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.