MOTHER OF ALL GODS
Tomorrow in Jerusalem! Insha’Allah! Maybe there is a purpose to all.
We’ll meet in Sueño when the bay dries up. It’s killing time, angel dust sentiment. Backtrack, backlog. Fences thrown overboard. Listening to the truth of others and making it the own. Ego building, fucking over the rest. Stone cold execution, doing nobody no good. A place to meet old friends. A graveyard loved by everybody. Take hostages whenever you can, brutalize. Deliver me a hijack, cheered by, applauded by world class hypocrisy. My heaven, my turf, my homeland.
Have you ever been surrounded by moral deafness, media segregation and lowlife supremacy? Hurricane blues out of your ears. Stranded poetry, drowned poetry. Rotten eggs mixed within. I loathe, I despise. I long for jazz up in the attic, the hangman’s beam to suffocate. A steel face crushed and expired. Try that once in a while!
It’s D-Day terror and colonial warfare. Mutual captivity. A barrage of multitudes in unison. Air raids on gutter wings bringing cultivated murder. It’s all a desperate art attempt. Because greatness can’t be measured, and greatness does never prevail. The voice of freedom, well not mine. I don’t hope so and I sure don’t fucking approve. Take me, take me, take me!
07.21.10MA BU
Adagio. Well informed, holding no clue. There’s intellect missing. They sing a lot but miss the point. A furnished pedestal with clipped wings. What’s freedom without the drive to take any chances? This old man travels. Travels deep, far and off the cliff sometimes. I’m not looking for gain in their sense. It’s denigrating.
Fireworks and floppy disks. Pissing in your pants. Pissing in the fridge drunk not being able to find the bathroom. A morning hard-on filled to the edge. Bladder loaded. Out of order for ejaculation. Pointing it downward with force and aiming it very uncomfortably into the pot. An awkward bend over position. Having the control and restrain to stop in the middle before turning soft. An art in itself. Piss tube painting.
No more stories. No, no more stories. Not even news. Green custom skirts with slender tan legs. Pretty ladies wearing pretty smiles. Details, the details. Reality is made out of details that are more important than the overall picture. To see these buildings erupt and construct. Death toll, death toll. The freeway ain’t free, it’s a fucking lie.
07.12.10SOUTH POLE RISE
To arouse this resenting body into state of the art mayhem, thunderstorm and arctic freeze. A hunt for pain in the flesh, shock therapy and ice age written in red. I’m all out of poetry. It bores the shit out of me. I prefer decapitating my fingers by digging waterholes underneath northern glaciers, performing my nihilistic skills.
Dignity. Yes. Where is it? No, not honor. Just straight down to earth, basic dignity. I’ll have breakfast with enemies tomorrow you know, pretending to have a stone washed brain. Sanctified, petrified for a deal. In a nice suit and an impeccable posture. A natural fraud from the heart. Entertaining.
I’m carnage inspired and having a guillotine cold. Body temperature. It’s hard keeping pace, especially when not getting any and the fan club’s only pushing. Tenants, rushers and takers, wrecking my nerves, disturbing my flow. Get a fucking life. Leave me the fuck alone. My mind should shut up also.
From a small airplane window I view ice shelves floating, melting. Moles doing their job. A glacier’s halo rises to 30.000 feet. I’m tired, I believe it all. There’s stratosphere concrete. No more going in, no more going out. I turn my head to the side and close my eyes. I descend into this comfortable velvet mode carrying me away, and start to think of only one thing: Miss Universe blow me, down the hatch. Stimulate my pulse, throbbing. Take me down South.
06.21.09WU-STYLE
She called me papi, got me all weak. Well, not all of me. Prado* honeymoon. Supposed serenity between worn out lions, left and right. Column structures, the Autonomic Nervous System. One dragging me down, the other lifting me up. And all at the same time. Can you imagine the tension?
I saw myself running through the narrow streets of old Havana, following two companions with in the distance this three-masted clipper. It was hot and about noon, cutting the cobbles in half with a straight shade. We’re doing corners, one after another. Something big is going on. I see this woman on my left standing in the doorway. Apron and head bandana. It must be about one hundred and fifty years ago.
We stop abruptly in a dim sealed room. It smells secretive. The place is filled with colored and black males, at least fifty. Shirtless or in rags, sweaty. Some are barefooted and we all have machetes or knives in our hands. There’s a person on my left, standing a bit forward from the crowd but not looking any different. Then this tall black guy enters, excited but very cautious. He looks at the one on my left and stands firm in the middle. Trouble. I’m not sure I’m confident enough to be in a fight like this. And just as I’m about to act, Billy, whom I know now and whom I was running with, gestures me to be still by slightly touching my hand.
So I snap out, and the next day a friend drops me off late at night. I tell him the story before getting out of the car. And then it hits me. Why nobody had looked at me, as if I didn’t fit in. I had seen it through my own eyes and not projected as a film. I wasn’t white.
* Prado – boulevard in central Havana.
Excerpt from Indigo Blue and Red Impact, self-published 2007. Order by clicking on link.
03.10.09POLICE PROVOCATION
“Police provocation!”* He yelled it at the top of his lungs into the mike. It was the name of their song. And just when they kicked in, he rushed off stage towards the two cops standing in the doorway that nobody had noticed, as everyone was fixed on the band. All hell broke loose. He didn’t even think. He just followed his gut feeling and threw them out at once. Everybody rushed after them outside.
The youth center* had been occupied for some days to make a statement to the council, and they had put up a benefit with some bands, including mine.* Of course we agreed to play. We even brought the PA with us. Well, they were the first band on the list and it seemed that everything was over quickly now. It was a perfect set up. Around the corner a couple of police trucks were waiting, fully packed in riot gear and they even had brought some dogs. I wondered how the selection of the two cops that showed up inside had come about. Did they volunteer? They must have known that this kind of reaction, as they had hoped, was coming their way.
So all of a sudden the parking lot in front was swarmed with cops, dogs, people fighting them off, and there was only one way out, which was blocked by their trucks. A friend of mine got bitten in the arm. I pulled another one away who was about to get it. I just looked at all this going on, but really did not understand the uncontrolled rage that would only be smothered in defeat against this well prepared majority. There’s only so little you can do in a t-shirt with bare hands, fighting trained dogs and the riot squad. I always had hated wasted energy. Things should be more effectively and properly put to get it really going. Adjusting to circumstances, insight, more discipline. The lack of it always bled to death a lot of movements. Hit and run is what I preferred. After all, you’re fighting the state’s monopoly on violence. And furthermore, this was a scene that had its problems with alcohol and drugs, that always do more damage than people will acknowledge. But we got caught off guard here. Nobody had expected it, yet.
After they had control of the situation and had arrested a few, they let go of the rest. Some had gotten away climbing the fence in the back. The place was cleaned out now. End of occupation. But in the middle of the night, standing out on the street with all the gear still inside and the van in the parking lot, which all had been rented for one day, there was nowhere to go. We had to get it back. Cops didn’t want to hear about it first. No go. So Matt went back and forth to talk to the officer in charge, while we went from nearby bars to phone booths and finally back to the center. Most of the crowd had dispersed and taken off into the night.
Negotiating away after several hours, we got the go-ahead to get in once again and take our stuff. Everything was calm. We hauled everything into the van, and took off to the hospital for the dog bite that still had to be treated. He got lucky for not being arrested. We parked in front of the hospital. Some went in to get coffee. I stayed in the van, taking some rest and talking to the driver, analyzing what had happened. Most guys were years older than me, so I always listened carefully to what they had to say. They’d been through these situations several times and even worse and more dangerous ones, so it was always good to learn when winding up in a similar one to come.
So there was no money, a bummer evening and an early morning get back. The equipment had to be returned first before taking off towards home. Everybody disliked that. But the view of almost and always empty streets made up for it a lot. I liked that. These were nights, especially in the weekends, when I would come home around the back, my dad drinking his coffee and eating a sandwich in the kitchen, sometimes getting ready for work. We just had a few words, and up the stairs I went to sleep it off until way in the afternoon, not telling my mom later about what had happened of course. “Just a regular night with the band mom, that’s all.”
Police provocation - song by Neuroot, Dutch punk band.
The youth center - Doornroosje in Nijmegen.
Mine - Pandemonium, Dutch punk band.
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