Victory Boogie Woogie

Single Malt , fathoms deep, we truly slayed the Dragon! Summersaults & Exultation, we sunk her boorish brigades! We smote, we kicked, we overthrew, we victory-victora-victoriayed! So do the hornpipe, dance with us, adore on the wall this taxidermy of a single breast. Lick the stripper glitter from our vest. Fourteen souls on the dead man’s chest. Ha ha ha and cha cha cha, all suave, divine; and a royal gulp of wine. Oh joy! Oh rapture! Hoorah, hoorah! Up she rises, slay the bugger for there she, there she, thar she blows! Sing tooralooralooraloo. Thanks and praises, naughty phrases, tonight we’ll sing our songs and moon a copper’s wife. We slayed the Dragon for good!

And thusly ended the Wildman’s chant. Low voiced brooding took over, later soon to be replaced by serene prose and echoes of quiet elation.

That your moon go down. And Nightfall on your Reich. An army of horse-like men will come a-fighting upon your fields and shores! From the snowy peaks of Athos to the white creeks of the South American jungle. Dogs on your trail. Slaughter of the bandit troops, a massacreous ecstasy of gutted fish and broken biscuits. The possessed midnight rooster is given freely.

There, we said it! Serene prose crashed into the room.

Girls’ bottoms, chicken soup, summer slumber, helium group, southern breeze, childlike mind, conquistadores, unrest left behind. Wonderful illusions of unambiguous nature, devoid of doubts, morale, utility.

Growling wolf go kjssst!
 

[Written for the occasion of the incoming result of a four-month legal scrum with my employer who wanted to fire me after eleven years of loyal service... The authorities, in their immeasurable wisdom, have judged said dismissal to be completely unlawful.]

The Joy of Poetry II

Waking up on another grey and fatigued morning. Taking up a fresh book. Crisp black on immaculate. Stepping into an enchanted forest where sunlight danced [Danger! Danger!] executing indefinite forms and colours… welcome to assumed reality. An earthy smell with tones of Styrofoam. Woodland flowers, gum and empty beer bottles on the litter. Leaving the city's drum rolls and scraping tram wheels behind. A choir of birds, manic at first, then dying out to absolute silence…

I was submerged in magical wordplay, reading with wonder and joy. Following the lines in trance, singular connections made in the brain, coupling cold lead bars to felt-packed grand pianos.

Anti-cantos. Lightning on the Bilges. The Sublunary. The Trodden Mystery. Song of Masks. The Power of Paralysis. Sorry I shot the Horse and the Dog. A Tiger Underway. Triangle. 27 Poems and No Song. Swine Pink Postcards. Desertology. We Saw Ourselves Change Into a Small Group of People. No Folksy God in Your Backyard. The Voice on the Third Floor. Sacred Comedy. From the Earth. First This Than That.

Black magic jugglers, burlesque entertainers, great migrations, knife fights, drunken gold-diggers on a Saturday night, silent murmur to pipe-smoking Gods, a car that doesn’t start.

The Joy of Poetry

On this grey and silent morning, I decided to read a poem and whipped a volume out of the cabinet. Faded skeletal letters on stained buttery vellum... It started with an anonymous woman in evening gown, and some prudish innuendo about this person’s promiscuous nature. Way to go! Then, there was talk about her quivering lips. This made me raise an eyebrow. It was followed by moonlight on her cheek and neck. Another eyebrow went aloft… and although feeling slightly nauseous, I pushed on, overcoming the words ‘weeping’ and ‘happiness’. It was when the poet employed the phrase ‘moonlit jasmines’ that I howled with laughter and forgave the man his ‘loneliness of our clouded existence.’ Then I went to the bathroom.

The Walk

Walking through the city, I saw all sorts of things:
A car that wasn’t burning
Houses, not yet collapsed
People, who weren’t fighting
A sky, from which no rain fell

No panthers lurking in the trees
The Coliseum, vanished without a trace
A parade of elephants walking elsewhere
Shaking their large grey behinds
With a bushy tail

Then my feet touched no silver gutters
And the ants were denying everything
Fleets of ghost ships floated through the canals
In perfect random order.

All sorts of things I saw:
Boats unsunk
Lights unlit
Tram rails unrusted
Windows unbroken
Pavement unworn
Heads not laughing
And many things more.

I lie as a
dog
at the feet
of my existence

Gogol's Echo

I took a walk in the city today. In the middle of Kruisstraat I saw one of my neighbours roaming past. It was the man whose wife had died so unexpectedly two weeks ago. He wandered about in the snow with an uncertain gait. He whistled energetically.

Loose Thoughts

ͽ  At an art exhibit: oh no, a neo-surrealist!

ͽ  In the book shop: and where the fuck is the philosophy isle gone, goddamnit?

ͽ  At home in my chair: I love to hear a man with passions. But I prefer to hear a man with lost passions.

ͽ  Later: ‘Accent Aigu’... good book title, band name or cocktail.

ͽ  In the end: Throw the telephone off the hook and instruct my teddybear to open the door for no one.