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.
THE FEAR
(for 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 afresh
And I have to walk some more circles
Before I can lie down comfortably once 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.
THIS WILL BE OUR SONG
"This is our song," said someone
When 'Everything I do...'
By Bryan Adams was playing.
I then made a promise to myself
Not to wait for the moment
To pick 'our song',
But for the song
To pick 'our moment'.
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 no more smoke
And no more 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?
WHEN WRITING A POEM
I walk the cliff and make the drop
I know the truth but cannot stop
Myself from making sure I will not fool you
I love the colour of your eyes
Your yearning voice, your hungry cries
The killer that is fit to come and do you
I know you climbed the mountaintop
You know the truth but cannot stop
The holy men from taking off your shoes
I never cared for truth or lies
The magic of the pupil's size
Redundant primal genes or common flu
The razor's edge that kept me primed
Has rusted now. The bells that chimed
Had naught on us till white doves overthrew you
It took four years for me to start
I scaled the heights I climbed the chart
And followed in the footsteps of the Jew
But never was I good enough
To sing about the truth of love
The tragedy and humour came and blew you
Now I am back prepared for this
With brilliant voice and swinging fists
That welcome love and scare away the blues
I WRITE ABOUT MYSELF
I don't need to be forgiven
For writing about myself
I don't choose to be forsaken
For writing about myself
I don't care to be forgotten
For writing about myself
I don't aim to live forever
So I write about myself
I don't want to be forbidden
To write about myself
I don't need to be a forger
To write about myself
I don't need to be forlorn
To write about myself
I don't care about my fortune
So I write about myself