Drop me a line

You draw her up

then into

your drawer

With lights

to ball up together

neatly aligned

like socks

blues and whites

cotton and wools

anything that mocks

The cleanliness of new

or just as good

when dirty and used

Clothing becomes laundry

Thrown aside without identity

Hampered and rid of all use

You draw her up

at the door

You draw attention,

let her in

Wash away the filth and sin

Forget mud, blood, grass stains

Let’s spin

merrily, whizz until tumble remains

Let’s hang out

Drop me a line

Then side by side

Neatly aligned

I got your back and

you got mine

Three sheets to the wind

‘T was quite the ride

Let’s hang out to dry

The cleanliness of new

or just as good

has left us smooth

like how’d you do 

let’s convert and converse

lie in my closet or chest

of drawers 

I’ll tell you mine to blues in a verse

For fun while we rest

Come

Forth and reverse

Sunflower mourning

She has eyes like hurricanes
and with every gaze
she rustles our leafs
And as she leaves
she shakes
all out of place

She has eyes like sunflowers dried out
and she can’t stop the seeds from falling
Defaced because she sungazed
The purse of her mouth lets water out
when the levies break
she speaks not but gravitates
towards what should shoot and sprout
bloom dripped off her cheeks
copper tones on patchy sheets
She seems unfazed facing the heat
But sheds tears with her head in the clouds
Feels it’s going nowhere but round
as she tries to rest her head on beds
stuffed with shells, gunshots and flashbangs
the world scorched at her feet
She no longer gazes but faces down
Sunflower mourning

Cut from cloth

The dinner table can't take it anymore
Waiting on its own
For someone to come home
Legs broken too many times
still out of luck
Even its top is down
Under the weight of the blankets where we used to play house
folding like hands before supper

No one comes home
They all eat alone
or with strangers on or along the road
strangers still when they come home
Legs broken, on its back lying
Like a tortoise dying
or a bug or a sheep
or asleep
Assemblies of us
could never mend us
dinner was
never satisfactory
always plates full of sheets of ice
sliced thinly
prayers said with closed eyes that
remained that
as no one asked
for seconds
we chugged hard at the hands
held glasses full of hours
Dessert is sweetest
when the table is turned
to deserts and broken glasses
Can i go to my room yet.
Can i leave this house
Can i hang around
with the branches
Or among the willows to catch their leafs
like tears in my pillowcase
And use them for what we are
Down
Wound by blankets likes drapes
where we used to play house
Cut from the same cloth

No chemistry

Ex equals why
It doesn't add up
It doesn't function
Draw the line

Eindhoven

Aan t begin van de Rechtestraat
Loopt men
In de maat
S, m, xl
'T past me niet

Uit de pas marcheer ik solo
Naar t volle glas
Maak 'm soldaat.
Minder eenzaam, meer in de maat
Ik lig krom, laveloos op straat.
Zij ook,
stuk
In onze kraag.

Pijnboompitten

Er is een gepijnigd man
Die niet slapen, slechts kraken kan
takken wiegend aan zijn hersenstam
krassen beelden in het glas van zijn hersenpan

als zijn oren de naalden kussen
Zou hij willen dat hij zagen kon
t bos niet horen kon,
dat de ruis hem deed sussen
T in de fik steken en nooit blussen
Zou hij willen waar wouden stond
niet voor t blok gezet maar vallend als
Hoofdloos man of stam geveld
Ontdaan van vel
om appels die te schillen
Naalden vallen in t stille
Maar de opgezette bomen dragen nog
En hun vruchten dragen zaden vol prangende vragen
T is daarom dat hij nooit slapen
Maar alleen pitten kan

De hare verliezen

Hij kwam om te vergeten. Het is even oud en bruin als het hier meest gedronken bier. Alleen de mensen die hier zitten, vergeten.
Dat is de leeftijd.
Ze vergeten naar buiten te kijken of vooruit,
Zij lopen met moeite, niet of met krukken.

Hij schuift er een naar achter en gaat zitten.
Ze herinneren alleen nog maar van wie er dood en uit elkaar. Eigenlijk hetzelfde, hoe dan ook, de dood scheidt.
Het schuim, een grote kop, dat zich langzaam omlaag laat zakken wist steeds meer.
Hij niet. Hij komt amper uit
boven het hoogpolig tapijt dat als tafelkleed wordt gebruikt.
Hij probeert zijn paaltje boven water te houden. De branding wist steeds meer.
Hij ziet het nog voor zich: waar ze stond hier in de kroeg, in de hoek, wat ze droeg.
Haar openingszinnen, de zweem van haar parfum
blijven hangen als haar vingers in de klitten in zijn haar.
Dat ze zachtjes streelde terwijl ze dansten met elkaar.
Hotel california
Hij was daar,
maar dronken, toen; zij niet misselijk.
De volgende ochtend verdwenen.
Een grote verdwijntruc; ze nam net zo snel de benen
als ze hem vleugels had gegeven.
Drinken moet je leren, vergeten blijkbaar niet.
Dat komt met de jaren.
Grijze massa tot stof
en wat verdriet.
Stelt zich voor met dure namen
De koppen die hij dagelijks ziet.
Wederkeren doet zij niet
Hij komt om te vergeten, maar hij is geheelonthouder.
Ze blijft hangen als haar vingers in zijn haren
’T is de leeftijd, of toch niet

mOcean

I sleep in river beds
With rapids for duvets
and foam pillows
under sheets of ice
Cradled by the banks

I am tied to time like tide
her deposits weigh heavily
She waves, then shells me
0f my scales that tip under the debris
I slept in river beds under sheets of ice
made up
The eyes atop
the prow look warmly down
Her hull cuts the sheets to shreds
She moved me like caked mud
Barnacles, 1000 tentacles
on treasure trove
I am her
Bow
with each recession of the surf
Or breaking of the waves I am
Wake
in her embrace
Washed like pay dirt

Pocket song

Sam sung a sad song into the microphone of his samsung phone
He wondered when she would hear him as verbatim as he did himself
Unbeknownst to him he would never speak'er
The way they did when he could call her home
The line dropped to a static
White noise was now her voice
That sang to him like a nightingale
Caged in his cell
Sam sung a sad song listening to her call

Hokjesdenker

Voor elke samenkomst kleed ik me om
Ik ben een kameleon
die goed uit de verf komt
Doch,
vandaag heb ik last van ouderdom

Ik heb staar en word kleurenblind
uitgelopen mascara als masker op het gezicht
probeer out of the box te denken zoals Mondriaan
Vakwerk is soms beperkend
Ik ben een rubicks kubus die kleur bekent
Ik beken dat ik zo zwart zie als jij bent

tempest

She has eyes like hurricanes
and with every gaze
she rustles our leafs
And as she leaves
she shakes
all out of place

She has eyes like sunflowers dried out
and she can’t stop the seeds from falling
Defaced because she sungazed
The purse of her mouth lets water out
when the levies break
she speaks not but gravitates
towards what should shoot and sprout
bloom dripped off her cheeks
copper tones on patchy sheets
She seems unfazed facing the heat
But sheds tears with her head in the clouds
Feels it’s going nowhere but round
as she tries to rest her head on beds
stuffed with shells, gunshots and flashbangs
the world scorched at her feet
She no longer gazes but faces down
Sunflower mourning

Cut from cloth

The dinner table can't take it anymore
Waiting on its own
For someone to come home
Legs broken too many times
still out of luck
Even its top is down
Under the weight of the blankets where we used to play house
folding like hands before supper

No one comes home
They all eat alone
or with strangers on or along the road
strangers still when they come home
Legs broken, on its back lying
Like a tortoise dying
or a bug or a sheep
or asleep
Assemblies of us
could never mend us
dinner was
never satisfactory
always plates full of sheets of ice
sliced thinly
prayers said with closed eyes that
remained that
as no one asked
for seconds
we chugged hard at the hands
held glasses full of hours
Dessert is sweetest
when the table is turned
to deserts and broken glasses
Can i go to my room yet.
Can i leave this house
Can i hang around
with the branches
Or among the willows to catch their leafs
like tears in my pillowcase
And use them for what we are
Down
Wound by blankets likes drapes
where we used to play house
Cut from the same cloth

sprekend

Ik streel de ezelsoren van je paginawit gezicht

Verweerd zoals je jezelf ooit deed

Tussen de lijnen is je levensverhaal gegrift

hoe je toen een blad voor de mond moest nemen

waar hun zinnen op zijn gezet
is ongewild te lezen

Kon je maar zwijgen zoals je nu moet horen

maar je spreekt boekdelen van een innerlijke oorlog

Volumes genummerd op de omslag

want het mag geen naam hebben

Gebonden in evolutieleer want niemand gelooft

In het woord
Ooit leek je sprekend, nu niet meer

Publicatie in Prins Bernhard Cultuurfonds Magazine, Nr.1 Zomer 2017

All that glitters is the bound bird

she is kept at bay windows
grimace pressed to glass
looking at those
that she never can possess

she can never board or dock in havens
save the fact
she spends time with ravens
wishing that
they were crow’s feet

bound like history books
encapsulated in their feathers
she could never gather
lessons learned like they took

 they took pride in looking at her
mocking bird as she was known
she felt for the birds
unlike them she couldn’t go

ties are invisible like family trees
that grow without water or light
nailed to the ground she remains free
afraid to take flight for fear of stage and height

mocking bird in the window sill
you are framed yet free still
why wait for the curtain
the play goes on for certain

the die is cast the shape of a weathercock
but she feels bound to roots and leaf of clover
when wind will change tides for better luck
she hopes it will blow over

no longer kept but cast to act
then she can sincerely clap
from a spire whereon she is bright
end scene at night

Blues

You draw her up
then into your drawer
With lights
to ball up together
neatly aligned
like socks
blues and whites
cotton and wools
anything that mocks 

The cleanliness of new
or just as good

Clothing becomes laundry
when dirty and used
Thrown aside without identity
Rid of all use
Hampered

You draw her up at the door
Attention, let her in
Wash away the filth and sin
Forget mud, blood, grass stains
Spin merrily, whizz until tumble remains

Let’s hang out
Drop me a line
Then side by side
Neatly aligned
I got your back and you got mine
‘T was quite the ride
Three sheets to the wind
Then hung out to dry

The cleanliness of new
or just as good
has left us smooth
like how’d you do
let’s convert and converse
lie in my closet or chest
of drawers
I’ll tell you mine to blues in a verse
For fun while we rest

sign language

the walls are down

we shimmy into each other

shaking off winter

we are a coat of arms

sort of a family sign

deaf to the world, we sign

symbols on skin

traced by fingertips

line after line

love letters in invisible ink

we read braille in the dark

shake off the down

her wing envelopes his back and around

opened each other’s mail;

blank sheets unbound

unsheathed

pages on the bed

covers unneeded what need needs not be said

lower your arms as I wrap mine around your crest

the walls are down

and we fall in love like feathers 

Boekenweek 2017 voordracht op Eindhovens Boekiebal in Natlab, 1 april 2017

How to cure mono

hands in his head are writing on the wall of his skull
an inner autobiography from rise to fall
and the score is mostly violins
and other things orchestral

there’s choirs and visuals of gorges and waterfalls
visions of Eden in emerald, and animals plentiful
the acoustics are bad so no one hears what’s sad or sung
if only this was the whispering gallery
one would clearly hear what appears to be mere murmur
there are tail feathers and talons spread out wide
holding quills that scribble the birds’ cries
lyrics in drivel to songs of the caged mind
the wallpaper comes down when the head’s full of steam
and an open mouth like draw bridge down to let volumes out
how long will he live through word of mouth
when he talks to himself below scalp peened
his dome echoes monolog
between closed books on a shelf
about disease control and self-help
St Peter chisels in rock

Sesame Cul-de-sac

The Count taught me about numbers.
I counted sheep,
Counted on my parents
and things being the same
the day after, as I fall asleep.

Back then, they had songs about dreaming big and making it big.
You can be whatever you dig as long as you dig
said a guy in a bird suit yellow and big
Never was one, always stayed last
Finishing my math book while everyone had left.
I never had a thing for numbers
Always thought them daft.
The only Matt I knew sat behind me in class.
We used to race to school
to beat the buzzer
to make it in time
to watch time pass
pretend to not care
play cool.
They said, what do you want to be?
Pick anything. It never dawned on me.
You can be whatever you dream to be.
What if dreams never come true
or are nightmares just for you?
After all, life is just what happens
as you struggle to get through.
Maybe they mispronounced it; something about bees?
And we didn’t fully grasp it
living on our knees
We buzz through life like drones,
workers punching in, out, marching to the pounding of machines
managers and teachers like good marines.
You can be what you want to be
whatever that means
We count on things getting better and that all will find its way
that if we work hard enough you can be anything and happy
We count out the days til the weekend as 9 to 5 add up.
We’re on duty with guards on watch living by the clock
We’re settling for seconds where we should be getting ours.
When i grow up i want to be an astronaut, physicist, doctor, hair dresser, cashier.
Now that i am grown, i am wondering how did I get here?
Can you tell me how to get to…

Homesick

Riding bumper cars, getting hit with a punch to the stomach, going round on rotaries
tired of shotguns, rear views and backseats
Trying to get off this Merry-go-round
Fairground
Carousel
After my own tail running about
need care and sell Buicks
beat and bruised
I’m motion sick
Driving me crazy
Let’s bring home the bacon
No more time for fakin’
Let’s not settle for seconds,
its hours for the takin’
I want to be homesick,
For someone that will see me through
Someone to come home to
20/20 in the rearview
I want to be homesick
drive stick
grab the wheel and turn it too
Just want to be with you.
Wine, dine and do it too
Dream together, get up, take the kids to school
Like a punch to the stomach, home’s broken without you
So Merry no longer goes round
you are close to home I’m homebound
No longer have to roam
Round and round is straightened out
And when I park what’s trailing in the dead of night
and collect storeys to mansion
climb my stares to take flight
meet in the middle at two to level
on the landing to dance to our lyrics
and the beating of rain on the roof
till then, I’m just homesick

makeup

Wish I were a makeup artist.

So, I could lay foundation and line

what’s perfect.

Cover up experience and scar

–        Tissue

–        paper.

I would pay attention, mask, care and take time

But seriously, wish I were a makeup artist.
I would love, fight, draw lines
drop covers and make up.

I would make up for lost time.

Laughs had at expense,

that never had last dance,

or first one,

for tears shed or

words said

but didn’t

Though, I tried to be nice;

I didn’t master the skill to sit you down

and listen

while working on your confidence.

I would make up stories that would always be lies

cause the face wearing the mask would be mine

Per jury

Order in the court

Calmly composed communicate craft

What sentence to rap

Will we reach mutual composition?

Will something manifest?

All too often we don’t reach periods but are left hanging

Dangling like modifiers.

Under fire without statement

On trial with your feet still on the pavement

What is yours, surely got to be mine? We’re all the same, right?

The jury reached its verdict

So I no longer do verbal

I no longer state but roe vs. wade

I take time to put words to rhyme

Black on white

And hope you take time to read what’s on my mind

And if not well that’s on you as at least I get from it a less troubled view 

The jury reached its verdict

Defendant; we claim self-defense

Composer: get out of jail! Free speech!

The cell’s overcrowded, a lot on my plate

Composer with lost composure that’s why I don’t speak but create

This was the last meal I ate

Cold shoulder, pleas and cannots

Some just don’t get you but still cite and allude to

The point you made but didn’t get the meaning

Your case is rested on the deaf and the hearing

Aide! The audience needs sage and time on the mic

 

Some don’t use knives

For sentences served

Cut off by the bar

They kill speech with preju-dish

Too hard to digest for their semi-colons.

And unsatisfied appetite

Understanding dies

When you’re cut off mid sentence.

With works scythed conversation is a dead sentence

In a Coma

Splice

Break glass

Strong suit

Run-into-wall man is doing the best he can

keeps his head up, inhales, gears up and

with a head of steam and positive energy

smashes his smile into the masonry

Walls and doors are just the same

doors won’t open, walls receive his wail

collect his efforts among their rubble in a pail

Persistence is key that opens what is framed

Run-into-wall man is dead tired of trying

Rearranges his helmet

wipes his eyes of what has transpired

between belly and pant seam tucks some pamphlets

Runs at it strong headedly

Grinning at the cracks he sees

As he heaves pamphlets and all

over the wall

the wall’s on fire people are tired

paper cuts in their ears on either side on the other side

his words make an impact but do not adhere

Run-into-wall man no longer runs but cups his hands around his mouth

until someone comes to see what he’s on about

but if only someone would

open up and see  his strong suit

Origami amor

She said I carry snow in my pockets

From the past, started in my sockets

She comments on pillows of mine

They’re not fluffy but used

for noses snotty, runny and moisture infused

When wearing a frown above blurry eyes

She knows to stroke counterclockwise

Turn back my thoughts like hands on my face

Oh how many hours in this happy daze?

It may come as no surprise but when I rise

Or try to move from under and am with her

The duvet seems warmly freshly poured

We swim like towel swans in each other’s court

We rest our heads on handkerchiefs far from plush

The flakes have evaporated from under us

Once ugly ducklings, now manifest

as snow white pages

we don’t ruffle feathers but caress

to collect feathers for cases

to billow in wind that dries our backs to statuesque

let’s bundle up in this bindle that we made our bed

and unfold what wings can hold 

whether picnic or kafkaesque

Lot in handen

Ze waren al jaren samen. Hielden vurig van elkaar,

voor gezinsuitbreiding vonden ze zichzelf niet klaar.

Op de nachten waar ze nader tot elkaar kwamen

gebruikten ze misconceptie als anticonceptie

voordat het koorgezang aanzwol verliet hij haar altaar

In die tijd was dat gewoon; 12 dochters en her en der een zoon

De relatie was zoals in sprookjesboeken

Alles beviel. Negen maanden later deed zij een en ander uit de doeken.

De arts zou zeggen een keizersnee; zij een openbaring of een streepje voor

Ze noemden haar Celeste of Desiree, naar stiekem verlangen en hemellichamen.

T was meer een bijna dood ervaring. Ze had het licht gezien zonder laatste adem.  

Daarom was Lot de naam die hij per abuis aangegeven had.

Ze was hun gemene deler die alles in haar kleine handjes vat.

Lot was de jongste dus, naast wat broers en 11 maal een zus.

De bezegeling van wat begon met heb je een vuurtje en een kus.

Net als dat de pastoor langs de huizen ging en er 1 zoon bewaard moest voor t klooster

Waren de wegen ondoorgrondelijk, onverhard en het eten sober

Maar ze vonden de weg zonder kruimels te verspillen aan omkijken en levensgrillen

Dit is de levensloop; het leven sloopt als het uit handen loopt en niet is te tillen

Alles vaart zijn koers als je banden smeedt wordt t ijzer heet

Om door een ringetje te halen en nog een

En met zijn twee

de band aan te halen die Lot heet

Ontluiken

Toen tranen braken als kristallen bollen

Toen ogen lichtten als vuur verlangend

Toen voelen beseffen had overtroffen

Toen t brein achter de roof door hartendief

niet de gedachte was maar ‘ik heb je lief’

Toen ogen lichtten als vuur in woestijnnachten

Op gebroken grond is t lang op vloed wachten.

Braakliggend laat alles bloeiend

Was t mooiste dat je brak

Zichtbaar je vlam wakker

Zo wil ik breken

The sandman murders

There’s this man that comes and the night he dons

While you nod your head in his arms you rest

For the grains he sprinkles let bygones be bygones

While some lights twinkle for lack of morn

In the paleness he opens up your chest

Now this may sound grave but he wipes your slate

With the changing of the tides so changes the light

Heavy from the day the sandman alleviates the weight 

Polishes and planishes your armor to ready you for fight

All your dragons he slays, the sand in your eyes stays

the sandman murders, oh how he makes sure nothing stays

but the residue of victory and sand to build anew

Come daybreak and morning dew, he sits still on the windowsill

He knows still, and forever will, the sticks and stones they threw

Nightmares he tames for carriages and marriages in castles in the sky

As you slowly wake, peek between battlements and shutters before your eyes

The sandman murders and slays to reinstate clean night black slates

That’s what nights are for but the casualties have left and so has he

Come daybreak and morning dew, he takes flight like dust in the wind that blew

So as you rise from his arms, don’t lament but concentrate, contemplate in unbridled reverie. 

Face days full of sticks and stones but the bones at night takes he