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.