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Gedicht

Neil Rollinson

Head-shot

Head-shot

Head-shot

It didn’t hurt a bit, in fact
I felt ecstatic. I could see the bullet,
bright as a star. I could trace
its parabola over the field,
like fishing wire, a pencil line
drawn on paper.

I was, for a moment, a visionary.
I stilled the mayhem, the wind, the rain.
The bullet flew right through my head.
I went down like a sack of spuds,
s-at on my arse in the shit.

I saw each of my friends
come and look at me.
Some were frightened
and some were full of life.
One held my face and kissed me.

I was far away, I thought of no one.
I was the only living thing in the universe,
and giddy with it all, godlike.
I’d do it again, and again. Yes.
Shoot me again. Oh shoot me again.
Neil Rollinson

Neil Rollinson

(Verenigd Koninkrijk, 1960)

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Head-shot

It didn’t hurt a bit, in fact
I felt ecstatic. I could see the bullet,
bright as a star. I could trace
its parabola over the field,
like fishing wire, a pencil line
drawn on paper.

I was, for a moment, a visionary.
I stilled the mayhem, the wind, the rain.
The bullet flew right through my head.
I went down like a sack of spuds,
s-at on my arse in the shit.

I saw each of my friends
come and look at me.
Some were frightened
and some were full of life.
One held my face and kissed me.

I was far away, I thought of no one.
I was the only living thing in the universe,
and giddy with it all, godlike.
I’d do it again, and again. Yes.
Shoot me again. Oh shoot me again.

Head-shot

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