Ik zie alleen de dingen die sterven, steen of potlood. De

aanklacht is welluidend, een thema. Er lang bij stilstaan maakt

je dwaas, verdwaasd. Een eed wordt het niet, episch ook niet.

De verblikte beschaving, ver- blikt. De mens leert zichzelf sardien

worden, als hij 't niet al eens was geweest. Het lot kijkt ons toe.


Ik zie alleen de dingen die sterven, wolken en zonnestralen.

Calamiteit, plastic. En herten worden afgeschoten in het bos.

Ik zie alleen de dingen die sterven, werelden vol, theorieën?

Intussen: wie zegeviert? De hieros gamos van tijd en aarde, mens

-usurpator, de vraatzucht. Prehistorie gemoderniseerd, 21ste eeuw.

Humanity alarming at historic low, generation Z high

expectations 100% out of poverty. Success sound bite,

21st century. Globalization fictional future, phantom racing.

The planet is home to all humanity, seas, earth and sky. Where

do you buy your meat? Consumption, the largest beast, unfitting


discriptions what we know as civilization. Humanity, a living

creature, pointing into a direction and not knowing. Slow motion

of earth's axis, something is happening, currents' systems

burning at paces fast or too slow. Patrons of industries, count-

ing their blessings in bliss. 'Do you care' petitions, $$$$$$$$$$$$$

You disappear, it is technology. The blue sky, white & blue.

The world, animation. Scale, a question, weird science. From

here to the next, momentum high. Memory, Marlyn Monroe. A

favourite, Jimmy Dean. The platform age, on running. Personal,

working projects. You disappear, technology is your answer.

1.


Coffee,Bread, breakfast, smell the Eggs... What's

the date, ah... In capital letters, IT's Spring T! She

wants her 'Good morning' served to her in bed. Mr Sun

is highest at noons... Sending out the kids for wormwood,

out there is the wood. Synthetic forest. Watch out for history...


Empty sheet, a page-number self determination to destruct,

there is something fishy about writing poetry... I never hear

music, and I never see it move natural when not put to mime.

I sip the coffee, I move the eggs, frying, and butter the bread.

Easy, when life is not difficult to live. Here simplicity is emperor!





2.

I was testing time, sitting on my own, I was all alone...

I was watching her face, am I getting too close? Now,

what am I going to do, when you're not in school? Flowing

into upstream, I reach out to find another sky, I am flying

solo, I am on my own... Thinking that you matter to me,


why, why, why... It doesn't matter how you expand this view

it isn't the world to me without you... All the aches I've felt,

fame doesn't mean anything to me, not without you...


You want to be a film director: at the age of three, the horse

is in the sea, and the rich are so distant... I've had it all at one

time, I've had it all before you left me, and now I'm coming

back to tell you, that I will be testing time, over and over, and

again and again, before crashing... before crashing... Yeah!

I'm on Tumblr, under a slightly different name. Switching

time to watch, and back, here I am a winner and not a loser.

Telling you my stories, about my body parts, and you're fast

asleep. Tumblr is my game, you're on the thumbnail, all over

the place. The corner inside a sixth dimension, much further


than the blue sky, paragliding from the top of a building, I can

see time is endless. Writing again, are we still on the same

show? Must be going back, it's all on the table what I need when

you're not around. I am inconclusive, end of transmission inside

my head. Endless going round in circles, I dream a new myth.

Tipon, Tipon, BMW, BMW, white, white sideline, long

roads, through the tunnels. Age between 20 and 24, I

live in Rotterdam, a millennial, 2000+. Window and rain, BMW,

BMW, swipe, swipe shield. Ample visual, a hurting desire

to see beyond. 20 Years, dancing on a star, it's raining, I am Tipon.

4.

English, technically, was first not very funny to me. It happens

when you're not indigenous, a squire. He is building his marquee

just to have afternoon tea under a striped roof, red, blue and white.

A peasant and his rabbit hole, plain and simple are both life's heroic

poem, in English. If you're going to speak Dutch, technically, do a van Gogh.


Design a car, or better, a scheme. If it wasn't for English how would

you operate, here or there? And if dad or mom spoke both the same

language, they would have had only tea and not ***. But I have to

disappoint your high hopes, I was never English. My birth belongs

to the human race. My speech, obviously, is my own in this syncopate.

3.

We live in a world unborn, living is nevertheless real. It

is tough meat. Try selling it. Poetry was never politics, white

nor green. We are trying to end in the same ways and places,

for the rich a few less or more. I think that I won't make it, one

lifetime will fall short. Come sit here with me, let's talk fly fishing.


Was it too premature, the world in which we live? Let's have a

shave in the morning, you and I, before we start the journey.

Try holding it, the ocean, like sand in the desert. Success is

relevant here more than conscience. I see an animated formulation

of the president in this timelapse. The world is but a sad place, ut supra.

2.

Typing, "It was a good day today." Buying my present,

QWERTY, not very cheap at QUERKYTOYS, she smiled,

more smileys... She is Mrs Android, and my therapy on this

writing machine. "The sun will be closer to you, not in spring today,

but in a few months senior from now," she told me. My heart is


beating, in a full adult manuscript. "A quiet evening that I will make

my hero, in this poem, in this poem. My ***** is going red-

breasted Robin, & leaves are slightly moving in the distance."

I love this querky machine, and it's madness. In two lines, I can

make her tremble, a beating heart, functional when typing, "Without envy."

At 25 I am a gentleman. My future bride reflections

of my mom, purple and deep puritan, she is beauty

of the flat earth. Iocaste's walls and hiding Rex Oedipus

from Laius' winged cruelty. She is wife, she is mother,

at 25 I am a gentleman. My future wife, oh pious bride!


How I detest rubies and wine, opulence and decadent

designs. At 25 I am a gentleman, my future bride, uxor,

pious as Rome's Holy Empire, or I would perish and die

in the 21st century, deeply ashamed. At 25, ode to the

future the world and his wife will be no more.

1.

God... I did see the eyes, but it was not raining, or the storm.

2.

Dad's not here, I don't understand. Mom is in the kitchen,

feeling so old. We're part of life that no one envisions, except

when you are exchanging the world for your dreams. Progress

is in the sky, aliens speaking to us through the moon. I will

one day give up this yearning. What is love, tell me? Dad?

Life is young. Old age is like a brick in the wall. I am

unwise, but I can see the future. They are the future,

the elderly, a true fact. My next line could be worth a

million, my incredible luck! I say to this world, you are

in my song when I'm dying. I am a fool. How I worshipped you,



above Mars! In five years time I will give up hope, at 25.

At 30, I will despair. What is it with you and the young? There

was a time when it was the military. Now we call it seniority. End

of the story. At 35 you are a deposed king. Earth is flat, and lonely.

And we are bolts and bits, some may never unscrew.

1.

She wants me to write. On saturdays?! I'm still smelling

of cigarettes, and the summer she is referring to, is long

overdue. Where were you in summer 2017? Sitting on a ter-

race having coffee, and enjoying the sun with a friend. 2019,

who knows, I might see another world. I am writing, she is


now sleeping in our bed. The night is bugging me, I am not

connected. Not trivial, anyway... What is happening out there

in the world when you're not gaming? AKA as privacy. Do I

love her? Only in the summer, a warm answer or not. We are

moving to another place, the writing place, if lucky, this summer.


2.

Arctic weather, I am feeling cold. From wind sails, minutes

to seconds, here it is not what you include. Drifting away,

time is frozen. Song in the sharp winds, you are now in the

shattering cold. Memory is like a prison bed, S.O.S. written

all over my face. From here planet size nothing but snowpacks.

1.

Am I Dutch? No, my mother is. Dad has given me the name

of Tipon, before he wanted to throw me off the Inca, or Mayan,

sacred cliffs. Our world is bilingual, on the metro, bus and tram,

the next generation will be metropolitan on their ID- card. Europe

is also French, and German, and whatever we call the north.


Who invented the LED bulb light? One with incandescent arrogance,

a politician, and maybe Swedish? I am only half Dutch, offspring and

fresh aired. She was young and innocent, so they told me. The story

of a beautiful love, her father said in a statement. How is it that I am

ugly? This is my mystery. I'm lost and innocent too. A dad for a dog.


2.

Tipon, Tipon, BMW, BMW, white, white sideline, long

roads, through the tunnels. Age between 22 and 24, I

live in Rotterdam, a millennial, 2000+. Window and rain, BMW,

BMW, swipe, swipe shield. Ample visual, a hurting desire

to see beyond. 20 Years, dancing on a star, it's raining, I am Tipon.