chief, waving daggers and flailing his skinny arms. The pirate stops mid-fight to take a drink. Blair stabs him.

TASK: look up 'mettle'
TASK: say it a) with a Cockney accent
b) with a Manchester accent