You're not exactly setting
the written world on fire by betting
all your money on a fleeting dream's desire.
You're only another working ant,
a cog in the machine.
There's just no money made
by making what you love, unseen.

There is no magic formula to rise
above the ranks. Just do what you are told,
say help me, please and thanks.

Can you spot the brightest star?
Can you pass the highest bar?
Because it's not at all that
big of a deal.
Bear in mind, to still, be kind.
Bear in sky, never deny
the truth you shine upon us.

We learned so much and talked so little.
Sometimes you yelled and I felt brittle.
Just know we'll always carry night skies
in our feeble tries
to understand the world.

The value of a falling star
is estimated to be far
above the earthly realms habituals.
It overwhelms, then crashes down,
crushing more than just its price.

The beauty, not the coin, is what must
suffice.

Ik heb vroeger iets gevonden
in een zakje vol met kruiden.
Het steentje zat er ongeschonden
nieuwe tijden in te luiden.

Ze had prachtig golvend haar
en zat in dezelfde klas, hetzelfde jaar.
Ik was niet de enige die het die dag
niet durfde vertellen en het al langer zag.

Onze wanten gingen hand in hand,
jouw voeten naar een andere kant
en op maandagen denken we soms nog
aan je oude jonge-kokers-blog.

Ik ben tevreden met *** dat is verlopen.
Ik heb nu genoeg verdiend om andere thee te kopen.

I called, we talked for hours
and the steps we took, the ground we
walked became a path. It was ours
and the days we spent were crowned
to be the warm and cozy bath
you take on wednesdays to get
you through the week.

On saturdays I wait outside my house,
on sundays my time is meaningful
but every other day, I douse myself
in love for you.

Walk home with me, daydreaming detective,
walk home with me and keep giving perspective.

I may never sleep for 15 years,
I may never have the greatest ears.
It could be I never find the gold
I dig for, could be I never become old.

Fame, wealth, success and the fruits of inspiration
are merely bonuses to or maybe just preparation
for the lover's taste.
I live truly in knowing that our time together
can never be erased.

My whole life has lead to this.
Someone else's business is
mine. In return I too get to
grow.

I de- and re-construct
to revive the stuck,
to uncover and *****
a brand new artifact.

As leaves they meet, in flight,
in fight, as soft and coloured,
sifting through the slashing sound
until their brown and crunchy remains
fall onto the ground.

I break down to build and then
watch as it breaks down again.

Ik wou dat ik de visserskoning was
en elke vis kon vangen.
Ik wou dat ik kon lopen en pas
als anderen allang niet meer, m'n handdoek op moest hangen.

Kon ik maar wormen graven, verzamelen en verkopen,
was ik maar wereldkampioen in hopen.
Als ik kon zien in donker of glijden door de lucht,
gewoon slechts één talentje had, al was ik erdoor berucht,
dan zou ik eindelijk gelukkig zijn.

Van dat laatste is toch één ding waar
en neen het is niet dat van dat vliegen.
Ik ben de allerbeste
in mezelf beliegen.

Doe maar niet zo wondelikkend,
kijk maar niet zo schuldverstikkend.
Je overdrijft, moet trippelen om boven
te blijven met je kin. Zelfs de doven
kunnen horen dat het schort,
dat je mort, dat je knort, dat je adem stokt, je ogen mokken
en je zwarte, lange blonde lokken
samen hokken met het veulen aan de zijkant,
heulen met de vijand.

Ga nu maar zitten.
Drink een camille-thee.
Stop met vitten en speel
gewoon weer mee.

Dokter, mag ik voller?
Barman, mag ik meer?
Dokter, het mag boller,
barman, doe maar weer
hetzelfde, nog eens vol.

Ik bestelde laatst een persoonlijkheid,
tikte een profiel op de kop.
Wat een onwaarschijnlijkheid,
het was een grote flop.

Met filters, fillers, implantaten,
maak je niet op voor leegjes praten.

Jouw kant is aan het raam,
de mijne aan de deur.
Dankzij jou ben ik niet eenzaam,
is mijn leven geen gesleur.

Je kan bakken, je maakt kleren,
je bent lief, vroeg uit de veren
en op dagen zonder fut
kan ik je alles vragen.

Geluk dat ik bij jou mag meren want
anders was ik Daantje Zonderland

Mag ik morgen nog eens komen,
blijven slapen, samen dromen, laat
naar bed en, zonder gapen, draaien tot
we liggen en daarna je wangen aaien?

Mag ik morgen, alsjeblieft,
jou bezoeken met de fiets.
Dan gaan we samen langs die lange weg
met kleurplaatbloemen in de heg en
wortels die het pad doen scheuren.

Mag ik morgen voor je zorgen?
Is het goed als ik me naast je vlij?
Mag ik morgen voor je zorgen
en doe jij dat ook voor mij?

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?

Well, we all do. We swim around
in golden layered mud and when
our heads go under,
with rapid speeds, we attempt to plunder,
pluck our brains.
What brought me here?
Engulfed, no tears
are seen and no one knows
where those eyes have been.

The origins of joy have shifted.
As if there's winters in summers
and previous sparkers of joy
now elicit bummers.

Snow's been building up for days
and there's not enough salt
for all the ways unclear.

The bad is worse, the good is grey
and I wonder if I'll ever have a say
again in how I feel. I wonder when
the sun will once again feel real.

Up or all away, I have said
before I'm sad and don't know
what to say. Progress is slow
and focus shifts between bad
and just a little better.

It seems unfinished, what I
meant to contribute.
It seems uncertain if it will ever be.
It seems uncertain if I'm still even me.

As we develop,
come outside and
leave our scallop (shell),
we need a hand
in swimming through,
migrating as we do,
to the land
of our fate.

Depending on the time
of our departure,
our destinations
change. The range
is fixed betwixt
some viable
in less or more
and starting at the core.

During that journey,
some come together,
some leave forever,
others doubt whether
they are fit to stay.
Just remember to not
mistake this cutting
for decay.

When the climate becomes dry and cold,
when my hands and mind are slipping,
I do whatever's left to keep on gripping,
to stay on the line, even if it is on hold.

There's still chip shops, souls
and hip hops and soles to burn
on pavement or grass.
There will always be ball games,
small names and big days.
I see windows, I see doors,
I see mine and I see yours.

We're not doomed, well yet,
we're alive and as I've said,
there are sundays, there is sun,
still so much that can be done,
which feels nice when it is,
with my legs up and my head at ease.
Then I see, life can still be a softly soothing breeze.

I raise my glass and brows to certain teas,
we are blessed to have dogs barking, sweets
and care. I raise it all to some certainties,
laying down and tucked in in these blessed sheets.

What's the use when we can't be
best or first, or last or worst.
The whole idea feels cursed
and bloated, just like me.

I missed my call to arms,
drenched my cream in ice,
fell for that which harms
and lost one leg twice.

Everyone can write, everyone
can paint and what is special
when you get to decide?

It's all indefinite repetition,
no upward or downward, it seems,
just spirals and attrition.

Ik ben geen sprinter, toch
loop ik vooruit op de zaak.
Ik ben geen loper, noch
horde, wel dat ik sprongen maak.

Want toen ik zag dat de been-
houwer de koe kouwer scheen
te leggen dan het kalf mocht,
zag ik dat ik in de verkeerde vriezer zocht.

Mijn kipkap is tiptop en mijn kapblok
krijgt het rap met de hak op stok.
Als ik wist waarom, keek ik niet achterom,
noch vooruit want dat is allemaal dom.

Ik kijk nu naar mijn voeten en daarna naar de lucht.
Het is hoog tijd dat ik van die laagte wegvlucht.

I have made some things to last,
never brag about the past.
I have showed my love and work,
admitted my mistakes and quirk.

I have money but nobody knows,
paid the price, suffered some blows.
I don't complain, I'm just a man,
I'll do my part, whatever I can.

I learned to step aside,
learned and lost my pride.
I am an independent geezer
but I'll still forever do anything to please her.

When I give you the finger,
you lend me a hand, right?
When my eyes start to linger,
you can't start a fight.

Only I can, because I am
an entitled ****, a nice guy
a white ly-
ing, shirtless dancing,
dominant beta male.

My fragile ego's fresh
but my mouth smells stale.
I am so deeply priviliged,
I can not not expect success.
And I still dare to beg for someone
to help me get out of this mess.
When alone, I see I'm out of luck
because I am an entitled ****.

My father's boss is yelling
through his headphones.
He is telling this and that
while my father's head moans.

His pulse has visibly risen.
Still, working from home
is better than from prison,
where there is no place to roam.

Oh, the office, such a dull
and misconceiving place.
A bunch of rooms to mull
in, furthest from a warm embrace.

Oh, humanity misunderstood
how to make a man feel good.

The mere presence of these
present-day technologies
occupies a part of our attentional load.
What used to be akimbo mode
has turned into a one-way road
of loss of focus. So thus, as we divide,
division itself will stride
with the solidarity
between the person and the familiarities.

We have become used to using or abusing
the multi-tasking power and lost the
sufficiency of smelling just one flower.

People, asked to stay in, are drinking
Boston tea in the streets.
Eyes are tearing, mouth-covered
swearing represents the thinking
of the masses. The divide between
the classes, aware before or not,
is still only seen
because the cellphone shot
is shared and liked, awarded and rated.
What was never really loved has now
become hated. We're not really sure how
but, sick of all the lies, the nation's turning lawless as the president cries because twitter didn't find his tweets flawless.

I have dabbled in creative writing,
I have tried to play guitar,
I have smelled the exciting
smell of greatness
on the toes of those whose work
I can enjoy.

I am part of the crowd,
raising glasses,
I am part of the masses
and I sing along so loud.

As long as I don't ever get cocky,
in my humblest regards,
I'm allowed to keep quoting rocky
or choose whether I show my cards.

I question my behaving,
raise my brow
at my own caving
to the flaws I need to outgrow.

In my genes I carry sickness,
in my skull there is a thickness,
blocking the lowering of a rotten tendency,
my *** and skin dependency.

I have lots to learn,
lots to concern
on my path to being better.

I'll keep doing what I can.

That being said, this time we mourn
for the loss of life,
a loss, unnecessary,
making many weary.

I, inclined to keep it shut, found that
unjust, in ways like the killing that occurred.
The worries of the world, as (well as) its economy,
came crashing down on me,
when I read online about wars, riots, disease and
infectious poverty.

I close my eyes, imagine hunger,
imagine pain, imagine gain,
imagine loss or it impending,
as my nerve endings are sending
signals to above, to rain down on and sifle
through my spine.

The frisson is not the kind that makes my senses cheer,
I know, as I ask myself:
Where do we go from here?

Suddenly it's four at night,
the bursts of lethality
slowly lower their productive kite.
You are left with less obsession,
less manic tendencies
for at least the month to come.
It's just amazing how the
sword of bread can crumb
and not be rebuild to be
its past delight.

It's four o' clock at night
and everything feels right.

Liselore is zo onverschillig
dat bijna niets haar kraken kan.
Dat is best een beetje grillig
gezien zo ook niets haar vermaken kan.

I used to think the top
was most amazing,
the cream of the crop
was the most dazing
momentary bliss.

You showed me wrong
with just your being,
made me see the beauty I wasn't seeing,
simple, still, something you wouldn't want to miss.
You cried, I swayed, you gazed, I pried
and discovered the forehead kiss.

It was touching even if followed
by soaking me in ****.

Met herfsthaar en een kerfstok
vol klaar en kijk en soms amok,
kom ik uit mijn hol gekropen.
Er is stil wat angst aan in geslopen.
Ik heb de zon al zolang niet meer
mogen aanschouwen dat die eerste keer
mij als een kleuter meesleurt aan de mouwen
en die stralen snijden en kauwen
op mijn niet langer kouwen
huid.

Het is lang zo traag gegaan
dat het nu niet rapper kan.
Ik kan zo hier niet blijven staan.
Ik moet dringend naar de kapper, man.

Ik las laatst een loos artikel
over een ontaard perikel
waarin alle uitspraken
spaak liepen nog voor het afmaken.

Meestal snel ik dan naar de commentaar.
Vindt iemand anders dat ook zo raar?
Er is rust in minstens één gelijkgestemde ziel
die mij bevestigt, ja, die argumenten zijn labiel.

Ik zal dan al de rest negeren
om de goedheidsillusie te blijven eren.

Wat zou me dan bedreigen?
Als ik nu eens echt zou doen
wat ik al jaren wil,
wat zou mij klein proberen krijgen?

Is het mijn alomoude omgeving?
Is het iets nieuws, een dodelijk gevaar,
een tsunami of een aardbeving?
Wat is hetgeen waarover ik mij zorgen baar?

Is het het onbekende, of vreemdelingen
op de lijn, mensen die valse liedjes zingen,
of toekomstige herinneringen vol met pijn?

Wat doet mij het meest verdriet?
Ik denk die momenten, 's avonds laat, in bed,
wanneer niemand me ziet en ik mijn negatief
denken niet krijg afgezet.

Misschien vind ik erdoor geen werk,
of schiet iemand een kogel door mijn kerk.
Misschien verlies ik mensen dicht,
misschien gaat mijn zon dan onder
en zie ik nooit meer licht.

Het weegt, het is een overdrijving,
te dramatische beschrijving
van een zelfingenomen lul.
Het is zo arrogant om die dingen al te zeggen,
je bent nog nergens dan is die angst toch flauwe kul.

Je staat aan het begin en hebt nog overal gezicht.
Waarom heb je nu al schrik
voor later nooit meer licht?

Dag mama,

Of moeten we je ondertussen oma noemen?
Alvast vijf dikke kussen
en een rijtje droge bloemen.
Je hebt ze wel verdiend na al dat harde
werk, verzorgen, opleiden en opvoeden
van die hele garde onder je hoede.
Je hebt dat puik gedaan en terwijl
we wachten, vol met spanning,
op het eerstvolgend bezoek,
denken wij op afstand
aan onze liefste moederkloek.

When I sift through writings
of the old, I meet sightings
unholy to behold, as nothing
the person I am now would make.
We are different renditions
of the same mistake.
That was two editions
before the last me,
I see,
as I recall how time
has passed me.

It's a training match, we rehearse,
reimburse our future selves
when we leave toilet paper
we don't need
on the shelves.

Tomorrow we will do it all again.
Brush your teeth,
wash your mouth.
Until that's the only thing you feel.

You're not thinking, you've stopped blinking.
I see you seethe when you are stopped
from brushing teeth.

I lack the basics, lack the practice,
lack that and I lack this. I even googled
how to rhyme and came out on crab cactus.

I feel void, for nill, as if I might be also lacking.

What is your excuse, the main
stated reason causing you to lose?
You know what you have to gain,
what you want to do
with your time.

Why don't you do it?

With only today at hand,
only one ship manned,
only 24 hours to grind
and no take-backs when you fall behind,
you know it's up to you
to pull yourself through.

Why don't you do it?

Are you sad? Are you under
pressure? Are you afraid of being bad,
scared of thunder and aggression?
Do you despise succesful others,
have no respect for proud mothers?
What's holding you back from where you need to be?

Why don't you do it?

It's too complicated, rough,
I was never hard or tough.
It's not amusing in the present,
I resent working like a peasant.

That is softcore cocky, didn't you
ever see the movie rocky,
with the guy running up the stairs?
Even if there's no one else in your life who cares,
there's you
and a lot of things to do.

Why don't you do it?

Is it habits? Make some new.
Is it sleep? Plan your cycle.
Is it the past? Let it be a drive.
Is it the future, are you insecure?
Then make it certain, strive
to make your own **** cure.

And whenever you are feeling you might crack,
locate the reason, what's holding you back.
If there's nothing valid in what you find,
it's time to stop acting like you're blind.

Do it.

Hey, how've you been, oh my,
I have to say, sorry I
couldn't make it,
I had problems with
myself last time.

Hope you're doing well,
as far as I can tell,
you're looking great,
I'll add, I, myself 've
done recovered from the perfect date.

My head tells me, don't dwell,
I'm just really sorry about the past,
my heart is sure as well,
I do not regret moving too fast.

On the evening before a small disastered
day, I lay awake in bed with nothing but
my closest dear and thoughts in head.

The filters spread across the room,
the smoke signalling impending doom.
I know nothing except elations, insecurities
and misplaced expectations.

Mismatched socks in chests with locks
and understanding you can't be too
demanding, can't let everything bother,
you, can't have one without the other.

I turn around and **** the time that ticks.
I can rest easy, assured I know the greatest tricks.

I do not understand my own sensations,
get hell-bent placing my frustrations
as I lay here, reminiscing,
drifting about, just a little bit,
as my thoughts leap
and I pretend to fight falling asleep.

I could spend hours trying
to decipher why I'm lying
to myself but as it seems
I'd rather keep myself engulfed in dreams,
haphazardly escaping the
reality.

Superficial understanding
can be very demanding
for the 'I'm still standing'
part inside me.
For I have yet to discover
how I went from I won't bother
to I have to smother
to yet again a ****** lover
of the art I suppose
to produce in prose.

My caring for sharing what's inside
has chosen now to hide
for at least a little while. You see,
my care used to but stopped being
free.

And I'm not sure about who I want to be.

Everyday it matters less,
we walk around, clap at eight,
we work and sleep, digress
or try to lose the latest weight.

At night, we drink, at day
we only shower when
we stink. We look the part
and can't remember how exactly
it did start.

For forty days, lives end on one
decay on the other. We mock,
why even bother setting up
the alarm clock.

Het is allemaal niet zo vernieuwend,
het is allemaal gedoe,
zever zoals dat maakt mij kijkrichting splitsend moe,
opvliegend.

Kheb het zelf wel ook nooit gedaan en toch

gaat het nie om werken, niet om wennen,
allez, jawel, ook, maar
ge moet iemand kennen.

Soms is de waarde van een woord
gelegen in de 'zegt het voort',
is de verpakking waardevoller
dan het verpakte en de roller
beter in de verf te zetten
dan de verf zelf.

Ik deel uit en vang ze.
Jullie mogen klappen als ik val.
Ik ver en lang ze
en dat is het waarde volst van al.