The Entry of Brussels by Annie Cordy
a diarrhea of tin honks pours out of her gut every day
a constant hum, her life rattle
she tries to stare static across the tunnel jam
made of little flowers and fruit salads
the cancer grows tucked away between the cigarettes and whiskey
no song but bogged down below with granddad
she longs to step closer to the futuristic flat square earth
that is where the column of red and white ants cross
it ebbs and flows to seclusion.
No-Man’s Land
life in the middle
we have to measure
we want to measure what we know
more life than before
more than in the books
we want to map it
from the middle to the corners
from the head to the tail
pinned in petri dishes
Fauna and Flora
described and named
on top of hills and down in valleys
all that greenery was unplanned
illegally reproducing itself
too many flowers in that overgrown fallow land
bees reverse a dying trend
no, not self-sprung greenery
rather strips of corseted public garden
measured in rolls of grass
and a flower in a pot on the terrace
we have elevated concrete pouring to an art
we live in mounted pièce-montées
far above that mire we need to live in
we draw straight streets, split them into t’s
we query with written questions
about post-modernist boxwood hedges
building layers and brick blocks
the higher the houses, the higher the offer
we remove the green without blushing
we prefer to cage it in a stately resplendent jar.
Notre Dame du Labyrinthe
13 is a lucky number
the bus arrives and carries my thoughts
far away from
Tron streets, Pacman walls
zigzagging past
the obese younger cousin
of Notre Dame d’Afrique.
The light touches me – grey filtered – absorbed heat, smog poison and latitudes.
The people here laugh much less
even them, from there
seem to have forgotten how
returning to the smiling sun sounds like
a strange idea.
I’m coming home
– while the donkey continues through the desert smuggling –
the “zaedno Sunday” palms
wave enthusiastically today.
They whisper – Your Name – and alert me about your labour:
Notre Dame du Labyrinthe.
A County in a Terraced House
layer after layer
a Savoie-faire unfolds
as an oasis of calm in a cyclic
fast forward flow
of the umpteenth in line
of mountains steeped in laundry
of overlooked paper peaks
of wrath for a crisp, cold cupboard
and the chasm of contactless communication.
Chambéry blooms as a fertile valley
full of friendship,
where one can drink a smile
lend an ear to listens to legends
nudges a bolstered back
thaw obstructions with ease
and make the neighbourhood move.
A cosy county with a motto like
you don’t need to worry
we take care of your needs.
Rocks in Letrebecca
towers of strength need kingpins and engines
rocks in the fast-flowing rill
rectangular reefs to construct upon commitment
distinctly colorful cases of debated differences
pillars supporting palisades of proof
supported by sodalities
consolidated constructions
centered around creating content
cornerstones living around the corner
for years and years
trustees, networked in the knitted concrete
the council’s worth its weight in gold
golden body bearing
broad shouldered
Letrebecca
Animated Teens
animators animate
anonymous in a framework for a pro
they mirror their peers
they mirror their animators
creation of their image
a mirrored image
spitting image
image creation
arts and crafts
sports and play
play creation
create playing
pastime
passing of time
time to grow
time to become
reflecting on their image
reflecting on their peers
reflecting their image
mirroring
rorrim image mirror
mirroring
image reflecting
peers reflecting
image reflecting
become time
grow in time
time is passing
time passes
play creating
creation play
play sports
craft the arts
creating an image
image spitting
image is mirrored
image is creation
animators mirror their animators
peers mirror their peers
framework anonymous
animated animators
Doers & Fixers
from before the first stone is laid
till post-final finishing touches
towers of strength
kingpins and engines
backbones and pillars
from foaming collars
drinks and drizzles
to a cuppa and a piece of cake
from covering books
to licking stamps and flyer-tours
from the first step
until the last round
cornerstones
and driving forces
on that fast-flowing creek
they take care
to get the wind in the sails
they’ll fix it
they just do it
from before the first stone is laid
till post-final finishing touches
Readers & Reading Buddies
books call out to buddies:
peel letters from pages
read between the lines
knit images into new-fangled faculties
molt stories into images
books call out to buddies:
guide grand and on your toes
descendants through their Dutch desolation
break barriers
open eyes
tickle our spoken tongue in their tiny throats
traverse paths with pleasant pictures
books call out to buddies:
print improvisations
with every turn of every page
in their clever-cased
malleable minds
direct their intake
into a wider world
full of adventure
with every story
with all that vigour
in that time, ticking, too short
buddies call out: books!
Bright
bright breaks dark-nessssssss
too many muf-ff-fled voices
deafened
sub-pres-sss-sed
here, we defend values
words, not swords
prepare our barricades
freedom and justice stand like a pillar
above ever-rising, washing water
we hope for improvement
but you, you throw away heaps
we stride for peace
against cruelty
we conquer waves
of everything that comes our way
we’re ex-pan-ding
broaden, deepen, strengthen
individuality is our identity
embrace our super-diversity
we, yes we, are the future
and in this light
we will leave no one behind
all men become brothers
under our swaying gentle wings.
Pilgrimage
And if only we would go on a pilgrimage
from the Art Mount to Avenue Louise
and I took this bleating sheep with me
and you lit nine candles
at the whirling ear a butter light
those flickering flames touched
waiting in lotus position, silently the moon
and when it gets dark, and we go up, further
no more cars, tram-a-way, each judge, hammering home
then I take my jerrycan and will stand straight on the balcony
over my head, I pour petrol, you preaching sacrifice in front of Patershol
This box of Union Matchsticks sticks and they don’t go
your Felix-lighter, works better, I can feel the flames now, going strong
And when I’m charred and turned to ashes
Promise me, war is over, forever.
