l hate these words.
l hate these letters.
l hate the words that come out.
l hate the dark cold reflexion of steeling light on a dying Dutch winter beach.
Cause l’m a mess.
l hate it cause my words can’t get it.
l hate it like the light in my pocket lamp.
Waiting for the word out.
And the happening to find it.
l like the thought that te word is already there
Like a miniature catastrophe.
l like your hands. Old as they are
They tell everyting.
l like the part where the forest starts in a wildfire of flowers.
Against te the Macbethishness. The style. The blackness.
Like a frequent flyer.
Long after the words have gone.
After their gone.
Eating away.
Wording my words.
From all my pockets.
Only the word potentiallybutnotyetbusy – it starts a wildfire of words.
l like the word.
l like to listen.
l like words to appear and disapere.
l like to be the thought that bends the word in to a meaning.
Letting amazing meanings escape.
They are free to appear and disapere.
And be something small
(Wait a sec…)
How the hell am l ever going to get to the end of this?)
Trying so hard to be discovered
How stupidly useless can you be
A dog chasing a car but having no clue what to do with it if he’d ever catch one.
Beware of pickpockets
Pickpockets beware
