1
Three Wishes for a Loser
(A Life of Love Lost)
Statement
I'm in love
with the idea
I can make
a difference
in your life.
You're such
a perfect
machine of
gracefulness.
Let me break you.
Commentary: Statement
Reasons for Buying a Dishwasher
Who are you? Come to me, I need to be embraced by women now. Don't hesitate any longer, come to me. Forget the dishes - don't wash up yet, I will give you a hand in a moment, when you have given me your body to linger in for a little while. Now let's be quiet for a moment, let's linger here for a moment while we listen to the rhythm of the music next door. There is no need to speak anymore, not now. Bear with me. Come with me. Follow me. Stay with me. Just hold me a little longer before you're going to do the dishes. I'm not as patient as they are.
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.
This 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.
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 that take us 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
Commentary: Why Should I be Labelled Different?
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 Curse
Curse you for curling the other way!
Curse the breach between us, thrown
up by a pillow, an ashtray and crisps!
I hate you for shifting your head
in the other direction
while I secretly prayed you'd curl my way.
And our hands never went for the lighter simultaneously.
Hold Me
I will try never to come back,
though there is no guarantee
and no insurance policy.
And the quality of the conversations
is a right let-down
(though I never show I'm dissatisfied)
Heal me.
Heal me.
Heal me.
Help me.
Hold me.
Held me.
Going Back to the Rose
There are too few Leonard Cohens
And too many lines in prose
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
Commentary: Going 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.
2
The Hedgehog That Almost Drowned
(Reflecting on My Youth)
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.
Poem Written at 4 a.m.
I could not sleep.
The crickets all came
to my window
and ordered me to
play a song for them.
How could I not comply
and sing Take This Longing,
in the hope they would
carry it under their wings
for all the chosen to hear?
It is 4 a.m.
I have just written a poem,
sang a song and watched
how the crickets made their way
towards the moon,
which was in the wrong
half of the sky.
It's raining (unsymbolically).
The Fear
(to Wikkie)
There's the foot
There's the hand
There's the door
There's the vacuum cleaner
There's next door's cat
There's that sound that I can't place
There's that staying up late which I hate
There's that fear again
And I have to walk some more circles
Before I can lie down comfortably again
Commentary: The Fear
Baudelaire described everything about a cat from a man's perspective. T.S. Eliot described cats from the point of view of a child. I have described my cat through his own eyes and the result is fresh and remarkably life-like.
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: The Ballad of a Soulless Man
This hybrid between the classical ballad form and a common 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.
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 choice
of beautiful books, both classic & new.
All this nice literature, but you, but you,
You 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"
3
We are the Next Generation
The Standard
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!
Sound the gongs!
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!
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 passed the last line.
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!
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."
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
Commentary: The Object
This was Written
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 neonlight and that terrible kitchenlight 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.
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 slightly 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.
By giving him my soul.
Without a soul I'm doomed to Hell,
But that's not all that bad,
For while I'll walk the earth I'll have
A very well-groomed head.
The Lost Poet
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
And standing before this balding God,
I find myself wondering
whether these things are related.
So I stare into the sun for a bit,
smile,
and then try to find my way
with black spots before my eyes.
4
In This Room
(A Gentleman Voyeur Revealed)
On Seeing M. Dance
I've always liked
the way you dance.
The small deli-
cacy 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.
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.
And while we are resting
In this claustrophobic space
Our legs taped together
With red and fiery waves
Which will, like our heads,
Not recover from
The rubber imagery
The two of us so yearned for.
Commentary: I Watched You Sleep
I'm still trying to catch on to who she is. If there was a time when I thought I could make her mine it's long gone. I probably made some wrong choices and her pupils never widened.
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 lights,
Suspended from the ceiling,
Fall on my thinly masked face.
Revealing what I am.
I was wearing a disguise when I came to you
Every time you took me in.
I'll be wearing a disguise when I come to you
For the time you take me in.
Commentary: The Kind of Man You Like
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.
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,
Noticing she's quite beautiful
In her perfect choreography.
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 defence 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.
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 the colour of her hair 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 took proud in 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 with her best friend as his lover.
5
Thoughts on Faith and Faltering
Always I Secretly Hope
Always I secretly hope that
no-one believes what I write down,
calling it 'irony' or 'sarcasm' or
anything else but true.
But most of all I hope you
will not believe what I write,
call me 'funny' or some such
nonsense word because
everything I wrote is about you.
Commentary: Always I secretly hope:
Substitute every 'you' with I;
Make every 'truth' a lie,
And the image you will see
Is surely that of me.
Second Commentary: Always I Secretly Hope
Substitute every 'I' with you;
Make every lie sound true,
disguise the facts but keep the scene
(just to leave the slightest clue).
Deny the truth, lie through your teeth,
and then pretend that you are mean,
make appear that you are lean,
then feign you're right in your belief.
The Punchline Poet
My thoughts are so fragmented.
Yesterday, just when I thought
I was in the middle
of a great work of poetry,
I dubbed myself 'Punchline Poet'
and had to organise my life
all over again.
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.
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.
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.
Commentary: I Quietly Believe
Oh, shut up now, you two-faced bugger! Now is the time to stand up straight, lose the hump on your back, bang on your chest and cry you believe, for all the angels to hear! Haven't you learned a single thing during the time you were here?
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
The Want of Perfection
You never think about the cold
of the green fields of yearning
when you're uncomfortably hot
in the grey castle of possession.
When I was younger
I was always afraid
that I wasn't good enough,
but I always was.
Now that I've grown old,
and I can't do anything anymore,
all I fear is bumping into you
in the street.
May God forgive me
for the paralysis
of my reason
or lack of logic;
it is all too human
to wish to be cold
when you're hot.
I can't scale the walls
of the castle anymore,
but I can still yearn
for the times I feared
I wasn't good enough.
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 at me and 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.
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 abandonment of all which served
my mind no purpose.
I could never 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 wood-pulp, 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 hunger strike,
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.
6
Five Days Till Winter
(Rich Prose Letters)
i
I write this letter, but I won't send it. You will never know of its existence. You will never read it. Never feel the words. Never finger the paper. Or chew on it. Bite pieces from it and leave it scarred and mutilated. Drop it in your document files and forget about it for the rest of your lives until you pick it up again and read it. And you will remember the letter. And you'll remember who sent it. And you'll think back of that time with a melancholic fondness. But not with this letter, because I won't send it.
I won't send it. It would take you too long to appreciate it and you'll discard the contents of the letter too easily. You will only appreciate it because I wrote it so long ago, but you will laugh at what it says. For all you care I could write blank pages. Beautiful white pages. Sheet after sheet. Nicely aligned in your document files. Saying nothing. Dated white pages and a name. My name. Curiously written on the white with a deep black pen. Smelling of honey and wine.
This is the reason I won't send this letter. You ask me to write to you and I comply. I beg you to talk to me while you scold at what I say. I give you my life on a white paper platter and you search it to find a mistake. I correct my mistakes and you refuse to see them corrected. I fumble for my pen, but you kick it out of reach. You see, I had to write this letter. Only by writing this letter can I help myself. Only by writing this letter can the expressions of the beggar be seen. Reflected in the eyes of the people who stand around and watch and all wait for the other to act, because they don't know how to take the first step.
I give the beggar my letter. The beggar smells of wine. He feels the words and fingers the paper. Taking a bite out of the paper and chewing on it. He cannot read the letter. He is blind. It doesn't matter because the letter is empty. The paper has become a stained white and my name falls off it and on the ground where it scurries and buries itself in the earth. I stare at the ground and flowers grow out of it. Big, long stem lilies. They smell of honey. The beggar screams and drops the letter. His hands are burnt. The letter has turned black. I pick it up, but the paper dissolves in my hands. The ashes rain on the lilies which turns them black. My name is spelled out in white on the black of the flowers. I feel embarrassed. My hands grow cold. I have to walk away.
It's gone now. All of it is gone. The flowers, the beggar, the people, my name and the letter. It's all gone. I don't know where to, they wouldn't tell me, but I know the beggar can see now and he wears a lily on his coat. My name always liked books. Perhaps if you will look in a bookshop in a few years time you will see it on the cover of one. Somewhere half-hidden from the eye. The only spot the neonlight can't reach. That's where you will probably find my name. And you will remember me and think back of the time with a melancholic fondness. When the beggar was still blind and the pages a virgin white. If you find my name, open your document file and put it on the end of this letter. This letter I will never send.
ii
I'm not being turned on. My heart is outlined in black across my chest. I have to admit that I believe I miss you. It is strange now. I cannot imagine or think and all I do is just that. I stopped making sense a long time ago, but now more than ever I do. No more semi-poetic nonsense or semi-cynic remarks or semi-witty retorts. I know myself well. You think you know me and have me all figured out, but I don't do the dance anymore. I have a nosebleed. It's the weather. You know, just another one of my faults. I don't know now what I used to know back when. No longer on the edge. No longer the razor. Once the god, now the servant. Savant, Idiot.
I realise you do not understand what I am talking about. I feel like Michael Jackson, only unreal. This letter that I am writing you is a dedication to my desire for you. It keeps to the style of the feeling and it is as clear. I lost my sunglasses the other day, but I still feel sort of artistic, although it will never be the same. I think this is what I'm trying to say. My writing indicates the intonation, like the changing of one chord into the other. My melody is like a Northern Song, only different. Just as you are me, only opposite. A perfect photo negative of each other. It looks unreal because it is. Find the link. Press the button. Go on with the show and take a pee during the commercial break. Show yourself naked to me. Or someone else who loves you as much as I. Or whom you love as much as I. Or whom I love as much as you. It's my trademark, you should know by now that questioning it is no use.
I'm still not being turned on. It's getting tiresome now, without the old routine to relieve us from the monotony. I was afraid of it once, but I can't see why now. We will always keep on going on. It's in your blood. You want old and dirt and down and gutter and gone and strange, but only if it's new and clean and elevated and high and here and dull. It has become so predictable it's not funny anymore. Only you are still laughing at your own jokes. The doorman still nods as we pass him by, although I stopped tipping him long ago. The stairs are still as creaky and now you have to pause halfway up to catch your breath. It is inevitable. We cannot keep up any longer. The forest is beige and green and brown and dark and we lost our guide at the entrance. The maze has shrunk and we look over it to find the route towards the exit, but there isn't one. Only the entrance. Your knowledge of cascades is admirable. As is my knowledge of you. Our interests are still the same.
It took me some time to see that you didn't even try. I now know the reasons for my feelings and now I can look for the reasons of your feelings. It brings me closer to you. I hope you can see it coming too.
iii
I don't know how to start this letter. I tried to think of a brilliant opening line, but there isn't one. It just starts. As all letters start at one point & finish at another one, this one will also finish. Again; there is no brilliant line to end it. It will just finish. That is all there is to it. If you feel disappointed already then please stop reading this. I am not about to make you feel any happier than you already are. I am here to vent my feelings. If you have no wish to hear what I say then please stop reading this letter. It is clearly not meant for you. I'm wondering what is meant for you now.
I know it's useless trying to reflect on your life, as your life is like this letter. It didn't have a brilliant start & it will not have a brilliant ending and whatever is in your life is not making you feel any happier. There was a time I thought I could make things brilliant. I could write brilliant opening lines & finish every letter perfectly. Now I know this is not the case. In particular not for you. I also once thought I could make your life brilliant, if only just one sentence. Maybe I have made one brilliant sentence in your life, but it looks odd within the rest of it & I don't like the sentence anymore. I want you to erase it & forget about it. Don't copy it down on a piece of paper & don't use my words when you speak to someone else. I have copyrighted them all.
Your victimising behaviour is slowly getting to me. You are so fond of being the underdog. You like being a loser so much that I wonder why you ever went with me. Why you ever wanted this one brilliant sentence amidst all the rubbish that you wrote. Yes, you wrote it. I know you do not believe me when I say this to you; your victimising behaviour doesn't allow it, but I have none such scruples & say it to you as I see it. I know you don't like it, that's the whole idea. I told you I was going to vent my feelings & I asked you to stop reading. Now you feel victimised, but the proof is here that you only have yourself to blame for it. You were too fond of feeling miserable that you didn't even notice you were projecting your own shortcomings on me. I was too fond of you to see it was you who fell short. I see now that the balance is tipped and I am not the one to set it back again. I know you want to say I tipped it, but I will not allow you to. I didn't tip the balance, I merely looked on as you tipped it & I didn't lift a finger. Now it is too late and I cannot help you anymore.
I don't want to help you anymore. The rollercoaster has come to the finish & I am getting off. The ride was fun at first, I will grant you this much, but it got boring and the rattling sound of the chain as the cart got pulled up again & again was making me feel more nauseous in the stomach every time it happened. This is not your fault. I could have gotten off much sooner than I did & I could have asked you to get off as well, although I know that you wouldn't have wanted to get off. You loved the dips & the raises and every time you threw up again you could blame the designer for it, which you did. Now you are blaming me for getting off and leaving you to ride the thing alone, but it doesn't work. You believe I am stupid and blind and that your schemes & lies were waterproof. I was stupid & I was blind, but your schemes & lies were never waterproof and now that I realise this I also see you had already replaced me in the rollercoaster.
I spoke to the designer of the rollercoaster the other day. He was drunk & told me that he was drunk when he made the rollercoaster you are now in. He said the thing wasn't safe anymore. It was a kiddies ride & you have become too heavy to be able to survive another couple of rides in it. It made me laugh. If you could you would blame him for your impending death, while it will never occur to you that you could get off. I left the designer with his drinks and stepped into the music hall. There was an orchestra in there and the man who played the first violin was talented. People served me as I sat down at one of the tables to listen to the music. Just after the violin player had stopped his solo & before the rest of the orchestra started again I could hear the rollercoaster being pulled up once more in the distance.
iv
There you are. I've been looking for you for some time now, but you were always able to elude me. But not anymore. Now I have bought a net with mazes so small not even a whisper could escape me. And I have caught your whisper which led me right to you and now I have found you. I'm still not sure why you were hiding or whether you were hiding at all or just lost in the woods. I've been to those woods as well and it's altogether not difficult to lose yourself in them. I had already realised that it would not make much difference whether I would find you or not; that is not why I bought the net. You will still be the same old you. Silent, quiet, uncommunicative. But I got the net because I wanted to see you age some more. I wanted to see you decline into the state that you hate so much. It's not meant to be vindictive; we vowed we would see each other grow old and I did nothing more than make an attempt at keeping that promise. If not to me than certainly to you.
Now I have seen you, you also have seen me, but your reactions don't make clear at all what you think of my looks now. I know you once thought of me as handsome and I know that those days are long gone now, but I didn't show myself just to prove to you that you aren't the only one who grows older with wear and tear. I never tried to convince you that I wanted to stay young and look beautiful all my life. I live too consciously for that. But I must have held you in higher regard as you don't respond to me.
You are like the setting sun which moves neither faster or slower despite the cricket's beautiful song. You hold up your veil still and pretend the whole world is still in soft focus because you believe it makes you look better. I prefer to cloud myself in the morning mist which clears over the hills soon after dawn.
You are still not being responsive. Didn't you like being caught after having lived in such solitude for so long? Did you really want to hide your age so bad you preferred to live the solitary life rather than admit to the crow's feet under your eyes? I made a sketch of you which portrays you as you were before you got lost. It's a good portrait and it already shows your age as you walked into the woods. You haven't even changed all that much and I am curious to know why. You haven't grown older but you did lose your beauty like I lost mine, but I became more interesting and this is where your fault lies. You are still being silent and unresponsive and although it could have been very easy for you to become more interesting you have done nothing that even indicates an attempt at that. You might call this your one redeeming feature but I disagree with you.
That hasn't changed either. We always disagreed and now we still disagree even though we are too old to put up a fight anymore. Not that you ever put up a fight to speak of, but my point still stands. You are too old now to even argue with me. Your silence is no longer the end of an argument, but it is now the start of one and it doesn't stop anymore until you open your mouth which I know you will not and so I bicker on until either of us finds our way back to the woods again. I will make you a promise now that I will burn the net, but I will keep the whisper as proof that you can talk, no matter how insignificant it might seem to others. These things are still important to me. To me and the woods.
v
Even though I have been working for your smile since the day I first said Hi, I cannot help but feel that my attempts are feeble and your grin a sympathy for my lack of comic talent in your eyes. I thought I'd feel a failure because of this, but the smile I've conjured on the faces of so many people before you give another testimony.
I cried when I heard about the death of irony, and I sighed when I learned about the misunderstood status of satire, but I kept my head high, and merely laughed when you showed your lack of enlightenment in the fake politeness of your ways.
I have not given up, and I know that you can smile. My hunger wasted I have taken to my other strong point of self-alignment, my sense of smell and the faultless descriptions of my touch. There's other sides to me than just the production of vowels and consonants. If I cannot make you smile with what I say, I'll make you smile at the richness of the prospect and the brilliance of a thousand angels at your headboard.
Just not yet.
Maurice Dekker