SUPERFICIAL SAFETY / TONE-APPROPRIATE *~FUN~*
28 portraits spiralling down,
I'm the last portrait standing
Injected memories, force-fed
Waiting further instructions.
Have an ambition, represent,
Make sense in pressure-cooker
Am I too salty? Bittersweet?
Tasteless? Tasteful? A Toaster?
Empathy's limited, homegrown
Why think if you don't have to?
I'll thus change tone & storyline
and hope this poem's half true:
/Tepee\ international finds a tribe
And tribes all bike together,
Under the quiet grey canal's
Water display weather
Library studying - coughing choir
Deadlines don't kill, just tire
To make new friends of great height
I gazed into night life
(And yes, they are directness-rife,
And yes, Nietzsche was right)
More A L C O H O L ! ! !
mY nAMe Is tHIs
mY coUNtRY's tHAt
And now you know my story
Let's mispronounce everything,
i tRIEd, YoU trIed, dOn'T WOrRy!
Ikea poetry could sell -
It would come with instructions!
For when thinking pays overtime
And poets have working hours:
-What does this mean?
-That's page 2 of the instruction manual.
-I see. The picture helps!
-We love a happy customer!
This business of interpreting
Could make us all a family
With only one big brother.
So, get what you will/
Nothing at all,
Poetry isn't science.
Writing in verse and making sense,
Now that's a strange alliance!
A shredded teddy bear I placed
Right by the open window
As flight or fall
(some guts, some gore)
Are always to be expected
When you outgrow,
and, worse, it, you
Your early dreams'protector,
A friend to squeeze, to hug, to love
Now object, then a mentor
Give me your shredded teddy bears
Give me endless potential
I know you're there,
I see you still,
A soft toy before chaos
And by the window
I fall or fly
Waiting for you to see me,
My guts all soft
As sun begins retreating
"Historian signs an NDA"
Enunciates the newscaster
As holding hands both dance with words,
Jumping higher and faster
After this latest incident,
Keyboards are catching fire
Thick is the plot, the future dark,
Elite nodding so dire!
Somebody save us all
- At least the ones befitting
But here I am, posing a threat (?)
In two, biracial, breathing
Double the test, double the doubt
And always found lacking,
I wonder about the saviour's gun
Which half will it send packing
Scary basement activity!
Player denial advised!
But when the nuke alarms went off,
How bright lights we despised
Squeezed in between monsters and spooks,
Breathing atop each other,
I tried my hardest not to break,
-or pierce, or crash, or smother-
Nightmarish infants, ghoulish kids,
All looked at me with eyes ablaze,
Crying and malintended
Awkwardness fell and great unease
Down in the basement kingdom
A conscious roommate of fears?!?
I never craved such wisdom!
Finally, a bony, shaking hand
Emerged in slow motion,
"Are you of the light, living above,
Reason, Freedom, Emotion?
Immediately I felt so relaxed,
Opened my arms, euphoric.
"Fear not, for I return to you,
A prophet, not a poet."
SUPER - VILLAIN ARC
Pulsating tender memory
Trickles through mask-cracks slowly
Rocking the growing edginess
I casque-peek something homely
Stinging unease subconsciously
Prickles the surface upwards
The worms presented to young birds
Become foul, writhing maggots
And doesn't light come from above?
Only, this time, there's nothing
Yet I unravel, tear my skin
For more "well-suited" clothing
To have release come gushing out
In chambers filled with objects
I'm made to march relentlessly
Among the happy subjects
And I have howled, will howl again
To stretch a sound-companion
To alleviate what now is me
In someone's twilight hour
Spoiler alert for truths:
Something's about to happen
Startled and Sketchy audiences
Seize & desist your clappin'
Stranded, the capsized ego's
S.O.S. praying to nothing
Sometimes it takes a single
To drop a stupid pattern
ODE TO THE UNSIGHTLY EGGPLANT*
How I lament the Odd one out -
Misshapen and Forlorn
Inelegantly hurled to Waste,
Doomed from the day 'twas Born!
Its ~rounder, shinier, prettier~ kin
Like marble busts admired!
Attracting Hands, offering Bites
To Supermarket Buyers.
Fashion Police of edibles
Uniqueness stomping Keenly!
When Veggies weird and funny Fruits
Are thrown away Routinely.
The Unconventional Plant Product,
A proper Nutrient Donor
Empathy trees drop fruits of Health
In every Shape and Colour
* In wealthy countries, fruit and veg. crop that doesn't meet retailer standards of size/shape/colour etc., is being thrown away despite multiple hunger crises globally and a heavy toll on the environment. It is estimated that by 2030, the amount of wasted food will reach 66 tonnes per second.
BIRDWATCHING FOR AMATEURS
We went birdwatching, you and I,
On the green flatness, north;
Seashells in mud, feathers on rock,
Breathing Aeolus against Noordzee flurries...
February heat migrated South
(and birds must know, by word of mouth)
But you and I,
Sneeze out of place -
Earth magi after a celestial trace
And maybe birds are watching us
Through reed, rent brakes, and seaweed grass...
What I can give,
I'll give to you
Since scripta manent,
I will, too.
CALL ME WHATEVER
Trapped inside rhyming sounds
A shy awareness squirming,
Longing to burrow away from all,
From well-defined meaning
The worm-like creature I use, to fish
Gill-flappin', loose suspicions,
My boat in the collective soup,
Now oared by vague ambitions
If I reach land, what do I do?
Start hunting different prey?
Forget old ways and change the bait
New fears, new me; Birthday!
But just before I step ashore
And dumbly start exploring,
A blowhole on a white head
Whistles that settling's boring
At this point, an epiphany!
I'd rather drown while risking
Than waste my mortal time supplies
Anchors aweigh & Batten down!
Tonight there'll be a party,
Poseidon's toes look ticklish...
Sea-me? Suddenly naughty...
Haruki Murakami and the Concept of Dreamlike Reality
How many moons are there in the sky?
In the book ichi-Q-hachi-yon (1Q84), Murakami creates a scene that, to me, sums up the essence of his magical realism; one of the characters, Aomame, has slipped into a parallel world which is similar, yet slightly different to ours. One of the most notable differences, is that there are now two moons in the sky. As Aomame speaks with another character on the phone, she casually asks towards the end of the conversation "have you looked at tsuki lately?". "Tsuki" means moon in Japanese and the word has no distinction between the singular and the plural form. Aomame is trying to ask how many moons the other character sees, without being too obvious about it, as, I imagine, most of us would do under such circumstances. In this scene, we therefore see a character who very realistically tries to explore the new, magical circumstances she is in. As a matter of fact, I am willing to bet that the book's translator in English had to explore some new circumstances as well, because in English, there is of course a distinction between "moon" and "moons". So, imagine this scenario: you now see two moons in the sky. The world you have accidentally entered is a parallel reality with minor differences to our world, but the two moons are a new truth, a new fact that is somewhat comforting in its consistency. Yet, you still wonder: do other people see this and if so, how do they experience it? And, of course, if you are Murakami's translator, you also have to figure out a way to ask the question without making reference to a singular or plural "moon".
We all interpret and, as such, constantly construct the reality surrounding us based on our own, deeply personal experiences. We all know that things are a certain way, that they can be a certain way, and that, in any case, they ought to be a certain way. Whether we see one or two moons in the sky, this is an unchallenged reality to us because we are the unquestionably subjective protagonists of our lives. Perhaps here lies the key to understanding the allure of Murakami's main characters: the "Murakami man", the typical protagonist in Murakami novels, is someone who goes with the flow, in a characteristically non-judgemental way. One, two, or a thousand moons in the sky, can become a character's new reality, without said character suffering the kind of breakdown that most of us would, I imagine, if our perception of the way things are, was challenged so fundamentally. As a result, the Murakami man manages to transcend an out-of-sync, dull existence in the "normal"world and enter a surreal, dreamlike reality without experiencing the type of existential dread that Western audiences are accustomed to through the works of writers such as Poe, Kafka or Lovecraft, to name but a few.
As far as questions of national-cultural authenticity go, Murakami has been criticised for writing in a non-Japanese style, however, I think that more than just establishing whether his writing is 60% Western and 40% Japanese for example, his narrative style can be decoded using musical rather than cultural elements. Indeed Murakami's storytelling style shows a musical understanding of harmony and improvisation; his characters do not violently react to the unconventional, but show an easy-going adjustability that sets the tone for the entirety of his oeuvre. Readers alike, tend to accept the writer's magical realism without questioning it; they are sympathetic to characters who seem more like observers of, rather than participants in, their own lives. In other words, Murakami readers turn into a Murakami audience because they experience his stories in a way similar to the way one listens to a new musical composition without prejudice.
We perceive music with our sense and our emotions. We make it the soundtrack of certain instances or periods in our lives, without judging the the music itself. Perhaps the countless musical references in Murakami's works serve as the magical medium through which the seemingly impossible is achieved: for as long as a Murakami story lasts, the readers forget about their subjective preconceptions and feel the narrative's dreamlike surrealism, with the same ease and curiosity they would first hear a strange, yet somehow reassuring, musical piece.
ACCOMPLISHMENTS & MUSINGS
I met a noisician -
Down by the music hall
She said "I have... accomplishments
In every funky bar!"
I contemplated suicide
For the tenth time that day,
At least, I mean, the faking it,
As nice, along I played
What does "accomplishments" entail?
Rodin vibes emulating,
I asked myself
Sipping my drink,
For live music waiting
But music never came that night
And no one else did either,
Got stuck with noise, noise MORE NOISE
From the accomplished breather
Well, maybe, one could theorize,
This ain't about music
For one of the "accomplishments" 's
My favourite source of musings.
STORY OF A SAD CAT
Tetris blocks pouring down -
Holding everything back -
In bloated silence.
"Who took the exit sign?", asked the cat.
As she heard rodents giggling in defiance.
Ten little mice sat drinking wine
One drank too much - and there were nine.
Nine little mice wanted to mate
One wrecked a home - and there were eight.
Eight little mice thought it'd be fun
To upset the cat - so now there's none.
The cat's still sad,
The mice are gone;
She is well-fed,
But misses home.
PLANET 2 - D
Mostly it rains but never pours -
Solar 50% of panel output
The food simply is "edible"
And those "in love" walk barefoot.
Inhabitants don't fall asleep,
Animals skip the hallway -
They hop straight into boudoirs
Sharpening knives as foreplay.
An astro-traveller like you
Happened across this plane,
Where amateurish, uninspired
I drag my feet in pain.
Hounded by lack of metaphors
And pointy half-wit statements,
I cry bitterly, cry loud,
Under puppet surveillance.
3-D dimension how to achieve
When paper's flat like writing?
Crumble this page then,
(Give it shape)
😉 Make reading this, exciting!
And, maybe, we'll both leave this place
Having incited something
That dream you dare not put in words
Because 2-D keeps judging
HAIR - FIRE!
Cause every time I'm standing still,
The primal metal's ringing
It barges in,
You're being washed out -
A mute, a drunk, a coward.
How nicely you were spurted out
Without a squeak
You're n o t h i n g .
Since when does nothing
Speak or stare
You're quantified, materialized,
But brightness is MY power
Cause, after all, during that night,
I truly was on fire!
Love is like the Moon.
It tastes like Cheese - yes,
It also has a dark side.
Fixed, unexplored -
For everything that isn't what it should have been
For every anxious part meant never to be seen
The d'Arc side in me
escaped the horrid love
(the unspoken, same as the one we accept, yet
dark, annihilating, dogmatique: warlike)
A love as hateful as the normal dose of hatred
helped me grow.
When I was asked to love, I did so
Because with it
The deepest, stinking, painful pus
flowed mixed with blood.
I wanted to expa--nd
but lost my antennae like a dead cockroach//
Exam material in apathetic eyes,
not apathetic pages!
I planted a pine tree when I was six
to grow together
but we're only growing deader now
of a mysterious itch
I, too, a Déception!
Gathered all pieces of a broken punch
though I clearly said I didn't care
and packed my things for Groningen
to go and get a cure.