Grijsgevlochten haren in een roze strik.
Het leven heeft jaren naar mij gelachen
en ik,
ik durfde niet eens op te kijken,
bang niet ver genoeg te reiken.

De vlammen waren talrijk, rood
en overal. Mensen lazen de krant
op televisie en keken naar de zon voor brood.
De nood naar moed was groot
en liep stilaan uit de hand.
De vlammen werden blauw,
de tranen waren liefdevol,
geschonken in een ring van veren.

Lieve goochelaar, ik heb van jou nog
zo veel te leren. Help me kijken, op en langs,
de kleine dingen. Help me zingen op een druilerige morgen of een slapeloze avond, ondergedompeld in zorgen over dag. Help mij mijn hart te vinden en zo de vleugels
die de oorlog laten stoppen, uit te slaan.

Waar dan ook jouw huis naar toe beweegt,
is waar ik het allerliefst wil gaan.

Fragile sounds in darkness,
the night is veiled by warmth and
dampness. The outside feels as
two drenchy, thirst-quenchy thighs
touching
eachother, falling in love,
rubbing
eachother, for an eternity within twenty minutes.

As fragile voices sang about loneliness,
I felt a little less
alone. Yet,
scared of the unknown,
I dreaded going on. (But) everything was so
welcoming, so inviting, interesting, enlightning, and frightening.

I dreaded going on


(but) I did.

We don't smell, we reek.
Not knowing why, we seek
the growing highs, the peak.

Where does it stop, evolution?
Are we there yet? Is the wise
wise man the last solution?
Or are others on the rise.

Fist became stone, then food
and words and abstract good,
caged birds and #mondaymood.

Sometimes we wear perfume.
Other days our fists raise.
And when our fingers find the blood
they sought
we get caught up in the smells of old.

We may have glittered once
but we were never gold.

I know of a Dutch-Latin professor,
who is a serial young lady undresser.
I've seen the laws of morality,
beaten in the streets.
I've learned about funny men
being just a case of when.

There's high-placed, handsome faced
and rich, laced in gold, never-no-told men
who'll do worse whenever they can.

I do not condone, endorse or consider,
I'd rather have the talent wither.

I get freaked out by the distance between clouds and me. I am no longer trying to leave the crowds and be the one on stage. I don't want to wage because I don't know my range of change. It's not only the hate to seal your fate. It's the unconditional adoration.

The arms to carry you are the ones that bury you.

How it all can change, gradually
behind the curtains, abruptly
in the trees. The log cabin's set
on fire and anything to admire
is lost. The cost of great successes
blesses us with the greatest joke of all.
Thinking you are different, without the
potentiality to fall.

Aren't we all so ****** special?
I am different, I am weird, I am clunky,
I am quirky and just a little feared.
He's dressed in black, he smokes and
leans on walls using his back.
He has a troubled past, a future uncertain
and a present behind the curtain.
He's wearing jeans, he's cutting steak.
what difference does it really make?

He knits, he swims, he skates and hates
the curl in his greasy hair. He ****** the bed
until six and cried about the spot on his head,
he got when he smashed it against the wall
after a nasty fall.

He is so ******* special,
but aren't we ****** all?