It Is Written

All poems by: elclownito

TRANS SUBSTANTIATION

J Youssouf sees Abraham
smell of tar on wood
sickens

sweat on a woman's brow
Dali painting in black and white recedes
dying is a sinecure in Jerusalem

Untitled

from his tower
he gazes
through a tear

hordes across a plain
ash in his mouth

silver insects
attracted by goat cheese
orbit the Huntaway

the shepherd's head
in cloth
against the Son

KROM

In Curaçao the earth's rotation creates Divi
Trade Winds never bend

when the earth slows down
stops
and re-winds
Divi trees will straighten

'Alles sal reg kom',
wrote Van Brederode

'You speak Macamba'
mama says.

SOURCE

In Calgary, Canada

are coffee shops
suburbs, hotter than Hell's core
confessionals for semi-detached thinking

women, as sexy as a sweater
purchase Life,
shrink-wrapped

while men
banalise unseen parts

"suffering disconnects'
the sign wants to say

Nirvana,
only a bran muffin away

RED EARTH

Jakarta,
grandmother
calls it Batavia

five a.m.
when the sea
has Tanah Abang to herself
for a while

street cleaners
at their Sisyphean labour

at Li Min
people eat in silent dis-communion

transparent elves on stools
eat noodle soup
under torn parasols

their inequality suspended
an armistice
until their day starts

TEA
(Camellia Sinensis)

Caesars wife sips tea,
calls,
babu

Adinda straightens
away from the soil
her back aches
still
remembers Caesars lust

babu
she pretends to be deaf
Angat, babu
the tray
you lazy maid,
the tray

they show you no gratitude
steal you blind
________________________________________

I. SIX METRES BELOW SEA LEVEL

In Amsterdam, en route to Paris, I stop at a café on Rembrandts Plein.

I join Pascal at his table.
Over a glass of Absinthe we talk about what low altitude can do to a sound mind & ones sex drive.
He tells me Passion cannot be beautiful without excess.
One either loves too much, he slurs, or not enough.
Unsure what he means, I nod sagely.

why did you come here? You do not even speak my language.
I want to conform, he confesses;
what do you want from life?
To write at sea level, is my reply;
Writing is simply breathing through your fingers.

I close my eyes:

I see Marilyn,
one toe in the Pacific, uncertain if she will take the plunge.
A ship runs aground on the horizon.
She stands motionless in the breakwater,
chiselled in Bromide the very first swimsuit edition.

further down the beach, a vicar sticks his hands
through the clouds;
nothing up my sleeve, he promises,
no rabbits, no trix.

I. ZES METER BENEDEN AMSTERDAMS PEIL

Ik ben op weg naar Parijs en stop in een café op het Rembrandts Plein.

Ik zie Pascal en ga bij hem zitten. Hij drinkt Absinthe. We kletsen wat en filosoferen over het effect dat de luchtdruk heeft op je verstand en je sexleven.
Hij vertelt me dat je geen echte hartstocht kan voelen tenzij je tot het uiterste gaat.

Je bemint of teveel, beweert hij met dikke tong, of niet genoeg
Ik knikte en deed of ik het allemaal begreep.

Wat doe je hier eigenlijk?, wil ik weten
je spreekt niet eens mijn taal
Ik will erbij horen, bekent hij.
en jij, wat wil jij van het leven?
Ik wil op zeeniveau schrijven;
per slot is schrijven simpelweg ademhalen door je vingers.

Ik sluit mijn ogen en zie Marilyn
met een teen in de oceaan
niet zeker of ze het water in wil.
In de verte loopt een schip aan de grond
Marilyn staat roerloos in de branding
vereeuwigd in zilverbromide
de eerste Swimsuit Edition.
Verderop staat een dominee
hij laat zijn hand zien
niets in mijn mouwen
geen dubbele bodem

II. STILL RISING

The train cuts through the low country. Parallels race for the sky, compete for the horizon and converge. Electric dental work jumps from pole to pole. Rhythmic waves. The wheels of the train trip tetra-syllabically, without hope.

I watch the shallow ditches along the way, lined with dead frogs. Glaucomic water bursts from their bellies.

Ghandi sits across from me in the first-class compartment. He tells me he wishes to learn the alphabet in three weeks. He has run out of dictionaries, so I give him mine. He blesses me and asks what I wish.

On my way to his past, I tap on Cassells encyclopaedic edition on his lap. Dont get caught without a ticket I prophesy. I reach the end of the coach. Our final communication, as he sticks his head around the door and shouts:what are your plans for the future?

I turn: shorten eternity.

III. BLUE PORCELAIN

I arrive in Delft, in search for Vermeer
I enter a pet shop to ask directions and see Martin Luther in discussion with a turtle Would one consider it a sin to steal a bible? Luther wants to know, as it seems a theological contradiction

That depends on the edition, the turtle responds. Or could I think of it as two sins cancelling each other out? Luther offers, is praying for your enemys death the same as praying for your friends life?

The turtle retreats: Let God commit deicide and carry His own sins

Luther nods, sideways, like a donkey

IV. DUTCH COURAGE

I enter a strip club in The Hague
La bonne Française
in venomous neon

vacuous ninnies on lit walls
sodomised women
hang from stray dogs

I swim in sweet water that never cleanses
& drown
in a falling raindrop

Vision blurs

IV. HAAGSCHE BLUF

Ik loop een Haagsche nachtclub binnen
Het dienstertje
vermeldt het in gifgroen buizenlicht

op de muur de schaduwen van de diensterjes
die het moeten doen met zwerfhonden

"zoet water is voor drinken", denk ik nog
als ik in de regen verdrink

V. PAX AMERICANA

I arrive in Paris
At Apollinaires grave, I meet Noah who spends most of his holidays in Paris. His ark needs rest. He stays in the Rue Boursault (Paris Métro), off Avenue des Batignolles, in a little bed-and-breakfast run by a couple from Montréal.

Noah tells me he has taken up collecting sugar packets.
Lets hope they will not melt in the rain, I say, for rain will come, as you well know

Indeed, he asserts
I want to run through it and catch the last ray of light before it spills over the edge.