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