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Shrivastva MK Jun 2015
Zindagi ko jina sikh lo,
Zindagi se ladna sikh lo,
Hausla rakho sabse uper,
Zindagi me jitna sikh lo,

Bana do apni ek alag pahachan,
Naam wahi par kam alag **
Visva me tumhara ** ek alag kirtimaan,
Karke apne kul ko rausan,
hansna aur hansana sikh lo,
Zindagi ko jina sikh lo,

Dikha do duniya ko
Kanto jaisi raho par chalkar,
Pa lo apni manzil ko
Ek misaal bankar,
Etihas ke panno pe
apni pahchan likh do,
Safal hokar jeevan me tum
Zindagi ko jina sikh lo,
Zindagi ko jina sikh lo....
TRANSLATION FIRST PHRASE :-
Learn to live in life,
Learn to fight from life,
be courageous top,
Learn to win in life,

This poem dedicated to student like me.
A PLAY


BY



ALEXANDER   K   OPICHO









THE CASTE
1. Chenje – Old man, father of Namugugu
2. Namugugu – Son of Chenje
3. Nanyuli – daughter of Lusaaka
4. Lusaaka – Old man, father of Nanyuli
5. Kulecho – wife of Lusaaka
6. Kuloba – wife of Chenje
7. Paulina – Old woman, neighbour to Chenje.
8. Child I, II and III – Nanyuli’s children
9. Policeman I, II and III
10. Mourners
11. Wangwe – a widowed village pastor

















ACTING HISTORY
This play was acted two times, on 25th and 26th December 2004 at Bokoli Roman Catholic Church, in Bokoli sub- location of Bungoma County in the western province of Kenya. The persons who acted and their respective roles are as below;

Wenani Kilong –stage director
Alexander k Opicho – Namugugu
Judith Sipapali Mutivoko- Nanyuli
Saul Sampaza Mazika Khayongo- Wangwe
Paul Lenin Maondo- Lusaaka
Peter Wajilontelela-  Chenje
Agnes Injila -  Kulecho
Beverline Kilobi- Paulina
Milka Molola Kitayi- Kuloba
Then mourners, children and police men changed roles often. This play was successfully stage performed and stunned the community audience to the helm.













PLOT
Language use in this play is not based on Standard English grammar, but is flexed to mirror social behaviour and actual life as well as assumptions of the people of Bokoli village in Bungoma district now Bungoma County in Western province of Kenya.

























ACT ONE
Scene One

This scene is set in Bokoli village of Western Kenya. In Chenje’s peasant hut, the mood is sombre. Chenje is busy thrashing lice from his old long trouser Kuloba, sitting on a short stool looking on.

Chenje: (thrashing a louse) these things are stubborn! The lice. You **** all of them today, and then tomorrow they are all-over. I hate them.
Kuloba: (sending out a cloud of smoke through her tobacco laden pipe). Nowadays I am tired. I have left them to do to me whatever they want (coughs) I killed them they were all over in my skirt.
Chenje: (looking straight at Kuloba) Do you know that they are significant?
Kuloba: What do they signify?
Chenje: Death
Kuloba: Now, who will die in this home? I have only one son. Let them stop their menace.
Chenje: I remember in 1968, two months that preceded my father’s death, they were all over. The lice were in every of my piece of clothes. Even the hat, handkerchief. I tell you what not!
Kuloba: (nodding), Yaa! I remember it very well my mzee, I had been married for about two years by then.
Chenje: Was it two years?
Kuloba: (assuringly) yes, (spots a cockroach on the floor goes at it and crushes it with her finger, then coughs with heavy sound) we had stayed together in a marriage for two years. That was when people had began back-biting me that I was barren. We did not have a child. We even also had the jiggers. I can still remember.
Chenje: Exactly (crashes a louse with his finger) we also had jiggers on our feet.
Kuloba: The jiggers are very troublesome. Even more than the lice and weevils.  
Chenje: But, the lice and jiggers, whenever they infest one’s home, they usually signify impending death of a family member.
Kuloba: Let them fail in Christ’s name. Because no one is ripe for death in this home. I have lost my five children. I only have one child. My son Namugugu – death let it fail. My son has to grow and have a family also like children of other people in this village. Let whoever that is practicing evil machinations against my family, my only child fail.
Chenje: (putting on the long-trouser from which he had been crushing lice) let others remain; I will **** them another time.
Kuloba: You will never finish them (giggles)
Chenje: You have reminded me, where is Namugugu today? I have not seen him.
Kuloba: He was here some while ago.
Chenje: (spitting out through an open window) He has become of an age. He is supposed to get married so that he can bear grand children for me. Had I the grand children they could even assist me to **** lice from my clothes. (Enters Namugugu) Come in boy, I want to talk to you.
Kuloba: (jokingly) you better give someone food, or anything to fill the stomach before you engages him in a talk.
Namugugu: (looks, at both Chenje and Kuloba, searchingly then goes for a chair next to him)
Mama! I am very hungry if you talk of feeding me, I really get thrilled (sits at a fold-chair, it breaks sending him down in a sprawl).
Kuloba: (exclaims) wooo! Sorry my son. This chair wants to **** (helps him up)
Namugugu: (waving his bleeding hand as he gets up) it has injured my hand. Too bad!
Chenje: (looking on) Sorry! Dress your finger with a piece of old clothes, to stop that blood oozing out.
Namugugu: (writhing in pain) No it was not a deep cut. It will soon stop bleeding even without a piece of rag.
Kuloba: (to Namugugu) let it be so. (Stands) let me go to my sweet potato field. There are some vivies, I have not harvested, I can get there some roots for our lunch (exits)
Chenje: (to Namugugu) my son even if you have injured your finger, but that will not prevent me from telling you what I am supposed to.
Namugugu: (with attention) yes.
Chenje: (pointing) sit to this other chair, it is safer than that one of yours.
Namugugu: (changing the chair) Thank you.
Chenje: You are now a big person. You are no longer an infant. I want you to come up with your own home. Look for a girl to marry. Don’t wait to grow more than here. The two years you have been in Nairobi, were really wasted. You could have been married, may you would now be having my two grand sons as per today.
Namugugu: Father I don’t refuse. But how can I marry and start up a family in a situation of extreme poverty? Do you want me to start a family with even nothing to eat?
Chenje: My son, you will be safer when you are a married beggar than a wife- less rich-man. No one is more exposed as a man without a wife.
Namugugu: (looking down) father it is true but not realistic.
Chenje: How?
Namugugu: All women tend to flock after a rich man.
Chenje: (laughs) my son, may be you don’t know. Let me tell you. One time you will remember, maybe I will be already dead by then. Look here, all riches flock after married men, all powers of darkness flock after married men and even all poverty flock after married. So, it is just a matter of living your life.
(Curtains)
SCENE TWO

Around Chenje’s hut, Kuloba and Namugugu are inside the hut; Chenje is out under the eaves. He is dropping at them.
Namugugu: Mama! Papa wants to drive wind of sadness permanently into my sail of life. He is always pressurizing me to get married at such a time when I totally have nothing. No food, no house no everything. Mama let me actually ask you; is it possible to get married in such a situation?
Kuloba: (Looking out if there is any one, but did not spot the eaves-dropping Chenje).
Forget. Marriage is not a Whiff of aroma. My son, try marriage in poverty and you will see.
Namugugu: (Emotionally) Now, if Papa knows that I will not have a happy married life, in such a situation, where I don’t have anything to support myself; then why is he singing for my marriage?
Kuloba: (gesticulating) He wants to mess you up the way he messed me up. He married me into his poverty. I have wasted away a whole of my life in his poverty. I regret. You! (Pointing) my son, never make a mistake of neither repeating nor replicating poverty of this home into your future through blind marriage.
Namugugu: (Approvingly) yes Mama, I get you.

Kuloba: (Assertively) moreover, you are the only offspring of my womb             (touching her stomach) I have never eaten anything from you. You have never bought me anything even a headscarf alone. Now, if you start with a wife will I ever benefit anything from you?
Namugugu: (looking agog) indeed Mama.
Kuloba: (commandingly) don’t marry! Women are very many. You can marry at any age, any time or even any place. But it is very good to remember child-price paid by your mother in bringing you up. As a man my son, you have to put it before all other things in your life.
Namugugu: (in an affirmative feat) yes Mama.
Kuloba: It is not easy to bring up a child up to an age when in poverty. As a mother you really suffer. I’ve suffered indeed to bring you up. Your father has never been able to put food on the table. It has been my burden through out. So my son, pleased before you go for women remember that!
Namugugu: Yes Mama, I will.
(Enters Chenje)
Chenje: (to Kuloba) you old wizard headed woman! Why do you want to put    my home to a full stop?
Kuloba: (shy) why? You mean you were not away? (Goes out behaving shyly)

Chenje: (in anger to Namugugu) you must become a man! Why do you give your ears to such toxic conversations? Your mother is wrong. Whatever she has told you today is pure lies. It is her laziness that made her poor. She is very wrong to festoon me in any blame…. I want you to think excellently as a man now. Avoid her tricky influence and get married. I have told you finally and I will never repeat telling you again.

Namugugu: (in a feat of shyness) But Papa, you are just exploding for no good reason, Mama has told me nothing bad……………………
Chenje: (Awfully) shut up! You old ox. Remove your ears from poisonous mouths of old women!
(Enters Nanyuli with an old green paper bag in her hand. Its contents were bulging).
Nanyuli: (knocking) Hodii! Hodii!
Chenje: (calmly) come in my daughter! Come in.
Nanyuli: (entering) thank you.
Chenje: (to Namugugu) give the chair to our visitor.
Namugugu: (shyly, paving Nanyuli to sit) Karibu, have a sit please.
Nanyuli: (swinging girlishly) I will not sit me I am in a hurry.
Chenje: (to Nanyuli) just sit for a little moment my daughter. Kindly sit.
Nanyuli: (sitting, putting a paper-bag on her laps) where is the grandmother who is usually in this house?
Chenje: Who?
Nanyuli: Kuloba, the old grandmother.
Namugugu: She has just briefly gone out.
Chenje: (to Nanyuli) she has gone to the potato field and Cassava field to look for some roots for our lunch.
Nanyuli: Hmm. She will get.
Chenje: Yes, it is also our prayer. Because we’re very hungry.
Nanyuli: I am sure she will get.
Chenje: (to Nanyuli) excuse me my daughter; tell me who your father is?
Nanyuli: (shyly) you mean you don’t know me? And me I know you.
Chenje: Yes I don’t know you. Also my eyes have grown old, unless you remind
me, I may not easily know you.
Nanyuli: I am Lusaaka’s daughter
Chenje: Eh! Which Lusaka? The one with a brown wife? I don’t know… her name is Kulecho?
Nanyuli: Yes
Chenje: That brown old-mother is your mother?
Nanyuli: Yes, she is my mother. I am her first – born.
Chenje: Ooh! This is good (goes forward to greet her) shake my fore-limb my
daughter.

Nanyuli: (shaking Chenje’s hand) Thank you.
Chenje: I don’t know if your father has ever told you. I was circumcised the same year with your grand-gather. In fact we were cut by the same knife. I mean we shared the same circumciser.
Nanyuli: No, he has not yet. You know he is always at school. He never stays at home.
Chenje: That is true. I know him, he teaches at our mission primary school at Bokoli market.
Nanyuli: Yes.
Chenje: What is your name my daughter?
Nanyuli: My name is Loisy Nanyuli Lusaaka.
Chenje: Very good. They are pretty names. Loisy is a Catholic baptismal name, Nanyuli is our Bukusu tribal name meaning wife of an iron-smith and Lusaaka is your father’s name.
Nanyuli: (laughs) But I am not a Catholic. We used to go to Catholic Church upto last year December. But we are now born again, saved children of God. Fellowshipping with the Church of Holy Mountain of Jesus christ. It is at Bokoli market.
Chenje: Good, my daughter, in fact when I will happen to meet with your father, or even your mother the brown lady, I will comment them for having brought you up under the arm of God.
Nanyuli: Thank you; or even you can as well come to our home one day.
Chenje: (laughs) actually, I will come.
Nanyuli: Now, I want to go
Chenje: But you have not stayed for long. Let us talk a little more my daughter.
Nanyuli: No, I will not. I had just brought some tea leaves for Kuloba the old grandmother.
Chenje: Ooh! Who gave you the tea leaves?
Nanyuli: I do hawk tea leaves door to door. I met her last time and she requested me to bring her some. So I want to give them to you (pointing at Namugugu) so that you can give them to her when she comes.
Namugugu: No problem. I will.
Nanyuli: (takes out a tumbler from the paper bag, fills the tumbler twice, pours the tea leaves  into an old piece of  newspaper, folds and gives  it to Namugugu) you will give them to grandmother, Kuloba.
Namugugu: (taking) thank you.
Chenje: My daughter, how much is a tumbler full of tea leaves, I mean when it is full?
Nanyuli: Ten shillings of Kenya
Chenje: My daughter, your price is good. Not like others.
Nanyuli: Thank you.
Namugugu: (To Nanyuli) What about money, she gave you already?
Nanyuli: No, but tell her that any day I may come for it.
Namugugu: Ok, I will not forget to tell her
Nanyuli: I am thankful. Let me go, we shall meet another day.
Chenje: Yes my daughter, pass my regards to your father.
Nanyuli: Yes I will (goes out)
Chenje: (Biting his finger) I wish I was a boy. Such a good woman would never slip through my fingers.
Chenje: But father she is already a tea leaves vendor!
(CURTAINS)


SCENE THREE
Nanyuli and Kulecho in a common room Nanyuli and Kulecho are standing at the table, Nanyuli is often suspecting a blow from Kulecho, counting coins from sale of tea leaves; Lusaaka is sited at couch taking a coffee from a ceramic red kettle.


Kulecho: (to Nanyuli) these monies are not balancing with your stock. It is like you have sold more tea leaves but you have less money. This is only seventy five shillings. When it is supposed to be one hundred and fifty. Because you sold fifteen tumblers you are only left with five tumblers.
Nanyuli: (Fidgeting) this is the whole money I have, everything I collected from sales is here.
Kulecho: (heatedly) be serious, you stupid woman! How can you sell everything and am not seeing any money?
Nanyuli: Mama, this is the whole money I have, I have not taken your money anywhere.
Kulecho: You have not taken the money anywhere! Then where is it? Do you know that I am going to slap you!
Nanyuli: (shaking) forgive me Mama
Kulecho: Then speak the truth before you are forgiven. Where is the money you collected from tea leaves sales?
Nanyuli: (in a feat of shyness) some I bought a short trouser for my child.
Kulecho: (very violent) after whose permission? You old cow, after whose permission (slaps Nanyuli with her whole mighty) Talk out!
Nanyuli: (Sobbingly) forgive me mother, I thought you would understand. That is why I bought a trouser for my son with your money!
Lusaaka: (shouting a cup of coffee in his hand, standing charged) teach her a lesson, slap her again!
Kulecho (slaps, Nanyuli continuously, some times ******* her cheeks, as Nanyuli wails) Give me my money! Give me my money! Give me my money! Give me my money! You lousy, irresponsible Con-woman (clicks)
Lusaaka: Are you tired, kick the *** out of that woman (inveighs a slap towards Nanyuli) I can slap you!
Nanyuli: (kneeling, bowedly, carrying up her hands) forgive me father, I will never repeat that mistake again (sobs)
Lusaaka: An in-corrigible, ****!
Kulecho: (to Nanyuli) You! Useless heap of human flesh. I very much regret to have sired a sell-out of your type. It is very painful for you to be a first offspring of my womb.
I curse my womb because of you. You have ever betrayed me. I took you to school you were never thankful, instead you became pregnant. You were fertilized in the bush by peasant boys.
You have given birth to three childlings, from three different fathers! You do it in my home. What a shame! Your father is a teacher, how have you made him a laughing stock among his colleagues, teachers? I have become sympathetic to you by putting you into business. I have given you tea leaves to sell. A very noble occupation for a wretch like you. You only go out sell tea leaves and put the money in your wolfish stomach. Nanyuli! Why do you always act like this?
Nanyuli: (sobbing) Forgive me mother. Some tea leaves I sold on credit. I will come with the money today?
Kulecho: You sold on credit?
Nanyuli: Yes
Kul
this is a manuscript of a play, please guys help me get any publisher who can do publishing of this play
i  will appreciate. thanks
Hai naman unko ki jo iss deh ko amaratwa dekar...
Iss jagat me shaurya ki ziwit kahani ** gye hai...
Hai naman unko ki jinke saamne bauna haimalya...
Jo dhara par gir pade par aashmani ** gye hai...
hai naman unko....

Likh chuki hai vidhi tumhari veerta k punya leke...
Vijay k udhgosh geeta k kathan tumko naman hai...
Sindoordaano ki gathao desh hit pratipatth yaowank dapan
tumko naman hai...
Bahan k bishwas, bhai k sakha, kul k sahare, pita k vrat k falit
Maa k nayan tumko naman hai...
Ki hai naman unko ki jinko mrityu paakar hui paawan...
Sikhar jinke Charan chukar or maani ** gye hai...

Ki hai naman unko ki jinke saamne bauna himalaya...
Jo dhara par gir pade par aashmani ** gye hai...
hai naman unko....
Copyright© Shashank K Dwivedi

email-shashankdwivedi.edu@gmail.com
Follow me on Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/skdisro
AnnaStorm Dec 2015
Jeg boede engang med en fisker
Hans ansigt var endnu fint
Hans hår var et net om hans tanker
Hans liv var en gyngende skude
Hvor er han min fisker fra havet
Han sejler mod fjerne kyster
Hans tanker er fremadrettede
Hans krop blot et sted at bo
Hans ord brændte fast i træet
Dengang i mit glødende bål
Nu er det blot kul under mine fødder
Små tusind diamanter som vand
Katrine Jul 2014
Kan jeg?
brænde mig selv ned
med hud og neglerod
hver en sprække
af fregnede smil
og skarpe vinterknogler
havde man fingre af kul
kunne man tegne sig selv op i silhuet
en skælvene kvindes
begyndende skygge tager form
på halvmånens blege papir
under fuldmånen er jeg
en lysende diamant
indtil da
danser jeg på tåspidsen om bålet
kan jeg se mig selv
gå op i røg og damp
stolt som den enøjede konge

Skal jeg?
presses sammen til
noget du ikke genkender
når vi støder ind i hinanden i gaderne
tilfældigt, selvfølgeligt
gyderne af vores
måneskinsvandringer
hvor vi drømte om en måne der var hel
skal jeg samle månens stykker sammen
uden dig til at smile når jeg ikke blot er konturer af vores drømme
og jeg lyser gyderne op

Må jeg?
glemme at du fandtes
den dag hvor der var måneformørkelse og du
ikke dukkede op i gyden
jeg så dig gå op i røg jeg så
at ilden i dit hjerte aldrig brændte for mig
må jeg vide at jeg kan blive en funklende diamant også efter at
jeg brændte mine fingre på dit hjerte
da du sagde at du elskede mig under månen
og jeg vidste at du var aftagende
Robin Dziedzic Dec 2017
Jeg vekker verden for tiden går: våkn opp

Vi kan være borte i morgen: stå opp

Jeg vekker verden, fordi jeg vil gi bort det jeg har,

I morgen kan vi miste den gaven



For hver dag er vi nærmere slutten

Som kan være starten av en ny begynnelse.

Så finn det stedet, din mening, din egen bølge,

Gi bort hjertet, gi bort alt,

Elsk,respekter andre, drøm,

Vær kul, vis verden at du er noen

Dag etter dag, tiden stopper ikke,

Jeg lever og vil oppleve hvert minutt.

Verdens farger i mitt blod,

Folkets **** med morgendagens luft,

Jeg skal vekke dere: Carpe Diem.



Stå opp med ordene på tunga, jeg lever

Fra nå av, ikke fra i morgen, fra nå av,

Har jeg ikke tid til å kaste tiden bort,

Skriv livets manus selv, og visk den aldri ut.

Alle har en vei å gå, alle er noen,

Og med hevet hode bærer de stolt sitt kors,

De kan lære deg å tro, vise deg vei.

Ikke vær redd for å kjempe for tilværelsen,  

ikke vær redd for nederlag.



Jeg vekker verden, det er min vei,

Mitt oppdrag, min mening.

Så jeg sier nå til dere alle:

“Opplev hver dag, og bruk din gave.”

Og hvis du tror på kjærlighet,

Sørg for at den er gjensidig,

Sammen stå opp og se alltid samme vei,

Vær sammen til døden skiller dere ad.

DET er gaven.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2020
call it culture... call it: kul-toor... something "cool"...
i've just drank a bottle of wine and
i'm far from... feeling an armchair moment
of enjoying: whatever it is i'm supposed to enjoy...

millenial woes...
        h3h3... the whole list... it's really your standard
packet of pork chops...
i would be much prouder if i were...
adamantly watching an english soap-opera...
at least that sort of "consumering" makes
it to a pub quiz status... the trivia the knowledge:
the machine gun and blank stares:
who's who?

      but i have comes across the concept
of ASMR...
                       insomnia dalmation barking
in swiss...
i was... once upon a time:
  told to listen to some Max Richter...
      i still much prefer christopher young's
hellraiser II: hellbound soundtrack...
i've been buthering that soundtrack for almost
forever... and the "problem of counting sheep":
i imagine myself making a chicken...
into a soup from the torso - intricate bones
of the spines...
   perhaps the wings... then leaving
the ******* for a roullade: or schnitzels...
and the quarters (thighs and legs)... well...
that's just another dinner... probably roasted...

counting sheep: can it be called:
shooting ducks?
              ASMR... cringe videos of whispering...
who pays...
when there's that full package available
with the bulgarian women... the dimmed lights...
once a year... perhaps once every two or three...
but of course... i check on myself daily:
whether all this drinking and all that smoking
is true: that it might lead one to a limb-****
bashing... day in day out like someone checking
their blood sugar or their blood pressure...
i check mine...
                        
        culture: ketchup...
           a clean and easy throne of thrones affair...
the no. 1, 2 and 3... and then a baptism in
the shower...
                most of the time i pretend:
having wiped my ***...
            if "culture" / ketchup is this bad...
the next best thing? ******:
                  becoming a **** flinging monkey!

busy as busy comes...
when was the last time it rained in england?
april was when i witnessed the spike of oddities...
it was sunny: so much so that you could
turn sunlight into a liquid and drink it:
like a schnapps...
     the bewildering concept of the english garden...
when... the garden is rarely used...
to b.b.q. like an australian:
   etc.
                 but the neighbour put up a fence
after 15 years of "politics" and now
i am working on putting apart the old shed
and putting up the new one...
          
ASMR... that kite is flying and i just want
to cut its umbilical chord...
and send a message in a bottle... thrown...
into something as static as a big chemical-puddle...
in a mini "bottle"... the message being written
in braille and itching on nail's head...
like a Gustav Dore etching...

                              something: spectacular...
        this that or the other... something spectacular...
like a phoneline... all calls from india
and from a call-centre...
                     thank god this canvas is "meine sprechen"...
spectacular" unwinding in how pedagogy
is a memory acid... someone comes along:
we, write - alt. "grammar"...
           no need - or need...
                      rules like gravity: never mind!
rules like: how to tie a tie: never mind!
      we make up as we go along...
***** spirit: yo'go!
               astounding my disbelief...
                 such rules when asked:
  could, extend... toward... the schizoid cipher?
        nooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
bad grammar is one thing: speaking in metaphors
and crosswords: only the zodiac could:
with that splinter of ego and a hacking:
of brain as woo woo wood woody chen.

                to have went to school for the sole reason
that: one weren't born in the victorian
era and being a chimney-sweep!
   better have dumbed down and taught
to stack supermarket shelves:
while also being taught that...
   and... wanting to read in your spare time...

to see... a cohort of peacocks strutting like
geeese... tails folded.
                
    for lack of a better choice of words:
hit & miss... hit & run...
             if this was as easy as getting:
what walt whitman got...
             or didn't get...
                   bad grammar is good grammar:
a bit like arithmetic: 3 + 15 = 19!
or... the science of: guess...

                scratch of the head:
perhaps i'm an apostate catholic...
a proselyte veering toward... digging under
judaism is a pitiable reading of the qabbalah...
the good catholic boy'oh with his credo,
his litany of ave marias and unser vater...
     in conversation with hey'zeus: ihre vater...

                  noster pater: pater noster...
                    vester pater: pater vester...

to be so: "shielded"... a belief matching up
to prayer beads...
to actual prayer... and all that... cognitive free-space
to boot!
i'm a bad atheist: at inception...
or is that the "un" conversion?
to gravitate filling nothing with a self,
a mirror and smoking a cigarette infront of it...
it's not enough...
that i do not pray: doesn't excuse the fact
that... i'm squeezed by an octopus in a straitjacket...
to think of god: existent or non-,
            it's hardly concerning myself with:
objective reality objective truth or objective
morality...
               pass as a ghost in this life...
a tomb of body in the waiting: to admire sparrows
is to also pay very little due for
opera... the timing is crucial... or not...

   concern oneself with comparisons...
to truly appreciate a sparrow singing...
is to stand stark naked in a garden...
to truly appreciate an opera...
is to don the tux... and play the vanity game
and the game of voyeurism...
same old same old:
same book: different cover...

                     new atheism: no god...
yes... but still that funnel argument of: no god...
if a funnel is the hearing-aid of Pascal...
i bet it is...
                  bad grammar was one thing...
but the proof of solipsism?
farting in a crowded place...
and being the only person who wouldn't
mind the mild: overstated "nuance"
of exploring perfumes that...
better suit... the decomposition of
strawberries and apples...

cezanne... had he painted still life...
yes... at that moment of "death"...
recycling vector (0, 0, 0) when the fruits
in still life have reached the nadir...
but the form is still intact... etc.

                      to be a catholic or...
but to be an atheist: and have one's prayers
"stolen" and replaced with...
at best: the prefix omni- and a geometry...
to have one's prayers "liberated"
by the thought-glutton of existence or non-,

chowhound: chew-fiend...
best of all... no teeth, not tongue...
no tapeworm of oesophagus inverted:
umbilical chord "gizmo" replica...
no stomach no **** bishop "pomp & circumstance"
and the **** the crown...

so much for praying: praying could be recovered
from...
but to have one's thinking occupied so?
it's beside the psalm of the Pascal wager...
to think:
             ut cogito... the act, itself...
so much for: ego cogito...
                    
                         to think: no therefore...
is... to...             what?               be?
how many times i have found thinking to be
a **** manual... thinking at times frees...
but most of the time: reality-checks...
contrains... and obliterates prospects...
then again: that wouldn't be concise enough
to be given either noun or verb status concerning:
the...                zone rouge...

to think: is and isn't:
     otherwise... a statement... of exasperation...
that has no compensation
in a translation of: thought = being...
i think is hardly a cornerstone...
it's a stone... a stone among rubble...
a good... revisionist: again!
   this... "i" and this "think"...
                      
and overstated fact guarded by:
a pronoun invocation...
          but: to think...    what's that?
to think is... what?
           to conjure up a soul...
and all the hallucinations to boot?
to think is to... what?
in the future: the lost participle of present...
and the past tense being:
nothing more than a mongrel
of journalism... history and... perhaps...
poo'etry?

             no... there's absolute no need to make
of h'americans for their secular shortcomings...
but there's just the Salem...
and those stickers... parental... guidance...
necessary...
                        oath words like: i... **** i swear...
the church the tele-evangelical:
spit *** sooner pit of...
                    if i had my way with
the mid-west... sooner i: deer-hunter...

so much for the catholic boy: prayer, duty...
and so much for the atheisst "i":
who eats all my thought: the θ(ought)
conundrum... perhaps it's a moral question
too... perhaps...

   to think: thought: ought i?
lucky for me...
my body is a shadow and my shadow is thought...
and i forget what's a crowd-pleaser and
what will allow me to sentence to grief: less and less...
and less...
ah! to think: ought i? ergo:
qua: non-qua
                             vel: non-qua: qua...

i waited for rain... i waited for rain...
i finally found joy in rain...
i also found a lisp of scotland...
many a mile before edinburgh was reached...

up and along the swing...
to swing so high... but to also sulk so low...
at least the catholics and those other
pseudo-italians are just: god-****! predictable!
backwards... introspective:
that the orc started to trend on twitter...
where is Mordor? east...
i usually conjure up the russians and
the slavs: well... given that russia is mostly
conjured up into breath by
mongol mongrels - anything of russian
envy east of moscow?

kazakhstan?!

         i'm no freer from "god" as either
atheist or catholic...
sure... i don't have to pay duty for and excuses
mumling credo under my
"knowledge" of soul: the breath...
but something is still eating my thought:
it doesn't exactly care whether it exists
or whether it doesn't...
the best argument i'll have to borrow...

si dieu n'existait pas, il faudrait l'inventer...
if god did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him;
i too wish it would be done: the easiest -
to simply not think of him...

a cul de sac of arguments for my liking:
it's a plughole...
a bathtub full of water...
and the waterline is diminishing...
that will still not make me more
"believable" should i succumb to pray...
the worst aspect of h'america is
not the gluttony...
it's the evengelical zeal... then again:
i'm also wondering how this
is to escape me...
dilute itself into the readily available air...
fizzle out...
like a bottle of caronated water...
left open... till the carbon mingling within
a ******* of oxygen twins...
goes-bye-bye:

  when the first h'americans took to tourism
via pulp fiction: about le bib mac...
and fries served up with a dollop of mayo -
alt. - to home run: score...
zoid ist tod! zoid ist tod!

                 the prayer manual worth of god...
gone... dusted... the moths are settling...
and the spiders too...
              but the thinking loose skin...
"   " and what was missed bound to
a "malapropism" -
             hyper-inflated dyslexia...
       because learning grammar sentences you:
to that ode for the dickensian
chimney-sweeper!
  
                the misnomer... and the malapropism...
a debate: no... it's not a pun...
the peacock is loitering...
bad gwammar doth not:
fizzle out to faze him...
            
                yep... one of those internet ketchup
        moments...
to be "commited": pride and dignity...
performing a karaoke of harakiri...
                high-brow ambitions...
that: pride... and dignity... revenge... say what?!

salt is salty: no... salt is salt...
sugar is sweet: true... because:
you can't exactly....
              sugar is: sweet...
but sugary? unlike salt: there's no salty...
    sugar... sugary...
           salt: salty...
                    sugar is sweet...
but: sweety? an endearment?
sugary: taste the difference?
granuled... powder... syrop prone?
salt is salty: no... salt is salt...
sugar is sugary: no... sugar is sugar...

                                             blah blah...
and thank god no one has the time
and... concern for a capacity of minding...
such details... of obscurity...
better equipped:
a plumber with a blockage of a pipe...
than me... teasing at etymology...

life is: the bore of the precursor of time:
eternal time...
           forever is hardly a wait...
no amount of solipsism could ever solve...
the stage the sycophancy:
i ask: the solipsist and the sycophant
the same question:
what's the answer... when no question
is being aksed?
Filomena Jan 31
o tut de lun u zgiqbu
je dza sua *** kai zgilen tak te zon
i qdu qe xek nau tepzi tek o ***
je zuk bau *** nau zal po sli de ple
i sli bau *** xai daltep. i nefu lo sinpok
je plo qe txitup le za xak de zok.
i lan lo xilpok sondal xle de papkin gu
ke xel de lit pe sin je dzo le kai papkit
fi no vol fai dan pe xil. i nak lo lupko
pe qippli kai ben je sku le zgi fi zetfu
peu tu lot pe lia gelúp. i xek ne lutnik
sku de qak xik je xnukek le kai xta
i lutfu peu zanxo je pindal qe xne peu luttak
je sik le po zan do ple de notlen
vou nau zal do ple de pel. i lan lo vipnik
je xle le *** sai xel de txixo bon
i kul lia lot je bel lia xnu pe gul
i xel le sui kep ze skuxo bon qe sin
je slizuk le fi ti. i xen o liofu
e xalzen xle de nokfuk pap
i vit le so fo tul je xle le kin
je zni sai dal lia *** gexpá qe lal
za lia qla xal je lia takson dqi qe dal zoi
xen go zno e son pe sin je ***
go e pe zgitul kon. i nak to del
ke fin de skuxo xik qe xel de ske
i zno po sinpokfu je qdu do sua ke bon
i sak xto i sak lot i sak ska i sak zat
This is a Xextan translation of the "All the world's a stage" speech, from Shakespeare's "As You Like It"
Daan May 2020
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?
Tijd voor reflectie en een herevaluatie van prioriteiten.
i'm having inconsistencies creep up on me /
that i am in part /
so many things at once /
returning to paths /
formerly trodden /
now etchings /
          now sketches /
and all this to simply say /
cruelty is not born out of love /
but cruelty is the daughter of genius /
clearly portrayed in Schindler's List /
\ i can see it now
\ as clear as day within a day
\ as i see day in night
\ when the eyes capture light
\ the currency of eyes
\ that is like blood to the heart
\ and electricity to the brain
\ and to the soul what thought is
\ but ego isn't
\ since soul is without ego
\ should ever soul be doubted
/ then the ego cannot be doubted
/ yet why settle for such a fickle thing
/ as ego
/ when you can comprehend organizing it
yet that's right /
the ego /
construct it into a soul /
at least organize it with thought /
with intellect /
garner it /
in the garden: of all places /
to the youth of ****** of looks /
but the acuteness to read Candide /
and that's almost a tearjerker /
i can feel her now in my stomach:

but how long would i have settled
to say to a woman
as woo not woe to man and of man
irrespectively respectively...
that's the antonym of respectively, no?
IR
            regardless...
but if constantly reminded:
this is not your daughter:
i cannot have a child with you:
why are you a man if you don't want children:
?
?
   ?
   ?

        ? ?    invalid? ***** count low?
question Q question Q question Q
so my biological "reality" answer is thus
and now i'm not drunk
no i wasn't drunk (but i was, on thought,
and the cameo cinema of yesterday
not the cinema of grandfather Joseph:
i am matthew: the dream of joseph...

in my dream i woke to grinding metal
the sweet sonic zing zing
of a graphite shield cutting metal
iron by the looks of it due
to the amount of rust
so the cutting... grinding was made easier
now only 20min passed
and no i wasn't high
like now in the microverse
to counter the many uses of other verses
i will not succumb to the sobering
advantage of game with
foreign alphabets
i am not storing thoughts but emotions
perhaps that's why
there is no pleasure in ***
beside the utility of threading the existential
furthering
by count a child of each belonging
so that i answer Spielberg became a Bergman
with Schindler's List and i was
trying to communicate with script
shouldn't have but wanted to talk
and couldn't
and am i to think of superior intellectual
stock: of course not... corpus christi jeez and
jazz no...
but if all that remains of me is the equivalent
of the Kul Tigin...
then that's what continued from Cuneiform
and stone and who's to say
the bible is worth more
if the Bible was written on paper
then burnt
because it was a plagiarism
and a double burden on the Hebrews
to have carried paper into the woods
yes they carried paper into the woods
of Europe: deforested it
made it a feeding basin plateau
like a Mongolian semi Tundra
and that didn't take effort
to uproot all those trees?!

       cutting /
// cutting /
  cut / cut / cut /
// / /// / // / / /

now this was metal on metal
grinding
with graphite
the sonic whoosh and smooch of kissing
like metal or diamond
rock on metal

the supposed holy covenant
but how can nomads
have stone
or write on stone
perhaps graffiti on stone would be best
scratched
not like that idiot spray painting
on a wall in Pompeii
but why didn't the Hebrews
graffiti the Wall of Mourning
surely some rascal could have in the times
of the Romans
written his Martin Luther
on the stone...
but Jesus didn't...
no Hebrew even began to comprehend
the power of NOINK
or no-ink... however you want to spell it...
could have...
chiseled in hebrew letters:

הרחובות שלך

    (your streets)

השכירות שלנו

    (our tenements)

throughout the film you can hear
a murmur of spoken Polish
but then that ghastly scene!
that ghastly scene!
that Jewish itch in spite of what "we"
did that Jewish yuck and itch
with that scene
from Jews leaving Krakow -
the middle class Jews
the well attired Jews
with a little girl from the countryside
somehow managing to scream:
in English:

   GOODBYE JEWS!
GOODBYE JEWS!

now... personally? i take offence at that...
truly...
that is such a misrepresentation of
the whole Polish Jewish dynamic...
that has, seriously: tinted me...
sobered me up...

fair enough if the girl was screaming!
if she was screaming!
DOWIDZENIA ŻYDZI!
DOWIDZENIA ŻYDZI!
but no... no...
and i'm supposed to live in America
even if it's Hawaii
or better still Kauai?
no... nein nein nein nein nein nein
i've just heard of a European
revival of the Right and *****
of each Land
and people his own...

i holstered that Advent on the 7th October
of last year
the year 2023 when i returned
from Kauai...
this time round i just blocked her on WhatsApp
deleted her number
but kept her PO BOX
and her email
and that's the best i can do...
no more conversations
no more oochie koochie
over the phone no *******
no
no it was
just doing my head in this DISTANT CLOSE?NESS
clown lover
nothing more
clown lover...

             i still have the house to clean
and that's going to be done
since i already pumped up my missing front
wheel and i haven't been cycling for
well over 2 months
maybe more
probably since the end of Yeti and Mammoth...
3 months... March, end of,
so beginning of April: maybe... so so...

another coffee and finish off the cigarette?
yes, conversations with i
at least that's honest
and i can bring only love and honesty
from the bottom of my heart
since my mind will only invent
cruelty out of genius
that genius that's revealed in this unscripted
wriggling of the worm
if i had a pen:

Kwisatz Haderach in Marrakesh...
just sounds nice
almost pretty...

but that is the water of life
in my dream
in my dream i was peeling wallpaper
and i was almost scolded for
not having dampened the walls enough
a second third time
so that the peeling process would be easier
as the water could be drank up by the paper
and dilute the glue...
oddly enough: there actually is a "Jewish Question"
i swear to god...
perhaps god willing these times
will be a surrender to the oblivion of
obviousness in that there is a "Jewish Question"
but
not asked by some Romantic Germanic Gab -
because this is also born from the trauma
that my ethnicity was next on the List...
die Liste - or is that der Liste:
i never know in German asking definitely for
the same thing twice...
hardly any masculine or feminine need to articulate
a definite or indefinite article:
however...
there is a question concerning why the Hebrews
such an ancient people
like the Assyrians and Babylonians
didn't just disappear -
didn't write on stone or wrote on stone and then
lost the stones or the stones were destroyed
but that persistence i think the 20th century
germans were maybe "thinking" that
the question came without an answer
as is famously known of rabbis to answer
a question with a question
the grand magi of the question-question...
because at least the Kul Tigin
                                   Svingerund
Rosetta - much more polished inscriptions
not this flimsy artsy bookish
clerical nuance of force
not the same pressure from wood to paper
as from sand to glass...
as from sand to glass
no pressure at all... but still all that alchemy...
question: why didn't the Hebrews
go down the path of the Romans
and the Greeks
perhaps some reinvention would happened
just like the Gingers of Lombardy
from the Holy See and Alliance -
vague history of Jews in Europe
and all that physiognomy nothing like
the Israeli...
so Mediterranean - MEDI-
  -TERRA-
                           -NEAN: AEGEAN...
remember that spelling, MAtthew...
                       slice open with capitals each word
if you must, not only proper / important
nouns.

i started to disregard the importance of music:
wenn ich begann zu kaufen
    why-nil(s)
ich begann zu außer Acht lassen
   die Bedeutung der Musik:

ach ja! ja! das ist das!
    the of
the off
            or is that still too... proto-Germanic
in understanding?
die der dough... dire dough do! mumble mumble:
tis the season of summer concerts
and as someone working in security:
it better sells that i play along to the whole:
bachelor: chingching - no China:
K ok... Ok K kk...
   Oh... so so Kk            carp... Kodak: co-Damian
lustro: oops...
                    no good, no good: about to rain
and the floors aren't even shiny!
disasterpiece... di-zas-ter-p-ease-eez (plural of E's)
like double-D's; a;lmost)
i have abandoned the joys of music, truly:
disgusted by it;
only in the late 19th century
Nietzsche would have surmounted to posit
an argument along the line(s) of:
without music, life would be unbearable

or...

music makes life bearable...

how tedious now, music,
how obliterating the senses -
without eyes yet still talk of sight
without ears yet still talk of hearing
perhaps even with eyes
those two vital organs
like kidneys
how strange that they are so exposed
and so important
yet so exposed
unlike kidneys hidden in body
these protruding vital organs
since eyes are organs
equipped to deal this parody
not of bone covered by flesh and sinew
and muscle and fat
but these two flimsy pieces of skin
that light can penetrate
and give a man who toiled through night
and tried to find solace in
sleep come day
an insomnia that would require more
than eyelids with the added pressure
from a folded arm like a blindfold...

music has, become, unbearable,
a tedium for the senses
a shortening of some sort: a variation of otherwise
perfectly adjusted adjectives
to call a mountain big
a sea grand
and an insect philosophical: Solomon's ant...

music is no music with visual aids
unlike...
unlike: i spent this morning eating breakfast
of: never mind...
watching Schindler's List
in that moment when the Krakow ghetto
was being emptied
and that SS man was caught off guard
from all the chaos happening
and he tried to remedy the pre-horrors
of the finalized plans
frenzied at the piano
while two other SS men inquired
as to what (he) was playing...

Bach? no no... Mozart...

“was ist das, ist das Bach?”
“nein, das ist Mozart.”

English Suite No. 2 in A minor, BWV 807: III

yes, the latter... obviously...
the genesis of polyphony,
the signature is all there, intact with Bach
unlike anything Mozart could
have conjured...
in that if there is talk of "genius"
then there is also talk of methodology
a blindness of exacting
a profoundness of unhearing
and then not hearing
while at the same time being to play: a hearing
of the music...

i try to think that writing this would
be eased by listening to some music
but then with whiskey my mind unwinds
and three days have passed since
i slouched in my bed

today i realized the fundamental cruelty of
pleasures
or rather: the joy of reading
(fiction) unlike some philosophical demand
of reading then application
because i can't think of how reading
philosophy makes you apply it
like reading a manual with all the schematics
of say: putting up a DIY object
bought from the Swedes
packaged in cardboard
because by then you're no less LEGO
and Danish
and no carpenter in sight...

old Libra: write less than you read or just
about...
after all it feels less like smiling when one
is frowning
but more so when one is squirming
(but not ******* on a lemon)
       or some general distaste for humanity
whereby i'm just as much part of it
as much as a distance from it
a step behind or perhaps more a step aside...

so much of philosophy concerns itself
with: what is... philosophy...
in terms of a genre, a literary genre...

which brings me toward what emerged from
a pleasure of reading:
antithesis of music is equivalent to
the comfort of listening to a cat sleeping,
snoring...
or listening to a woman during *******
i don't think i can compensate that
with music...
i can: compensate music with music...
but i can't compensate the sound
of the elements: wind, earth, water with music...
music doesn't compensate the natural
order of things
and i can verily, now, understand:
the Taliban aversion to music...
before even the beauty of music can come
there is already an aversion to it
and just, justly so...

  music has becomes less elevating and more
grounding like a doubling on realism
that breeds contempt for transcendental
escapism of merely human talk...
i've had a roller coaster of the past two
days and i can attest
that a transcendental escapism based
upon merely human interaction of talk
exists...

on Saturday i changed shifts...
unable to do a Wembley shift (as a ******
supervisor, static,
with a cordon of stewards and security
officers
ensuring that no bags bigger than A4
reached the premises of the stadium
just tickled at the footprint of
the outer perimeter)...
instead was "demoted" to an security
officer role at the London Stadium for the MLB
event (Phillies vs. the Mets...
is that the equivalent of the Championship
vs the Premier League
given that the Yankees are a tier above
the Mets? anyways)

i had so much fun, pleasure, joy, life
being part of the team... searching bags
giving all the right lip service
and smiles and all the humanly adequate
body language of people feeling threatened
by any persuasion of authority:
to ensure their safety blah blah...
but it wasn't that...

on our break...
there were 4 of us...
basically me, Nur (Nur),
Richard, ..., ...,
it was me and 4 blacks guys
and however you want to disguise
or not the descriptive posits
of how each one of us looked...
no... i will not be a writer:
impatient man
this whiskey isn't helping
i can't write something transcendenal
although it was
i've already started unwinding with
the whiskey

the next day a spectacle of an argument
a waste of me writing this...
there should be restrictions on what
you can write...

no science fiction writer could have
predicted the smartphone...
outer-reaches of technological potentiality...
best keep Erasmus of Rotterdam
and Philip K. ****
and Stephen King and Alexander Dumas
out of it...
writing this will only give a % traction
of my availability to the letters
and there will still be the juggernaut of
ØX         ØX   XØ
         XØ      ØX ØX
ØX           XØ           ØX

****** keyboard... misjudged placing...
but summer is here
and my silent disco shift at Portsmouth
has been cancelled so
i don't have to worry about
getting enough sleep...

misguided though...
giving Paul Arteides all but one title...
Mehdi,
Kwisatz Haderach,
Muad'Dib... yes, yes... yes...

but not... Lisan al-Gaib...
that title should have been reserved for
his unborn sister!
the "outer world" is not the world of
Caladan "vs" Arrakis...
the "outer world" of: yet to be born...
or: unborn... regardless...

emotions created from insufferable
confrontation
with a Swiss entrepreneur...
allocating argument:
but we're going to the moon...
i say:
but you already scanned your ticket...
there's no reentry...
think about you buying a ticket
for a train at 12:10...
you think you can use the same
ticket for a 13:10 train
even though you stepped on the 12:10
train then decided to hop off
but the moon was boiling in
his mind
his logic his self-entitlement
of paying £200 for a ticket
gave him the authority to
call ask who i was...
who i was...
so much for what money doesn't
buy: integrity and character...
and integrity of character...

     bounced about the word
LOSER
when i finally replied to his: who are you?
POET...
oh... so that's a LOSER then...
well...
i should have played a joke on him
like:

Odysseus tells Polyphemus
that his name is Οὖτις:
    no one...

but how can i see this Americanized
version of life as
winning and losing
in life as transient when
he clearly only sees riding high
without seeing riding low
and in the end
the inevitable loss for everyone
via death and i'm sure
the minute he dies
memory of him will die too...

which brings me onto a new fascination
with... what became of

KUL TIGIN
then later the Runes
(i am so suspicious of the Gothic script
though... really ******* shady)

𒅗
'tooth' [zu], 'mouth'
[ka] and 'voice' [gu]

ズカグ          (respectively) = not mouth

but Kao (

顔                                            )

but you can see the complications
"transliterated" from
Assyrian Cuneiform to Chinese
and then somehow simplified
and untangled into Katakana...

ideograms are shortenings of
what Europeans could call
colors: in traffic code...
green is for go
amber is shortened to take caution
for getting ready or slowing down
while red is stop
because emoticons are not:
the same equivalence to the automatic
recognizable info
universal but more idiosyncratic
covert messaging...

        ******* Swiss *****...
well LOSER didn't really affect me
because i was just about to say...
so... you spent £200 to watch a game of baseball...
**** me...
it now just dawned on me...
but... i used to spend £130 on an hour
with a *******...
regardless of whether i ******* or not...
last time i remember i spent that same
amount of money on an inexperienced
20 year old who didn't know that
an uncircumcised **** needed temporary
peeling
to expose the hammer-head
and in the end she massaged me
a little then i massaged her entire
body
finding out she starred in some shady
**** flick in some dungeon
given that when i massaged her
*** and back of the legs
they were bruised from all the extra
***** and no ***** of ****...

so... this argument of the moon
and being "successful" just because
spending £200 on a baseball match...
******, please... i spend £130 on an hour
with a *******...
at least you're getting your money's worth...
yesterday i started my shift at 6am
finished at 6pm...
the game started at... **** know's
3pm? lasted for about 4 hours...
in that time i became a fan of cricket
and ushered in the sentiment of:
well: if anything...
Americans really know ******* of watching
sport...
in a fluid fashion...
from minute 0 to minute 90
with interludes for over-refereeing
with too much technology use...
it's still not going to beat a tennis match
with two players and a football team
of referees + the ball boys etc
Daan Sep 29
Leden, maten, zware zakken,
rollende ballen, dikke hakken,
tomatenplukkers, houtpakkers
en in-koeten-kakkers.

Ik moet jullie wat vertellen.
En terwijl mijn voeten schuiven,
doe ik het uit de doeken.

Ik zeg ik verdien wat ik krijg,
in plaats van andersom.

Wat heeft dat te betekenen?

Dat ik het vaak genoeg
zelf niet weet.

Waarom dan die fanfare?

Dat kan ik zelf niet verklaren.
Soms moeten het woord het voetenwerk doen.
En dan sta ik mijn mond vol tanden,
het haar in de handen
en het zand aan de lippen.

Man, dit gedicht, gooi het van de klippen.
Kunnen we deze gozer, aub, even skippen.
Wat een zeikstraal, wat een knul,
hij pist vast doorschijnend water,
zo flauw is zijn fletse kul.

Die valt niet meer op te knappen.
Dan maar naar de uiltjes.

— The End —