het vallend lichaam

het vallend lichaam

leek een vogel
stond er in de krant

lang gerekt
als van een kind
de bomen wiegden
de val brak
door de wolken

plofte neer
voor het opsteeg

(Gutmensch scheurkalender, 29 maart 2023)


Ik wil geen oude meester kloon,
ik wil geen kruis of doornenkroon,
geen Rottemeren, vliegend bout,
geen glitter, glans en ook geen goud.

Ik wil brute ernst en onwelriekende kadavers,
ik wil harde wind en dan slagzij,
altijd weer van voor af aan beginnen,
vloed en wiegen op klanken van schalmij.

Ik wil mijn poten in de modder,
stampend hijgend zeuren in de nacht,
Duende bij het ochtendgloren
en dromen van volbracht. Volbracht.

Er blijkt in Nederland best nog plek

Er blijkt in Neerland best nog plek

voor mensen verjaagd van hun stek
door oorlog, hardvochtigheid en geweld
voor kinderen die zijn uitgeteld
voor moeders door soldaten verdreven
voor mannen die niet zijn achtergebleven

Kijk maar naar de Oekrainers
de Oekrainers zijn de graag gezieners
de ze mogen best verdieners
de ze kunnen werken wel voor tieners
natuurlijk zijn die welkom
het zijn onze Oekrainers

Aan Irakezen hebben we lak
Afghanen negeren we met groot gemak
en Syriërs, ach Syrië daar zeggen we maar niks meer van
zoals we ook zwijgen over Myanmar, Yemen of een ander Verweggistan

En in Ter Apel lopen we niet te hard van stapel,
in ons veilige land lig je gewoon buiten
en naar mededogen of erkenning kan je fluiten

In de rest van ’t land houdt compassie ook geen stand
we hebben liever een datablokkendoos dan een opvanglocatie
en als je anders beweert ben je uit de volkse gratie
en uit de gratie is erg want dat kost je de macht
PVV gedachtegoed gemeengoed, wie had dat nou ooit gedacht

Behalve dan als het gaat om Oekrainers
want dat zijn de graag gezieners
de ze mogen best verdieners
de ze kunnen werken wel voor tieners
natuurlijk zijn die welkom
het zijn onze Oekrainers

Die lijken op ons

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.

In broad daylight

It happens, time and time again:
faceless father figure takes over, demonlike,
destroying reason and imagined reality,

throwing fishing hooks in exposed flesh,
pulling, pulling till it bleeds,
never risking remorse, or even recognition,

only force, more force, and faces pulled in mocking
doubt; crooked claw, rheumatic fingers,
pouring sour wine in cups, not glasses,

– never glasses, delicate like melting ice,
frosted over like a tongue, blistered
from talking rubbish just to clear the air –

One always needs to remember
life is not that generous, not that
kind when dishing out its chances,

drizzle shrouds our vanity, spite pales cheeks
and freezes hands; the stalker stalked;
we drift towards the fields of green,

march through the woods of disregard,
ride the plains of thirst and hunger,
like a swagman on the run.

Coffee boiled over driftwood fires
bitter and black as love and dreams long lost.
Forgetfulness is just a gift, like forgiveness is

a treasure, never found when looked for,
no matter how accurate the promised map;
paper always yellowed at the edges;

the dreams close in, father figure luring in the shades,
taking all away; the audacity of his authority
proclaiming easy victory.

Cups are empty, faces drawn, yes
not long now before the first peddler
comes to cash in on our guilt.

Current situation, weather report

The sun is about to rise, first
bulldozers are closing in.

Rain fallen from the beginning of time
turns acid before it wastes away.

The road clear now, mud drying,
even the crickets silenced by the break of day

till that, also, wastes away.

Slamming doors, yelling men,
sound of bare feet on half dry earth.

Boots defying all conditions
making marks on human flesh.

The snapping of wood, caving of roofs and,
after some effort, the roar of flames.

Work done, boots returning to engines,
eyes observing retreat through brush.

Mud turns flaky, baked earth
the color of weat.

The sun burning down now
in full force.

We are breaking down the castle

stone by heavy block of stone,
draining the moat till the very last
drop of greygreen water
has evaporated in the lukewarm sun.

Emptying cellars of hardened tar and drums of oil,
find fragments of bones, undetermined,
(could be human, animal or remains of other species),
and a yellowed book of rules (‘thou shalt not’).

On a crumbling wall it is written: ENDURE,
(hard letters, breathing danger; one withdraws)
then vague marks only, followed by a faint
‘will set you free’

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.

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.