Starscrapers

There were no lanterns in this part of the city. It was new moon, only the stars provided some splintered light. A drum solo of bare feet on the cold slimy cobbles – there were no shoes in this part of the city either – echoed through this maze of narrow alleys, which officially bore the name Werheim-Koren. It was known to everyone however as Death Row. Once this part of Werheim had flourished, but those times were long gone and only a few decayed buildings remained to hint at its glorious past. It was hard to believe that the broad boulevards and the dazzling palaces of Werheim-Centre were only a few miles away. For a person to travel from one of these places to the other would be like travelling between worlds. While the vibrant streets with its famous and important people were the artery of an entire country, Werheim-Koren was waiting for her slow but inevitable death. It was a closed community controlled by the mob, extremely hard for an outsider to get in, impossible for anyone to get out… That is to say, alive.

‘We must get out!’ Faced to the brick wall of our two-chamber apartment I was talking more to myself than to my beloved Khader. She sat on a chair behind me, without looking I knew how here blond hair curled around her neck and shoulders. ‘There must be a way…’ I said as I turned around. Time hadn’t been kind upon on her; it hadn’t been kind on any of us poor rats. But in the failing light of our only candle, electricity had been shut off a long time ago, she looked even more weary than usual. Nothing in her eyes, I could see her resistance crumbling bit by bit, indicated she had a clue as to how or what. Her lips remained motionless, the room fell silent.

It was a cool October morning. I was standing on the corner where Briggestreet crossed Parklane, its ancient oaks as massive statues. With every sigh of wind more leafs began their journey downward. Fascinated I watched how they became acrobats for a brief period of time and performed the most nerve-racking tricks before they embraced the cold bare stones. I could think of more pleasant places to rest my final moments.
This show of nature helped me maintain my role as guileless passenger, who was pausing to enjoy this beautiful day and happened to bump into an old friend. I didn’t know what my old friend would look like this time, but I didnt have to because as always he would recognize my long blue trenchcoat.

The sealed package weighed uncomfortably in my pocket. No matter how many times I had done this and how many times I would do it again, I would never get fully used to it.

Glazgo-City

I am waiting on a corner
round which satan stalks
the weak and the weary
men without hope or gain

vicious voices that talk
despair and hate into
the lame so they'll turn
against their brothers

the city which waits for
her death a veil of light
covers her head the sky
has shed all of her tears

no more stars to guide me
through this sea of streets
where I'd let my mind wander
and lost it

I am waiting on a corner
till it comes back to me

Geen Titel

de nacht dwarrelt
in mijn ogen
wieg ik jou

een vleugel roert
de wind
tussen boomtoppen

zo drijf ik
door mijn raam
het donker vooruit
jouw licht achterna

Panorama

een huis ramen met een kleurtje
ramen met gaten erin ramen
die geen ramen meer zijn maar
glas dat traag vloeit
naar de kern van de aarde

[zoom in]

de trap op tweede deur rechts
een kamer bloemen op het behang
half vergaan een schaduwop het bed

[zoom in]

een vrouw met blonde haren
de kleuren van haar ogen
blijven vaag vanuit deze hoek

[zoom in]

een moedervlek boven het linkeroog
sproeten op haar neus
geelwit iets te grote voortanden

[zoom in]

de oneffenheden op haar bleke huid
wat puistjes en mee-eters
donshaartjes boven de lippen
die niet meer trillen

[panorama]

de nacht kleurt levenloos
zwartblauw als haar ogen
ergens wordt een kind geboren

[fade out]

haar naam heb ik nooit geweten

Geen Titel

de wijngaarden vervagen
in de late middagnevel
verwelkomen het duister
met een lichte buiging

de zon trekt zich terug
laat sporen achter in
modder voor verdwaalde
wandelaars en kinderen

Druk

Sorry.

Fragment

ik wil niet meer zigzaggen
door deze grauwe tarantula
van straten

de stad die zich gehuld
in neon prostitueert
aan de nacht

elders staan de bomen
op duiken twee ogen in
een dwarrelpoel

wij hebben geen weet
van elkaar