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
Thursday, 22 October 2009
Sunday, 11 October 2009
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
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
Sunday, 4 October 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, 23 September 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, 16 September 2009
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
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
Monday, 31 August 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, 25 August 2009
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.
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.
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