The mouth is a cynical sense
because it has to eat. Other senses
don’t grind it, but the mouth
became breadwinner. Miles of
intestines ending in the lure of lips
with which the mouth recounts
food and words to the cliffs of teeth.
The eye is always on holiday.
The nose only snobbing wind
and coquetry. And the ear, ah,
useless shell that lies yearning
for the sea that is our blood without
any sense of what is bad or good.
In disgust, the mouth
grew a tongue. Life’s work
of the mouth: poetry.
It burps out unfamiliar sounds
to embarrass the ear.
And to the eyes, two spoilt brats
it conjures up inconceivable images.
Even breath is not safe to him.
But soon, how vile,
the other senses invented television
That’s where we are now.
The borepudding of the brain
plots the final battle: chips. Democracy.
Anything to finally be word-off.
A 16-year-old klutz.
I wanted artworks and slats.
But I was far too minimal,
far too minimal sir.
Sixteen-year-old klutz, that’s
the story of my life.
That’s the story of all life.
That is the story.
Of course any Smiths fan recognises the last poem, even if her borepudding is chipsing democracy. The demise of the art of poetry is pretty much the demise of humanity and is strongly linked to the Bullshit Job phenomenon: our mouths have been given duties, and poetry was just a countermove, but it was in vain: we can alle see the results, disaster all around. Another two poems of mine that slipped by without notice. It’s the story of my life. I really wanted artworks, even as a teen. And slats. But what did I get, dopefiends and ship-hacking rats. I don’t need their pudding of forgiveness – just a kind pat on the back will do.
Martinus, Mierlo, 24-01-2023