Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Maarten van der Graaff

SIXTH CLOCKED POEM, IN WHICH AN ACTION PLAN IS DRAFTED

23:09               
Let’s clear this up
like a murder case.
I want some rhythms.
Gin & tonic, substances, rhythms.
 
23:11              
Gin & tonic.
Gin & tonic.
Gin gin & tonic.
Cat the Night Huntress and I
both like a gin & tonic.
I think of drink,
meditate on drink.
I like a glass of hard liquor
when I get home from work.
 
23:15              
The dark repetition of the skies
predestined, even before time,
to hang above my activity!
 
One clear morning I cycle into an ice-hole
looking for solidarity with the frosted bodies.
 
23:20              
I’m learning profit
by jumping to black
below your hands.
Nobody spits on Ricardo Domeneck.
I want to spit on his hairdo, in his
face that is the face of truth.
I want to taste and survive him.
While drinking from the wine
at his apartment
I was shaking (‘fuck those hipsters
who get off on poverty, I’m old
and live in this apartment in Prenzlauer Berg
and they’ll just have to deal with it’).
The stool I sat on
is now enclosed by a tomblike room.
The stool won’t wait for my return.
 
23:26              
Prayer to the bodies
of canonised poets:
outmoded, driven into a corner
the disembodied, I’m thinking of you!
I pray for the oral sex your
children had with the children of others.
For the money troubles and the taxis
that glinted spookily in the corner of your eye.
And I pray for the tambourines and lutes
that sound from the ovens
in which you are reheated.
My thoughts of you are never-ending.
Also I am obsessed with the idea
of community, extra-terrestrial life.
The time in which I can indulge my obsessions
is my free time.
Free time is paradise on earth
for workers.
Just sleazily lounging about in that paradise
paying rent to the dead.
The world will be pulverised,
the theses on your
work and lives
obliterated.
State machineries will collapse. The police disappear.
Planet Earth will vanish
as will the entrepreneurs living there.
Do you want to be my work force,
my private army of pompous zombies?
Then this is the action plan:
 
1. Monopolise land
2. Realise ramshackle dwellings
3. Take up residence there
4. Send empty e-mails to each other

ZESDE GEKLOKTE GEDICHT, WAARIN EEN PLAN VAN AANPAK WORDT GEMAAKT

ZESDE GEKLOKTE GEDICHT, WAARIN EEN PLAN VAN AANPAK WORDT GEMAAKT

23:09  
Laten we dit ophelderen
als een moordzaak.
Ik heb zin in ritmes.
Gin-tonic, middelen, ritmes.

23:11  
Gin-tonic.
Gin-tonic.
Gin-gin-tonic.
Cat the Night Huntress en ik
houden van gin-tonic.
Ik denk aan drank,
mediteer over drank.
Ik drink graag een glas sterkedrank
wanneer ik thuiskom van het werk.
 
23:15  
De donkere herhaling van de luchten
die voor de tijd al bedoeld waren
om boven mijn activiteit te hangen!

Op een heldere ochtend fiets ik een wak in,
op zoek naar solidariteit met de verijsde lichamen.

23:20  
Ik leer winst aan
door op zwart te springen
onder je handen.
Niemand spuugt op Ricardo Domeneck.
Ik wil op zijn kapsel spugen, in zijn
gezicht dat het gezicht van de waarheid is.
Ik wil hem proeven en overleven.
Toen ik van de wijn dronk
in zijn appartement
trilde ik (‘fuck die hippe kinderen
die op armoede geilen, ik ben al oud
en woon in dit appartement in Prenzlauer Berg
en ze doen het er maar mee’).
De kruk waarop ik zat
wordt nu omsloten door een grafachtige kamer.
De kruk wacht niet op mijn terugkeer.

23:26  
Gebed tot de lichamen
van de gecanoniseerde dichters:
achterhaalde, in een hoek gedreven
aflijvigen, ik denk aan jullie!
Ik bid voor de orale seks die jullie
kinderen met andermans kinderen hadden.
Voor de geldzorgen en de taxi’s
die spookachtig in jullie ooghoek glansden.
En ik bid voor de tamboerijnen en luiten
die klinken vanuit de ovens
waarin jullie opgewarmd worden.
Altijddurend is mijn denken aan jullie.
Verder ben ik geobsedeerd door het idee
van gemeenschap, buitenaards leven.
De tijd waarin ik mijn obsessies kan uitleven
is mijn vrije tijd.
Vrije tijd is het paradijs op aarde
voor arbeidskrachten.
En maar verlopen in dat paradijs rondhangen
en huur betalen aan de doden.
De wereld zal verpulverd worden,
de proefschriften over jullie
werk en leven
weggevaagd.
Staatsapparaten zakken in. De politie verdwijnt.
De planeet aarde zal verdwijnen
en de zzp’ers die erop wonen.
Willen jullie mijn personeel zijn,
mijn privéleger van deftige zombies?
Dan is dit het plan van aanpak:

1. Grond opkopen
2. Krakkemikkige behuizing realiseren
3. Plaatsnemen in de behuizing
4. Lege e-mails naar elkaar versturen
Close

SIXTH CLOCKED POEM, IN WHICH AN ACTION PLAN IS DRAFTED

23:09               
Let’s clear this up
like a murder case.
I want some rhythms.
Gin & tonic, substances, rhythms.
 
23:11              
Gin & tonic.
Gin & tonic.
Gin gin & tonic.
Cat the Night Huntress and I
both like a gin & tonic.
I think of drink,
meditate on drink.
I like a glass of hard liquor
when I get home from work.
 
23:15              
The dark repetition of the skies
predestined, even before time,
to hang above my activity!
 
One clear morning I cycle into an ice-hole
looking for solidarity with the frosted bodies.
 
23:20              
I’m learning profit
by jumping to black
below your hands.
Nobody spits on Ricardo Domeneck.
I want to spit on his hairdo, in his
face that is the face of truth.
I want to taste and survive him.
While drinking from the wine
at his apartment
I was shaking (‘fuck those hipsters
who get off on poverty, I’m old
and live in this apartment in Prenzlauer Berg
and they’ll just have to deal with it’).
The stool I sat on
is now enclosed by a tomblike room.
The stool won’t wait for my return.
 
23:26              
Prayer to the bodies
of canonised poets:
outmoded, driven into a corner
the disembodied, I’m thinking of you!
I pray for the oral sex your
children had with the children of others.
For the money troubles and the taxis
that glinted spookily in the corner of your eye.
And I pray for the tambourines and lutes
that sound from the ovens
in which you are reheated.
My thoughts of you are never-ending.
Also I am obsessed with the idea
of community, extra-terrestrial life.
The time in which I can indulge my obsessions
is my free time.
Free time is paradise on earth
for workers.
Just sleazily lounging about in that paradise
paying rent to the dead.
The world will be pulverised,
the theses on your
work and lives
obliterated.
State machineries will collapse. The police disappear.
Planet Earth will vanish
as will the entrepreneurs living there.
Do you want to be my work force,
my private army of pompous zombies?
Then this is the action plan:
 
1. Monopolise land
2. Realise ramshackle dwellings
3. Take up residence there
4. Send empty e-mails to each other

SIXTH CLOCKED POEM, IN WHICH AN ACTION PLAN IS DRAFTED

23:09               
Let’s clear this up
like a murder case.
I want some rhythms.
Gin & tonic, substances, rhythms.
 
23:11              
Gin & tonic.
Gin & tonic.
Gin gin & tonic.
Cat the Night Huntress and I
both like a gin & tonic.
I think of drink,
meditate on drink.
I like a glass of hard liquor
when I get home from work.
 
23:15              
The dark repetition of the skies
predestined, even before time,
to hang above my activity!
 
One clear morning I cycle into an ice-hole
looking for solidarity with the frosted bodies.
 
23:20              
I’m learning profit
by jumping to black
below your hands.
Nobody spits on Ricardo Domeneck.
I want to spit on his hairdo, in his
face that is the face of truth.
I want to taste and survive him.
While drinking from the wine
at his apartment
I was shaking (‘fuck those hipsters
who get off on poverty, I’m old
and live in this apartment in Prenzlauer Berg
and they’ll just have to deal with it’).
The stool I sat on
is now enclosed by a tomblike room.
The stool won’t wait for my return.
 
23:26              
Prayer to the bodies
of canonised poets:
outmoded, driven into a corner
the disembodied, I’m thinking of you!
I pray for the oral sex your
children had with the children of others.
For the money troubles and the taxis
that glinted spookily in the corner of your eye.
And I pray for the tambourines and lutes
that sound from the ovens
in which you are reheated.
My thoughts of you are never-ending.
Also I am obsessed with the idea
of community, extra-terrestrial life.
The time in which I can indulge my obsessions
is my free time.
Free time is paradise on earth
for workers.
Just sleazily lounging about in that paradise
paying rent to the dead.
The world will be pulverised,
the theses on your
work and lives
obliterated.
State machineries will collapse. The police disappear.
Planet Earth will vanish
as will the entrepreneurs living there.
Do you want to be my work force,
my private army of pompous zombies?
Then this is the action plan:
 
1. Monopolise land
2. Realise ramshackle dwellings
3. Take up residence there
4. Send empty e-mails to each other
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère