This time my eyes saw what I did.
I stole this too, but nobody noticed.
I recalled Ginsberg telling me:
“Blessed be Death on us All! ”
It sounded funny,
but the dead didn’t laugh.
Her white legs were competing
which one would tease me the most.
I applied the t-distribution
on her body but she ignored me;
I could hurt her but I didn’t speak.
She looked at me:
“Robert Creeley is a splendid poet, don’t you think? ”
For thirty guilders
I would have sold my coat
to buy my soul.
Such a Christian irony!
I didn’t do it.
And then Saskia got angry:
“Don’t drink so much; it’s gonna do you wrong.”
Don’t be silly.
Only you can kill me.
“I’d love to go to Managua...” she mumbled,
“to help the fools...
but I don’t have enough even for ciggies.”
I stroke her hair...
My eyes stroke her breasts.
The flies must know
how much I hate them
every time they touch me.
I gazed at the clouds over Camiel’s back,
who was trying desperately,
for some time now,
to snort.
I think they’re gonna cry again.
He didn’t hear me.
Why does the sky hurt so much
in the land of the happy?
He smiled at me under his white nose:
“My cat, you see, is gay,
and mice don’t give in to him easily.
Anyway, if you ask me,
I’m touched by Tennyson.”
The horizon is on fire
and I am dancing
in memoriam with his flames
to a music joke for an alibi.
“Where are you now? ”
One hundred thousand waves away from Ibale.
Nobody understood.
But tell me,
who am I going to be,
when the moon is born
again?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I enjoyed the music of this one! And the passion, or at least simmering passion, as though the words are over a slow burner. I like your endings, too.