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