Writer of texts
This is not a poem.
I am not a poet.
This is not poetry.
Just a bit of text
with a bit of space
between some lines.
Because it looks like a poem
doesn’t mean it is a poem.
Let me put it like this:
why is it that every arsehole
can call himself a poet while
not everybody is allowed
to call himself a butcher,
a baker or a busdriver?
Flesh and Bone
It is the way it is.
Still, I think it’s amazing
that two buckets of flesh and bone
wrote music by Mozart,
painted van Gogh paintings,
de Kooning, Rembrandt,
invented telephones, radio’s,
airplanes, rockets and such.
Just think about it
when you walk past your local butchery.
Amen.
Winter
Where the eagle goes
with a piece of liver,
a heart, hands without
gestures, an eye and
no sadness in sight.
Just a thing
Here I sit,
with my grandfather’s legs.
He disappeared in the rain of time,
the minutes of his watch
ticking in my inner ear,
a candle for when it gets dark.
He really was one of us.
But now he is one of them,
horrors of the green, quiet,
nightingale cemeteries,
a child’s sole on someone’s
name, just a thing, not related.
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