De lente is er weer

De stralende zon duldt geen lelijkheid:
hij glinstert op zwevende spinnenrag,
maar hij laat mijn stoffige ramen zich schamen.

Als een ongeduldige minnares,
maakt de lente haar entree
met oogverblindende schoonheid

Alle donkere hoeken
die maanden in verlegenheid rustten
worden genadeloos bloot gesteld

Sell our soles

Selling souls and gathering cheap bread
to feed the hungry mortals
lying at the bottom of a disturbed sea
and tossing wheat into a garden of tranquillity.
Fire consumes my loins
and the lion demands a toll
of three score and forty-seven;
will he ever get paid?
The challenge of finding a good job
holding down premises of my own
and sharing six square feet
with a less than total stranger
not feeling the danger
of sinking into the quicksand
of mundane experience
seeking out new and interesting ways
to waste the same time
to sing and dance
and fart in public.

My idol

My idol is a bright blue cone of slime
riding the destiny of a small girl's soup
and trooping the colour in a London Parade
gay as a marshmallow
and shallow as the dust on unwashed underpants.
Scantily clad,
although mad as an eagle
taking flight from the supermarket
on Sunday afternoon,
making old ladies swoon
and falter
as they adjust their halter neck turtles
and squirting ooze
into a fury
and waiting for the jury
to reach its verdict
over mis-fitting light bulbs
and tonnes of butter
in a greasy whorehouse
with mousy inhabitants
throwing small tittering glances
at the outside of the rundown mad-house
and down-at-heel puddings for naughty strangers
putting your life in danger
by taking a force-fed morsel
from the spring of eternal strife.

Do the shuffle

The waiting is over…

For the first (and probably last) time ever, I am the proud owner of a trendy gadget, namely the iPod Shuffle I won in the haiku competition. Actually, although it is a very funky bit of kit, I am not sure I would have bought one for myself, but then again, I am a self-confessed cheapskate. The controls are easy to understand and the feel of the whole thing gives credit to the obvious care that has gone into its design and production, but at the end of the day, it's just an MP3 player (ok and an AAC player and just about all the other audio formats you can mention). The price tag is purely a reflection of what a fashion icon Apple has become. There are a lot of nice players out there for a lot less money. That said, l still sold my old one and kept the iPod.
What a hypocrite!

The only down side of the whole thing is that the haiku competition was the swan song of the irrepressible rummaging blog. The author bowed out on a high citing the multitude of copy-blogs as the reason for quitting. The good news is that the author of rummaging is carrying on with his own personal blog, am.blogs.com. Happy reading and good luck with your new blog Andy (and thanks for the iPod by the way).

Night-time

Night-time,
sitting on my night-line,
night-shirt
sweating with the exertion
of brushing mouldy teeth
glistening in glasses
and trashy novels
lying beside my bed.
With dead hamsters
and gerbils
going around in the gutter
and I utter an obscene cry,
"Why do I have to be a nutter?


Shut away from the un-seen, unclean world
and the sordid ice-creams
served in laboratories
where frontal lobotomies
are performed on unsuspecting coelacanths."

Back to my smelly pants
and the stink from my socks
which would destroy a tenement block
and could get me sanctioned by the UN
for being a potential weapon of mass affectation.
That's the problem with synthetic fibres
and the vibrations of a whole day's loafing.

Tree-time

I avoid myself
do something else
other than face the truth
that there is no reason
for my existence.
This bundle of nerves
and cells and the molecules
that make up my thoughts.
My consciousness cannot be explained
nor understood
not even, or especially, by me:
I could just as well be a tree!

How will I die

Now this is what I call wasting time. Try this quiz and find out the manner in which you are most likely to meet your end. Apparently I will end up just getting lost and disappearing into thin air....

Enlightened one

Oh how the enlightenment
pours from your lips
and drips like honey from your tongue.
Burns my brain
causing incessant pain
to my already bruised pride
leaving nowhere to hide,
from the words that whip me
and wake me from a delicate slumber
comfortable in the lazy passing
of yet another year.
The feeling of impotence
at having to really decide for myself
to move into action
daring to express
the difference between you and I.
Caring enough to risk losing
the drug that I have become addicted to
the lie that feeds my mind
with feelings of its own importance.
Acceptance of dependence,
reluctance to freedom
and the realisation that I am alone.

My sperm

Wriggling, jiggling and maybe giggling
squirming their way to the destination
on their way
to try and change my life
by making a new one
in the belly of the woman I adore
who loves me even though I snore
and sometimes tell boring stories to.

Cigarettes

I seek solace in the ashes of burning leaves
that sink to the bottom of a clay crucible
and the searing fog
that covers my lungs
supressing my emotions
numbing my soul
and destroying my body
and killing me surely
with every inhalation of my life sustaining breath
hastening death
and rendering me unconscious.

Curiosity killed the cat

Curious curiosity
peeking where I shouldn't be
seeing words written to another
listening to the message from your secret lover
and breaking into your e-mail
reading your letters
following the trail
you've left to your secret self

Stepping into nothing

Sitting in the box looking out
at the great expanse of sky
shuffling to the edge
staring into the face
stepping out into nothing
falling blissfully to earth
feeling the wind
and the pull of the ground
innocent in its attraction
that draws me to my death
and suddenly I stop!
Pulled up by strings
floating in this other world
above the ordinary
I see everything transformed:
the peaceful farms,
the trees and the roads
cutting through at regular intervals.
I sail through the silence
I am walking with birds
my wing overhead
letting me down gently
to a place from which I am bound
never to escape
knowing that this is a temporary state.
Flightlessness
and the perspective of the lowly
when compared with the thrill of falling
and the peace of floating
are as far apart as man
and the moon.

My parents

Who were my parents when they were young?
Were they consumed by the same passions,
the same horniness,
the same pleasure?
Did they treasure
each others bodies?
Do they still
lie next to each other and touch
in a way that they did
on the night I was conceived?
Who would believe
that they were ever in love
and couldn't get enough
of each other;
that they were lovers?
And before they came just another
mum and dad
they were really quite bad
and scantily clad!!

Growing up

I dream of a time gone by
when simpler things occupied my mind
and innocence was a word
I had yet to hear
or realise I could lose.
Growing up so slowly
dwarfed among the giants of my peers
at the same time looking up to
and down upon them all:
for making me small
and defenceless
and scared.

When a man cries

When a man cries
there is only one reason
a woman
and treason.
The king is dead
long live the king,
is the one sure thing
to make a man cry.

ssssssss

Forget what you know
and go with the instinct
that tells you to leave everything
and do something crazy
to make you feel alive
shopping, shagging, sipping silently
sighing sheepishly singing
softly sitting supine
surprising strong sun sea sex sand strawberries
syrup stirrup stable straw
struggle stick stink shock.

Early evening

I sit and watch
sun in my face and on the water below
a gentle breeze touches my arms
softly caressing the hairs
taking away the warmth of the early evening
and making it bearable.
A man walks along the street
and I say hello as he passes
the balcony where I sit,
too lazy to attend to my chores
feeling the rightness with the world
smelling other people's cooking
I feast on the aroma
of food I cannot rouse myself to make
Someone plays a guitar
and I sit and watch and wait.

Praying

What are we saying
when we are praying?
And to whom?
Who hears our desperate plea for help,
the pitying of the self
and the anguish of denial,
the right to a fair trial?
Who never receives a smile,
unless the last bus has been caught,
or the mobile phone has been found,
the winning goal scored
and you're saved from being bored?

Girl on the train

This girl is looking at me
with her brown eyes
and her boyfriend
trying to feel her breast
under the jumper he has wrapped around her.
And it excites me
because she is pretty
even though irritated.
She reminds me of someone,
the shape of her mouth
and the way it falls in her face
when relaxed.
Her hair is tied up
and is naturally blond
and I imagine how it looks
when she lets it down.

A watch

It's five minutes fast
but it was built to last
longer than ten years.
It has seen tears
and had its fair share of beers
spilled over it
and the gin and tonic
that I drank at a wedding
and saw me bedding
the bridesmaid of my dreams
or was it in them?
I don't remember.
Then in December
and October
turning the dates over
or forgetting
and rather than being ahead
I find I'm behind
but it's all relative
a yardstick by which I live
hurrying from where I was
to where I am going to be
and the waste of time in between.
I could do something useful,
sharpen a pencil
or wipe your nose
or clean the fluff from between your toes.
But not in the train,
nor in the park;
it's not allowed 'til it's dark.