Poem
Micha Hamel
DARK MATTER
No desire to versify my todger. Listen up: in my opinionit is loathsome that you make me aware that all my blood
is in circulation. Furthermore, I consider it a setback to put
it into writing to tell you this. All in all, it’s cowardly,
but hey: everyone around me’s cowardly, sneaky, expedient and
small-minded. So, am I wrongly playing the fearless milksop?
For in the same way that reality-tv and immersive theatre exist,
so does confessional poetry, a latex allergy, scurvy and dark matter.
You don’t need an expert eye to stare past all those with a death-wish
to the bare causality principle and then keep believing someone
will restore your system to the factory settings – someone who says:
have your vocal pouch amputated and give us some functional nudity
instead of messages written with the smoke of your double-decker.
No-one at all would have their heart crushed by a postcard-only friend,
as life is just too fab, the together too creepy, the muddle too great, and the
crowd too scared. Oh by the way, 079 87654321 is not my number actually.
And out of shame for all that this implies an uninhabited isle with a single
coconut-bearing palm-tree in the middle is where I want to be left behind.
Including stubbly beard. And in torn clothes. While sitting in white sand
I then have time to let a meditation steam upward from my pate, one
to topple the first-person singular’s reign of terror, so from that moment on
only virtuously polished thoughts well up from me that form
a magnificent bouquet together. Pfff. I contemplate the events
in the subplot and conclude: I want a search engine to search for me.
And a
find engine
that
continuously
finds me.
© Translation: 2013, Willem Groenewegen
DONKERE MATERIE
DONKERE MATERIE
Geen lust om over mijn snikkel te dichten. Luister eens: ik vind hetafschuwelijk dat jij mij doet voelen dat ik al mijn doorbloedingen
nog heb. Bovendien beschouw ik het als een nederlaag dat ik er een
geschrift voor gebruik om jou dit te zeggen. Welbeschouwd is het laf,
maar ja: iedereen om mij heen is laf, achterbaks, opportunistisch én
kleinburgerlijk. Speel ik dan misplaatst de onverschrokken braverik?
Want zoals er emotietelevisie en ervaringstheater bestaat, zo bestaat
er ook bekentenispoëzie, latexallergie, scheurbuik en donkere materie.
Je hebt geen kennersoog nodig om voorbij alle doodsdrift naar het naakte
causaliteitsbeginsel te staren en dan te blijven geloven dat er iemand komt
die jouw instellingen terugzet in de fabrieksstand – iemand die zegt: laat
je kwaakblaas amputeren en kom eens met wat functioneel naakt in plaats
van met met de rookpluim van je tweedekker geschreven boodschappen.
Echt niemand laat zijn hart in het stof trappen door een kerstkaartrelatie,
daarvoor is het leven te leuk, het samen te eng, de warboel te groot, en de
menigte te bang. O trouwens, 06-98765432 is helemaal mijn nummer niet.
En uit schaamte voor alles wat dit impliceert wil ik op een onbewoond eiland
met precies in het midden één kokosnootdragende palm worden achtergelaten.
Inclusief stoppelbaard. En in gescheurde kleren. Zittend in het blanke zand
heb ik dan tijd om een meditatie uit mijn kruin omhoog te laten dampen, eentje
die het schrikbewind van de ikvorm ontwricht, opdat er vanaf dat moment
slechts deugdzaam gepolitoerde gedachten uit mij ontspringen die tezamen
een magnifiek bouquet vormen. Pfff. Ik overpeins de gebeurtenissen
in het steunplot en concludeer: ik wil een zoekmachine die mij zoekt.
En een
vindmachine
die
mij
onafgebroken
vindt.
© 2013, Micha Hamel
From: Bewegend doel
Publisher: Augustus, Amsterdam
From: Bewegend doel
Publisher: Augustus, Amsterdam
Poems
Poems of Micha Hamel
Close
DARK MATTER
No desire to versify my todger. Listen up: in my opinionit is loathsome that you make me aware that all my blood
is in circulation. Furthermore, I consider it a setback to put
it into writing to tell you this. All in all, it’s cowardly,
but hey: everyone around me’s cowardly, sneaky, expedient and
small-minded. So, am I wrongly playing the fearless milksop?
For in the same way that reality-tv and immersive theatre exist,
so does confessional poetry, a latex allergy, scurvy and dark matter.
You don’t need an expert eye to stare past all those with a death-wish
to the bare causality principle and then keep believing someone
will restore your system to the factory settings – someone who says:
have your vocal pouch amputated and give us some functional nudity
instead of messages written with the smoke of your double-decker.
No-one at all would have their heart crushed by a postcard-only friend,
as life is just too fab, the together too creepy, the muddle too great, and the
crowd too scared. Oh by the way, 079 87654321 is not my number actually.
And out of shame for all that this implies an uninhabited isle with a single
coconut-bearing palm-tree in the middle is where I want to be left behind.
Including stubbly beard. And in torn clothes. While sitting in white sand
I then have time to let a meditation steam upward from my pate, one
to topple the first-person singular’s reign of terror, so from that moment on
only virtuously polished thoughts well up from me that form
a magnificent bouquet together. Pfff. I contemplate the events
in the subplot and conclude: I want a search engine to search for me.
And a
find engine
that
continuously
finds me.
© 2013, Willem Groenewegen
From: Bewegend doel
From: Bewegend doel
DARK MATTER
No desire to versify my todger. Listen up: in my opinionit is loathsome that you make me aware that all my blood
is in circulation. Furthermore, I consider it a setback to put
it into writing to tell you this. All in all, it’s cowardly,
but hey: everyone around me’s cowardly, sneaky, expedient and
small-minded. So, am I wrongly playing the fearless milksop?
For in the same way that reality-tv and immersive theatre exist,
so does confessional poetry, a latex allergy, scurvy and dark matter.
You don’t need an expert eye to stare past all those with a death-wish
to the bare causality principle and then keep believing someone
will restore your system to the factory settings – someone who says:
have your vocal pouch amputated and give us some functional nudity
instead of messages written with the smoke of your double-decker.
No-one at all would have their heart crushed by a postcard-only friend,
as life is just too fab, the together too creepy, the muddle too great, and the
crowd too scared. Oh by the way, 079 87654321 is not my number actually.
And out of shame for all that this implies an uninhabited isle with a single
coconut-bearing palm-tree in the middle is where I want to be left behind.
Including stubbly beard. And in torn clothes. While sitting in white sand
I then have time to let a meditation steam upward from my pate, one
to topple the first-person singular’s reign of terror, so from that moment on
only virtuously polished thoughts well up from me that form
a magnificent bouquet together. Pfff. I contemplate the events
in the subplot and conclude: I want a search engine to search for me.
And a
find engine
that
continuously
finds me.
© 2013, Willem Groenewegen
Sponsors
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère