1994
A READER'S NIGHTMARE
I stood inside a library and looked
for a book by Graham Joyce.
The librarian shook her head and said:
"We have such an enormous range
of beautiful books, both classic & new.
All this nice literature, but you, but you.
Why want to read a book by him?"
Puzzled a bit I went out and looked
in a bookshop for Graham Joyce.
The assistant came up with Stephen King.
"'Cause why on earth would you read such a thing
as a book by Graham Joyce?"
Strangely bewildered (for both people knew
the author I was looking for.
But all they said, in essence, was:
"Why read Joyce when you have a choice?")
I walked into a bookstore so big
that I got lost somewhere amidst
all the Fiction/Horror there.
It was only one book amongst the millions they had
and it had his autograph on page number two
I then, to my surprise, found out.
COMMENTARY: A READER'S NIGHTMARE
In a reaction to criticism on this poem it says: "Who do you think you are, judging me? Who do you think you are, slagging me off? What do you think you are doing? What do you know about me? What do you know about my intentions? What are you doing looking for things that aren't there? I'm disgusted by your posh attitude. You fucked me up with what you did, you stupid, rubberfaced bastard"
THE BALLAD OF A SOULLESS MAN
Al Simmons was a soldier and
Obeyed his boss' commands.
Was also a relentless one,
Had blood on both his hands.
This soldier also had a friend
And Chapel was his name.
They'd leave a total bloodbath at
The places that they came.
Al Simmons was a married man.
Her name was Wendy and
He loved her o! so very much.
His love would never end.
But one day blackest clouds had formed
Above Al Simmons' head.
He didn't notice that they'd formed
Till Chapel shot him dead.
In Hell he begged to see his wife.
"I'll give you my black psyche!
I beg you please let me go back
And let me see my wife."
The Archfiend meanwhile played a trick.
"Go see your little wife.
Your wish is granted, you poor fool."
He brought Al back to life.
The catch, though, was that time in Hell
Has no directed flow.
What seems one day to man in Hell
Could be six years back home.
With six years gone his wife had found
And married his best friend.
And Simmons, he felt real screwed up.
He thought this was the end.
The end? No it was far from that,
Because although he'd died
He now walked with the breathing men
And they were petrified.
'Cause when Al Simmons was killed off
His face became deformed.
The Devil never had restored
Him to his bygone form.
And now Al Simmons roams the earth
In his wretch'd undead shape.
A fucked up vigilante dressed
In chains and blood red cape.
COMMENTARY: BALLAD OF A SOULLESS MAN
This hybrid between the classical ballad form and a comic book is interesting, but you didn't note it yourself back then. At least you finally got rid of your false sense of religion and replaced it with the poetic version of the common cold. Bless you.
1995 - 1996
FIVE DAYS TILL WINTER. I decided not to put the entire series here, but rather to refer to it.
1997
WE ARE THE NEXT GENERATION
We are the next generation
With our individual fear of solitude
With our collective need to be ourselves
I have never lingered in Italian monasteries
But I know beauty and I know love
And I know your solitude
Because it is the same as mine
We are the next generation
We are Pepsi Cola and the Spice Girls
With nothing hidden underneath our shine
WE ARE THE STANDARD FOR THE NEXT GENERATION
This is a hostile take-over! I declare a besieging of this enterprise and all its age-old inhabitants! Roll out the red carpet! Ring the bells! Blow the bugles! Wave the banners that shamelessly declare that We Are the Standard for the Next Generation! This ship is sinking, but I shall be her captain during her final hours, proudly renaming her 'The Want of Perfection'! Now let us all rejoice at this significant Act of Brutal Bravery!
GOING BACK TO THE ROSE
There are too few Leonard Cohens
And too many Marco Borsatos
But whatever you may sing to me
I'll always go back to the rose
There is guilt in dreaming deeply
About a love you never chose
But I know that when I wake up
I'll always go back to the rose
There is love in disagreeing
With what everybody knows
But I'm not in love when saying
I'll always go back to the rose
There are certain things you know
Which I will never disclose
And one of those things I'm saying is:
I'll always go back to the rose
RETURNING FROM THE ROSE
When I was still a Romantic, I kept this small pocket diary in which I recorded all my most Romantic thoughts. I was hoping that history would vindicate me by not watching any television, but when this didn't happen I began, slowly at first, to project my Romantic thoughts on the screen as well. Now my pocket diary is covered in cobwebs and no-one ever switches to my channel. I have lost everything by my Romantic thoughts and never have felt more nailed to the ground, although I always believed that I needed no external sources to be free. Tomorrow I will turn my world upside-down and read all my poems backwards. The moon will turn a crystal blue while a thousand sparrows will sing a song with me together. This shall enlighten once more my path towards the rose.
FIN DE SIÈCLE
At times I get sick of mass media entertainment,
Cheap thrills and puckered whores,
Longing for deep intellectual entertainment,
Metaphors, symbolic thinking
And the love of light (light of love).
Then again, at times I don't.
COMMENTARY: FIN DE SIÈCLE
Who cannot agree with this poet? Who can? His ambiguity is too ironic to be taken seriously, but nobody can read past the last line.
WHY SHOULD I BE LABELLED DIFFERENT?
Come here beside me, to love and to hold
In this room full of darkness which I can't unfold
I'll tell you some stories I wrote years ago
In exchange for embraces and spaces below
The assurance you know what I'm talking about
When I pull to the covers and turn the lights out
And while we feel safe in our visions of love
Let us be enlightened by the angels above
WHY I NEED YOU
You want to know why I need you. This is why I need you. Your fear is to be recorded. My fear is not to be recorded. I keep every scrap of paper my pen ever touched upon, while you fear the absoluteness of the written word. We are very different. That is why I need you.
THE OBJECT
I wanted to be your hero
(I still want to be your hero)
I wanted to be your lover
(I still want to be your lover)
I am not your hero
I am not your lover
Instead I am the object of your scorn
When I came to you one day
With my hair all in a mess
THIS WAS WRITTEN
A diary entry from 1996 shows the reasons for writing this poem: "This was written because I didn't want to lie. This was written because I wanted to see her naked in candlelight and moonlight and neon-light and that terrible kitchen-light so every line and pore is shown. This was written because I had dreams and wishes and because she laughed at me while I did my best to burn all the other bridges. This was written because I was vain while I would never have dared admit that much to myself. This was written in an attempt to manipulate, to soften, to move when possible and to torture when necessary. This was written in an attempt at conflict. Love or Hate. Life or Death. Happiness or Unhappiness." I never did become her hero, nor her lover, but I did have my hair cut neatly the following day.
YOU CAN'T NOT SMOKE ON TUESDAY
And you can't not smoke on Tuesday
But when you choose they
Just pretend to understand
And all the time
You fight the slime
You're coughing up the phlegm
And yet again and yet again
No, you can't not smoke on Tuesday
And all too quickly comes the Wednesday
And... You try to stop
Oh! But it's no use
'Cos you can't choose, you can't choose
To stop. It's always just one more on Tues-
Day. And then another
Why do you bother, just smoke...
Just smoke your fag on Tuesday
'Cos there's no other way
No-one's around
There's not a sound
You've hit the ground
When you can't smoke on Tuesday
Oh! But don't give up
Though you can't choose, you can't choose
To stop. Just one more day till Tuesday
And you know
You can't not smoke on Tuesday
No, you can't not smoke on Tuesday
COMMENTARY: YOU CAN'T NOT SMOKE ON TUESDAY
The notebook of the time reveals the following: "There is no day that I cannot smoke anymore. I wheezed when I walked up the steps, so I stopped walking them. Phlegm still the same - I'm not giving up."
1998
WOULD THESE BE THE LAST LINES
I thought they said Paradise.
How was I supposed to know
that they meant Parade?
What gruesome illumination
was part of their history
that they cannot act
to consider me anymore?
Would these be the last lines
I would ever write,
I'd leave them until tomorrow
and have a cup of coffee instead.
ON SEEING M. DANCE
I've always liked
the way you dance.
The small delicacy
of your elbows
in the sky.
I don't know
if you're aware
of this yourself,
but you often
close your eyes
when you dance
like this.
And sometimes
I do, too.
THERE ARE PEOPLE
Whose rhythmic solitude
And patterns of guided loss
Fill your glass to the rim
And then summon the dragons
To come and drink it,
While your parrot
Cannot whistle anymore
Because it has eaten
Too many biscuits.
If you feel out of place
Within the offerings
Of the faraway Greek,
Then you can always
Come to me
To let your parrot drink
And cast away the dragons
Of your solitude.
I WATCHED YOU SLEEP
I watched you sleep,
And the slow articulation
Of your mesmerising lips
Made me tremble with
The beauty of the words
You didn't speak.
Resting in this
Furious claustrophobia.
Our legs taped together
With waves of red fire which,
Like our heads,
Will never revive
From the rubber biology
The two of us so yearned for.
THE KIND OF MAN YOU LIKE
I know the kind of man you like.
I came in the disguise of one last week
And you took me in.
I know your generosity and hospitality,
They are beyond compare,
And I have learned the ways in which you speak
To all your different guests.
The broken glow of tulip-light
Suspended from your ceiling
Falls upon your expecting face
In the hope of what I am.
I wore a disguise when I came to you
And you took me in.
I'll be wearing a disguise when I come to you
For the time you'll take me in.
WHEN I WORE A DISGUISE
For some time in your history I tried to be what you thought me to be. This enterprise was doomed to fail from the start, but I sincerely believed I could win you over and we could listen to music together. I thought that you looking over my shoulder was a sign of your feminine ability to look straight into my heart. You always were listening to a different drum and I was forced to spend some time in solitude for seeing your face in the reflection of the kettle.
THE BARBER
I came upon a barber.
He said: "You have good hair.
I would like to cut it this way here,
And leave it longer there."
I said he had the freedom
To do just as he pleased.
He worked away with knife and comb.
I sat until he ceased.
So he stopped hours later,
A little after midnight,
His sweat looked like a halo
With the fraction of the light.
He then said: "I am through, son,
Your hair has reached perfection."
And I could not stop looking
At my own reflection.
I hadn't looked this good,
Not in a long, long time.
I knew I had the power
To make all women mine.
As I went to pay the barber
For achieving such a goal
He said that I had paid him,
And then he took my soul.
My morals and my conscience
Have turned from good to bad.
But that's alright for now I have
A very well-groomed head.
IN THIS ROOM
I'm sitting on a sofa.
There's a girl in this room.
She's taking off her pants
And tells me they are soaked
Because of the rain.
I help to fold them up.
She's quite beautiful.
Her choreography is perfect.
I'm not in love with her,
But I would like to be.
Mesmerised by the unforgiving
Freedom of her movements
I cast my eyes on different things.
She moves with a deliberateness
That would suit a ballet dancer.
She speaks almost continuously
And doesn't bore me at all.
I would like to be in love with her,
But I'm not.
She turns on her stockinged feet
And shows me her shoes,
Then shows me her photographs.
I smile, try to speak,
Falter and fall quiet.
Her gestures seem rehearsed
In their casual appearance.
I'm about to fall in love with her,
But I don't.
She smiles, averts her eyes,
Looks at different things.
I wait for the moment
They'll swirl this way
So I can see her pupils and realise
There's a different league
For people like her.
Then I write this down:
I would like her to be in love with me,
But she's not.
COMMENTARY: IN THIS ROOM
Can you deny love is out of your reach? There's a space in my heart which, if it needed to be filled, she would fit in perfectly.
SECOND COMMENTARY: IN THIS ROOM
'Can you deny love is out of your reach?' I asked this question not to anyone in particular, but it was probably aimed at myself.
Can I deny love is out of my reach? Should I try to state my case, call people to my defense and plead a mistrial on the grounds of the prosecutor falsifying evidence?
Should I deny love is out of my reach? Returning from the rose and lamenting on the 'good old days' that never really were any good, and are not that old at all I decided that denial was not a preferred state of mind to be in. I deny denial its chosen space.
Would I deny love is out of my reach? I would voice my purest thoughts and greet my imperfections with open arms as I walk up to the judge and claim love was never fully within my grasp in the first place.
Will I deny love is out of my reach? I will only when told that it is in reach, that all I have to do is close my fingers around it. I will simply deny all then because I fear the greater denial more than the impossibility of a reachable love. And I water it daily.
Can you deny love is out of your reach? I come back to you this time, just to see if you are as bold as me in permitting the quartered moon to hold power over you at the times we feel we are at out most uncertain.
I LEFT A GAP
I left a gap of four years
Between the first and last
Lines of this poem.
How did I suddenly
Become so inspired
That I could finish
This one poem
Which I was so sure
Could not be finished?
COMMENTARY: I LEFT A GAP
In reality, this gap is still there, and the inspiration is nothing but a fake filler solely designed to take the reader off-guard. The real poem should read: I left a gap of four years/ Between the first and last/ Lines of this poem./ This is one poem which/ Could not be finished.
THE CONGREGATION
The congregation came to a halt
Right outside my door.
Some were waving banners,
Some were holding torches.
One, whom I suspected
To be their leader,
Held a cheap microphone
Too close to his mouth
And shouted ugly things loudly
And full of hate and spit
About me at the crowd.
I decided to leave the house,
Walk out the door,
And let them have
What they came here for.
I had just been caught out
By my Next Generation
And they demanded a refund
For my inadequate performance.
COMMENTARY: THE CONGREGATION
Here I decided to jump poetry ahead a couple of years. Not because I refused to rhyme the obvious rhyme, but because I have already accused the generation for which I will be responsible of making me obsolete before it even exists yet, bridging a gap which has existed since the dawn of poetry.
AMSTERDAM, 1998
In this rain of sparks
I am blinded
Blinded!
In this rain of sparks
Through these purple veils
I am singing
Blinded!
Through these purple veils
On this marshy landscape
I am lying
Blinded!
On this marshy landscape
Past these stainless shapes
I am walking
Blinded!
Past these stainless shapes
I am blinded
Blinded!
By these unasked questions
Which in this rain of sparks
(Blinded!)
Through these purple veils
(Blinded!)
On this marshy landscape
(Blinded!)
Past these stainless shapes
(Blinded!)
Cannot be asked because
I am blinded!
COMMENTARY: AMSTERDAM, 1998
This dark symbolism has nothing on me anymore. I was never born with two distinct personalities, and this blackness and wetness and close-ups of useless details hold nothing. Is this what you call beautiful visuals? I smell computer generated imagery. I need more that cheap monosyllabic one-liners or an exposure to flickering neon-lights. Give me high-wattage lamps, rooms bare & white with a small mattress on the floor. And nothing more. Is it always night in this city?
Then I suddenly wonder: did anyone ever invent the Halloweenie?
THE STATE OF MY BEDROOM ON MARCH 13
The state of my bedroom on March 13
Is pitiful
Once there were people here
And smoke
And alcohol
And broken windows
And coloured lights
And loud music
And even a small ticking clock
The state of my bedroom on March 13
Is one of denial
No more lights
And smoke
And alcohol
But white walls
And books
And a chandelier
With a 1000 small pieces of crystal
All hanging together in an unwanted harmony
The state of my bedroom on March 13
Is broken
The chair has no seat anymore
And the guitar has no strings anymore
And the basin has no water anymore
And the razor has no blades anymore
And the tv has no cable anymore
And the window has no curtains anymore
And the walls have no shape anymore
And the toothbrush has no bristles anymore
And the toilet has no paper anymore
The state of my bedroom on March 13
Is only matched by my own
I have no love anymore
And my shapeless hearts
Is illuminated by an unwanted chandelier
And it keeps on ticking
And it is filled with smoke
And its strings are broken
And it has no more curtains
And no more water
And no more razors
And no more paper
And no more cable
And no more bristles
Is there anything that would fit together
As snugly as my bedroom and me?
I QUIETLY BELIEVE
I quietly believe
I can still say
what I want to say.
I quietly believe
I stand a chance
against all and any odds.
I quietly believe
you do things on purpose.
I quietly believe
in small gestures
with a majestic beauty
that's inherent in them.
I quietly believe
I will one day
voice my thoughts
when the small gestures
and the chance I stand
grow into something
tangible right before my eyes.
I quietly believe,
but when probed I will say
I'm an atheist.
I NEVER SAW YOU
I never saw you when I needed to see you.
Now that I can only see you,
now that my body is as useless as yours,
do I make all the right choices
which we left to chance so many years ago.
Damn you for looking the other way
when I cut out my heart for you.
Damn you for being seduced by Lucifer
to a journey underground and
damn you for casting me in flames
above our arid bed of bodies untouched.
I should tell you I miss you
but the truth is you never left
my side in the first place
and the only reason I'm sad
is because my hair has fallen out
and it hurts to move
which means sex is out of the question
even though I can see you
and you still manage to turn me on
in your unconscious nakedness,
dripping wet from a bath or shower or rain
or because my own tears have fogged
my memory enough to place you
within a pool of moisture.
And damn you for stabbing me
with a fork when we could have
spent time tasting each other's
juices when you still had a body
and I still has a body that worked.
Now all you do is haunt me in my sleep
as if it is my fault your dance ended
in the demise of everybody.
I should have guessed you were untrustworthy,
but I allowed my eyes to be blinded by your
naked body in the rain.
COMMENTARY: I NEVER SAW YOU
Today I have decided to wear my x-ray spectacles and night vision goggles so I can scrutinise you better than I ever did before. This helped me spot a pothole I would otherwise never have seen and so this time I didn't make any noise as I approached you in your light sleep. You always were a light sleeper and you always woke up whenever I tried to look at you closely. Now, with my x-ray specs I can see tight through your blankets, and with my night vision goggles I do not have to switch on the light in order to see you so I can sit beside your naked body and wait until dawn to carry you into the bathroom. I will have closed my eyes before you have left but that's okay since I had all night to scrutinise and judge my body a disgrace.
THE OTHER DISGUISE
It started with my friends,
who said I couldn't have her,
that she had too much spirit for me,
and that I could never handle her.
My friends didn't know me very well.
There were other people too,
who told me she was evil,
that her haircolour came from a bottle,
and that her spirit did, too.
These people didn't know very much at all.
Then there was she, herself,
Who told me I was too soft,
that she could wind me around her finger
and that I was way too kind.
The poor girl never had a clue.
And there was me,
who was proud at fooling all,
who barged in and walked all over
his friends, the people, the girl,
and who then rewarded himself
with a cigarette,
and with the girl,
and her best friend as his lover.
OF LOVE AND RELIGION
I woke up this morning with a terrible hunger.
The food I ate, nor the coffee I drank,
nor the cigarettes I smoked could quench it.
My hunger was spiritual in nature.
I needed a different kind of nourishment
and an abandonement of all which served
my mind no purpose.
I couldn't quench it, but the continuation
of my starvation was secured forever by the absence
caused by the absence caused by an abundance
of things for which I had no need.
Abandoning these elements of absence forced me
to examine my stubble in the mirror
and sit in the darkness with my eyes open
for so long they felt stuck to my eyelids.
I failed to abandon my absence, and destroying the cause
of abundance faltered on account of the judges' verdict.
I took to religion and studied my Bible
while my teachers looked on in scorn.
I felt abandoned and the absence grew.
I tried my hand in love, but my cards,
which I had made myself out of wasps' spit
and woodpulp, were no good, crumbling
before my very eyes.
'I need you,' I stammered softly,
to make sure it would never be heard,
although I meant it.
My final exam will consist of writing
poetry and convince all of my own good will
and harrowing hunger from which my heart
cannot escape without the religion of my poetry,
written as a testimony of my apprehension
with the forceful ways of the universe.
For her I will call it a hungerstrike,
instantly defeating all by making it seem
as if I chose my own precarious predicament,
willing my absence to grow inside me,
to grow on her until my poetry has
convinced her there is no better second best.
Then my hunger will strike
and appeasement shall follow
until there is no sparrow left
who hasn't come to my window in love.
COMMENTARY: OF LOVE AND RELIGION
It wasn't until years later I disguised my near-anorexic state under a masquerade of obesity and got to grips with its eternal implications, I was forever on the verge of being found out, but it never mattered - anyone who found my hunger always wanted to fill me up with religion, love and poetry, of which I shall never have enough, in my anorexic state of mind.
THE HEDGEHOG THAT ALMOST DROWNED
Dark nights in the village
without the usual comfort
of streetlights.
Me and my brother
saving a hedgehog
from being run over.
And another one
from drowning
in a bathtub
which was used
as a small pond.
Water caressing lilies,
carrying frogs,
and reflecting stars
so bright in the new moon
you could believe
they allowed you
to cast a shadow
on the grass.
Clouds drifting by invisibly,
save for the stars going on
and off and on again.
The hedgehog
that almost drowned
slowly regained
its consciousness,
ate a little,
and scurried off
into the darkness.
THE SMELL OF THE BEACH
There's a smell
On the beach
Reminiscent of
Cow's leather.
Slight of salt,
Some biological process
(of degrading perhaps).
Smell of salt in sand,
Hints of seaweed.
I smell my new leather belt
And I'm back on the beach,
Shell to my ear,
Hearing the waves.
![[The Smell of the Beach]](gif/poembeach.html)
IN THE TIME IT TAKES A LEAF TO DROP
In these prison camps were people held
Pupils asking their master to teach
Ever so slowly the ice will melt
And give him strength to make the breach
In time the body left to ache
The yearning of the millions stop
The candle burning in the wake
In the time it takes a leaf to drop
The mirror in which the prisoner shaves
Has for many years now been unclear
The teachings that the master saves
Concentrate on the pupils' fear
Decisions he would have to make
Allowing them to reach the top
Sank to the bottom of the lake
In the time it takes a leaf to drop
Burning down the ignoble welt
To ask for things out of his reach
The time it took to smell his belt
And take him right back to the beach
Pondering what's real, what's fake
On fields he saw the grass and crop
Left out here the cup will cake
In the time it takes a leaf to drop
The sea hollowing the earth with caves
The threat of water always near
The sounds of seagulls, lapping waves
Holding the conch up to his ear
The seconds it took the earth to shake
Buying matches from the corner shop
The time it took his wrist to break
In the time it takes a leaf to drop