We are the Next Generation
All Poems © 1998, Maurice Dekker
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 SKYLINE OF ST. PANCRAS
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...not to be mistaken for the flatline of St. Pancras.
COMMENTARY: THE SKYLINE OF ST. PANCRAS
When this was written the small Northern village of St. Pancras was a haven of meadows and cows. Since then the skyline has changed significantly and few people recognise the old village anymore. The flatline never changed and nobody has the defibrillator to bring it back to life again.
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.
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.
THIS WAS WRITTEN
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: 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."