Ik wacht op iemand.
In het bushokje terwijl de regen zachtjes tikt. De maan jaagt de zon weg. En in de stilte van de nacht vouw ik mijn vleugels op.
De vlinder denkt eenzaam terug aan de rups.
En de rups eenzaam naar de cocon.
Ik wacht op iemand. In het bushokje terwijl de wind jouw naam fluit.
Frogs and flowers don’t dream of the moon
Frogs and flowers don’t dream of the moon
Or of men on Mars
They move sadly in too deep and over too soon
And men succumb to the sad sorry lives of stars.
Come as an angel
Come as an angel
Or as a thief in the night
I am ready.
99 Names
The softness of your name on my lips. It floats like a speck of powdered morning snow.
Until queendom come
They’ve closed the pawn shop and the mall arcade.
They’ve burned the church and the ferris wheel.
But I will not say, the lord is my shepherd.
And I will not ask, am I my brother’s keeper.
I will sit here and wait, for you to come back. Until the angels bow to you. Until queendom come.
I can’t make mountains move, not even when I ask them nicely.
Today I learned that I can’t make mountains move, not even when I ask nicely.
I can’t command the sun to shine, because I want a tan, or compel stars to collapse because I want another thousand years.
I cannot turn to water and ask my friends to bottle me up and put me in the back of the fridge, hoping that you might turn up thirsty on a hot summer day.
It just doesn’t work that way. If I could I would’ve.
I dreamt that I was old
I’ve outgrown my youth. There are new lines underneath my eyes, maps of an ordinary life worth living. Now the moon wanes into a slice of silver. Now I’m throwing rocks into the pond, wrinkling water stretching far and wide. I dream that I am old, sliced and wrinkled with age, and I am happy.
Sometimes I stray and drink of you
Sometimes I stray and think of you
I’m in the garden, offering you plums and roses
Sometimes I stray and drink of you
I’m in the pub, offering you rums and proses
Tetris (II)
And still I send you roses from Damascus and chocolates from Paris
Like a sparrow in love with a hurricane
Like an addict playing Tetris with cracked dreams
Telephone Booth
I heard they built a telephone booth
at the local train station, with the wires cut
I might turn up, calling your name
twenty again, and drinking with ghosts
A Blog to Regret 