Joop Bersee, 16 sierpnia 2012
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.
Joop Bersee, 16 sierpnia 2012
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?
Joop Bersee, 16 sierpnia 2012
They tied her up and
Dumped her in a dungeon,
Letting the hungry axe wait
Too long with its bloody tongue.
Its walls were dead, blindfolded,
Open and shut, no space for pink.
Pluck the day before you turn to stone
And bitter nuts dry on your tongue,
Awake between the crutches of
The stairs to the block, the red road,
Bulging red, like genitals, lips shiny,
A curse made in a factory of flesh.
Pluck the day, the green and blue smoke.
A sigh would rise up, keeping you alive,
Somehow
By some.
A few.
Few.
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