Night falls like a rock in a still pond

Frogs barking loudly, like there is no universe
No stars to disperse their eternal dust
No humans claiming victory

Just a night falling in a city,
Weird frog noises from a pond
Some voices, muffled, and a cat
mewing in the scrubs

Too much light still though
No stars, no scars tonight
No universe to belittle with its might
But echo’s, a bang, a violence undeclared

And a night, falling like a rock
A universe like a thousand scars
Fragmented light, dismembered frogs,
And a barking undefined

Talking ’bout a revolution

The boy with the face of a statue
streches his limbs like he’s truly made of marble

The man with the hands of a piano player
draws formats on the smoky air

There is no music, no relief, but for the joker
drumming on the sides of his chair

Two more men, and one woman
holding up all by herself

One of the two, a little older
leans against the wall and smiles,

while the fifth stands orating,
heavy and serious beyond his years.

The woman sits on a sofa, leaning back,
her head colliding with the wall.

The boy, the man, the drummer, the smiling one
and Diogenes move in unision

a pillow, some juice, a warm hand against her cheek,
anything to make her comfortable.

She crumbles, smiles, apologizes for her clumsiness.
The men draw back, shy in an instant,

she says something serious about the weather,
a blush, a hand through hair and

all is forgotten, back to marble and pianoplaying in the air,
fistshaking and smiles against the wall

Drumming like a battlecall
the shadows closing in.

Lulleby for Myanmar

Let’s drown the shadows of darkness
as they lure the light away,
let’s build a fire, out there, at the far end,
where sandy hills attack the rock.

No, we will not talk,
we will not touch.
We will sit and tend the fire.

We will not sing
we will not sleep
till the fire dies and the waters drain away
and darkness disappears as if it never was.

The unraveling

The clouds didn’t move as the sun went down,
the rain didn’t stop as the mud streams grew.
The crowds swelled like dough on heat
and screams were mistaken for outpours of joy.

Love took refuge under stones of age,
no one stopped the raking of the shriveled grass.
Shelters easily blown away by rage
took root in uncharted territory.

She didn’t know what was going on and, frankly,
she had no desire to. He kept tugging at her sleeve,
unable to even comprehend that she had wings.

The winds slowed down to a wondering whisper
as he kept yelling at the top of his long unused voice.
Her sleeve tore as she flew away.

van Louis naar Mark

Vanmorgen op de fiets moest ik aan Mark denken. Dat ging ongeveer zo: ik dacht aan Louis Davids’ zijn lied: de Kleine Man, en vervolgens aan: als je voor een dubbeltje geboren bent… Mark’s vaste begroeting was: ‘heb je misschien een kwartje voor me?’ Vandaar.
Ik woonde destijds in een woongroep, en Mark woonde bij ons in een kast in de gang. Hij was ooit iets geweest in de luchtvaart, verloor door het noodlot zijn vrouw en kind, en raakte daardoor het spoor bijster. Mark had vervilt haar en hij rook niet lekker, maar hij deed geen vlieg kwaad. Hij wilde met rust gelaten worden. Om de zoveel tijd was hij even verdwenen, dan had de GGD hem opgehaald voor een bad en een knipbeurt. Dat systeem werkte toen nog. Schoon en geschoren werd hij dan weer afgeleverd. Heel soms stond hij in de keuken kippenpoten te bakken. Dan waste we de pannen daarna extra goed af.
Zoals dat gaat, was hij er op een dag gewoon niet meer. Ik vermoed dat in zijn dossier staat: vertrokken met onbekende bestemming.